“Don’t b’lieve it,” says he. “We’ll see.” He turned and called Motu, who opened his eyes quick and sprang up. “No danger,” says Mark, with a grin, “just wanted to ask you a question.”
“Of course,” says Motu, “I shall be glad to answer.”
“Did you know,” says Mark, “that the minister f-f-from your country had taken a summer home in this State?”
“What?” says Motu, excited in a second.
“He has,” says Mark. “Near Fullington, wherever that is. Let’s see.”
Mark always carried one of those little pocket dictionaries with maps of all the States, and how to tell the number of board feet in a log, and how to get a sliver out of your finger, and how many folks live in Timbuctoo, and how many ounces in a pound, and the area of Greenland, and such-like wisdom. He took it out and found our State and began looking for Fullington. In a minute he found it, and according to the map it was about half an inch from our town.
“F-f-fifty miles to the inch,” says Mark. “Then Fullington’s only about twenty-five miles from here.”
“From town,” says I. “We’re ten miles from town. Maybe Fullington’s in the other direction.”
“No,” says he, “it’s almost n-north, and we’re almost north. So Fullington can’t be more’n f-f-fifteen miles.”
Mark stopped and looked at Motu. Motu was sitting with his chin in his hands, looking off across the lake, and if I ever saw anybody thinking hard, he was doing it then. We waited quite a while, but Motu kept right on thinking, just as if we weren’t there with curiosity oozing out of every inch of us. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer.