“Whoo-oo-ssh!” says Mr. Ames, and stared at Mark. “Didn’t stay long, eh? Board didn’t suit, maybe.”
“’Twasn’t the b-board, exactly,” says Mark, “though I’ve seen a better t-t-table set. What we complain of is the crowds. We came to a quiet p-place. Didn’t want to get in a jam. Soon’s we saw folks elbowin’ one another all over the p-place we decided we couldn’t s-stay.”
“Git out of that wagon,” says Mr. Ames, “and set down.”
We did, while Mr. Ames grinned at us like we were good to eat.
“What d’ you calc’late on doin’?” says he.
“’Ain’t got no f-further than calc’latin’,” says Mark.
Mr. Ames pounded on the porch with his cane and shouted: “Ma, here’s four boys—and one of ’em special size—to stay to supper. Don’t forget the pie.”
That sounded pretty good to all of us, I can tell you. Twenty miles of driving with nothing to eat is enough to make a fellow dance a jig at the mention of a baked potato.
“Mr. Ames,” says Mark, “we ’ain’t never set anything on fire.”
“No?” says Mr. Ames, wondering what Mark was getting at, I expect.