“Mark,” says I, cautious-like.
He sat up quickly.
“Somebody’s been here looking us over.”
“H-how do you know?” says he.
I told him about the feeling I had and about the way the grass straightened up.
“Hum!” says he. “Can’t understand it. Who’d be so interested in us, eh? Who in the world could be p-p-prowlin’ around this old hotel? ’Tain’t natural. If this thing keeps on I’m goin’ to look into it.”
“You’d better look into it, anyhow,” says I. “I don’t like it. I don’t like havin’ folks parade around where I’m sleepin’, and I don’t like havin’ ’em lean over and blow in my face. ’Tain’t safe.”
“Shucks!” says Mark, but you could see he was put out and worried by the way he reached for his ear and began to jerk it. He always did that when he was bothered and couldn’t make head or tail to things.
The other fellows waked up while we were arguing, and we traipsed off to work again. Just in front of the hotel, where the grass was long, Mark stumbled. Then he stopped and leaned over to pick up something. Leaning over is one of the hardest things Mark does—there’s so much of him he gets in his own way in front. He grunted like everything and stood up with what looked like a bone in his hand.
“Huh!” says he, and looks at me with a queer kind of expression. “Huh!”