“Then,” says I to Silas, “I wouldn’t go makin’ any positive promises to nobody.” Mark went off to the room he was going to use for an office, and sat down on a wabbly chair that was in it. I could see him through the door. He sat there pinching his fat cheek like he always does when he has something to puzzle out. He didn’t whittle. If he had started in to whittle I’d have felt more cheerful, for when he starts to figger and whittle, then you can make up your mind he’s having a hard time. Whittling with him is a sort of last resort. He don’t do it unless everything else fails. Pretty soon he came out and says to Silas: “There’s a cart and horse b-b’longin’ to this mill, hain’t there?” “Yes,” says Silas. “Better have it here at s-seven in the m-mornin’,” says he. “You kin drive a horse, Tallow?” “Yes,” says Tallow, “I calc’late to be consid’able of a driver.” “I’ll take a chance on your d-d-drivin’,” says he. “It’s your loadin’ ability that’s worryin’ me—but you’ll have Binney to help you. Wouldn’t be fair to set Plunk on the job helpin’ me win a bet ag’in’ him.” “What’s the idee?” says I. “Never you mind,” he says. Then he motioned Silas to a window and pointed out. “How many cords you figger’s in that pile of slabs and strips?” “Hain’t no idee. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was more.” “What you been accustomed to d-d-doin’ with your slabs?” “Nothin’,” says Silas. “Gen’ally when the spring flood comes they git washed down the river. Good thing. Sort of cleans up the place.” “Uh-huh,” says Mark, and out he goes. It was half past four then, but before five he was back with Jim Root, that runs the wood-and-coal yard. I saw him and Jim looking at the slab-pile and went down to see what it was about. “How much you figger’s there?” Jim says. “Nigh twenty-five cord,” says Mark. “Maybe so. Don’t look to me like more’n fifteen.” “What’s wood fetchin’?” says Mark. “I’m gittin’ two’n’ a half. Split I’m gittin’ three.” “That there’s good s-s-sound wood,” says Mark. “Best of the log. Beech and birch and m-maple.” “So I see,” says Jim. “What’s it worth to you s-s-split, sawed, and delivered in your yard?” “Hum!... Slabs hain’t so good as chunks.” “Better for the kitchen stove,” says Mark. “I might give you a dollar a cord.” “And I might split her and saw her and p-peddle it for two dollars. That would be cuttin’ your price f-fifty cents to a dollar. Eh? I calc’late f-folks would rather have slabs off of me for that than chunk wood from you for two and a half and three.” “You couldn’t work it,” says Jim. “I got a horse and cart, and I got a buzz-saw up there, and two fellers with nothin’ much else to do. And we figger on havin’ quite consid’able quantity of slabs right along. Be kind of disturbin’ to the wood-market if I was to p-peddle ’em.” “Might be,” says Jim. “I’ll give you a dollar’n’ a quarter.”