“Mister,” says I, not smarty, but just firm and business-like, the way Mark says you should always be, “I’m one of the fellers that’s runnin’ this mill. If you got any business here you kin state it to me. If you hain’t got any business here, why, I’m sort of busy dustin’ off the furniture. Now, what kin I do for you?” “I want to find the owner.” “I’ve explained about the owner.” “Who is in charge, then? Who is running this business?” “Mark Tidd,” says I. “Well, I got something out of you at last,” says he. “But it was like mining for it. Do you always keep what valuable information you have sunk as deep as this?” “We make drumsticks and dumb-bells and tenpins and chair-rounds,” says I. “Do you want to buy any?” “No,” says he. “Be you a travelin’-man? What you got to sell?” “I’m not a salesman,” says he. “What be you, then?” says I. “Nothing that would interest you, young man. Where will I find this Mr. Tidd?” “Mark Tidd?” “Yes,” says he. “You’ll find him here,” says I, “pervidin’ you wait long enough. This is about the only place I know of where he’ll be. I calc’late to see him amblin’ in perty soon.” “I’ll wait,” says he. “Where’s the office?” “If you’d call it an office,” says I, “it’s through that door.” He walked over and jerked open the door. One look inside give him a plentiful sufficiency. You couldn’t see for dust and cobwebs and chunks and dirt that Tallow was stirring around like he was one of these whirlwinds. The air was plumb full of rubbish. I bet Tallow was having a bully time. The man shut the door quick and backed off. “Is that the office?” says he. “Sich as it is,” said I. “Where can I wait?” says he. “Pick out a place yourself,” says I. He walked around disgusted-like, looking for a place to sit down, but he didn’t seem to get suited. There wasn’t a place that would have agreed with them pants of his. He didn’t hanker to git dirt on ’em, and I wasn’t dusting off anything for him just then. I was sorry for him if he was tired, because he didn’t have but two choices—to stand up or sit and git his new pants all grime. He stood. In about half an hour in come Mark Tidd with his arms full of whopping-big books. He dumped them on the saw-carriage and stood and panted, looking around. “How’s it c-c-comin’?” says he. “Two in a hill,” says I. “Got a visitor.” Mark looked at the man and then at me. “Who’s he?” “Dunno,” says I, “and I hain’t got no ache to find out.” “What’s he w-want?” “To see you,” says I. Mark walked over toward him and says, “Was you l-lookin’ for me, mister?” “I’m waiting for Mr. Tidd. Mr. Mark Tidd, I believe was the name.” “That’s me.” “_You!_ That boy told me Mark Tidd was in charge of this mill.” “He’s f-f-famous for tellin’ the truth,” says Mark. “But you’re nothing but a kid.” “Uh-huh,” says Mark, sort of squinting his eyes like he does sometimes when somebody says something he doesn’t cotton to, “but I’m boss, just the same. What kin I d-d-do for you?”