“Um!” says I. “Guess that’s bein’ told to mind your own business.”
“For a cent I’d take a punch at him,” Plunk whispered.
“Best leave him alone. He might s’prise you,” says I.
“My name,” says Mark, “is Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. My f-f-friends call me Mark Tidd.”
“And mine,” says the boy, “is—” He stopped a second. “You may call me Motu,” says he.
“It seems s-sort of funny for a Japanese boy to be up here in the mountains all alone,” says Mark, and then added, sly-like, “dropping daggers and taking fish and prowling around at night like he was afraid of something.”
“I can tell you nothing. I am here because I must be here. Here I must stay until—until something happens that will let me go away. That is all I can say.”
“Um!” says Mark Tidd. “Well, Motu, I guess you’ll f-find it more comfortable sleepin’ in a bed nights than prowlin’ around; and easier and more f-fillin’ to eat with us than to skirmish up food for yourself. There’s l-lots of room, and lots of f-f-food.” He stopped for a bit, and then went on, more polite than I’d ever heard him, and as dignified as Motu was. “It will give us pleasure to have you as our g-guest.”
Motu’s eyes shone, and he smiled. “I accept,” says he. “You do me a great kindness. I am a stranger, far from home, and I cannot repay except with thanks.”
“In this country,” says Mark, “thanks are good money to pay for hospitality with any time.”