We pertended to start off, but before we had got more than an inch he hollered so loud we was afraid he would bust something, and Mark says: “Couldn’t f-figger on makin’ a deal with us?” “No,” says he. “You get me out of here. I’ll settle with you when I git out.” “Now,” says Mark, “that hain’t no argument to offer. ’Tain’t l-likely we’d help you out for the s-sake of gittin’ a lickin’. We just want a little thing of you. You’re safe and can’t do no harm, so we kin tell you what it is. We found George Piggins, and we got an option from him to that land Wiggamore’s got to have. If you’ll sign it as a witness, we’ll let you out.” “No,” says he, and he got stubborn and kept quiet. We just sat down and waited and had a good time. It began to get toward noon. Mark dragged out his lunch and motioned us to come closer to the well. We did and started to eat, talking loud about how good the things were. There were sandwiches and cake and bananas and pickles and pie and a lot of stuff. Mark leaned over and hoped the man wasn’t hungry. He said something real hot back. Then, after a minute, he started in to argue and get real sorry for himself. Then he mentioned how hungry he was, and how uncomfortable, and then he began to beg, and all the time we was spilling crumbs on his head and talking about our grub. I guess it was more than he could stand. “Gimme a sandwich,” says he. “I’m ’most starved. Jest one sandwich.” “We got lots,” says Mark, “but maybe we’ll have to stay here quite a s-s-spell. If you was to see reason and sign your name alongside of George’s, we m-might do somethin’ for you.” But he wouldn’t. Not then. We talked some more about food and quicksand and snakes, and dropped crumbs on his head, and all to once he sort of caved in. “Gimme a sandwich,” says he, “and I’ll sign anything.” “Honest?” says Mark. “Honest,” says he. “Maybe,” says Mark, “but we’d rather you s-s-signed first. First sign, then eat, then we’ll help you out.” “Anything,” says he. “Send along your paper. Anything to get out of this hole.” “Wiggamore won’t like it,” says Mark. “Don’t I know it? Well, I hain’t goin’ to tell him. I’m a-goin’ to light out of this town quick. Wiggamore won’t never see me again. I’ve got enough. I’m through with this business. There hain’t no good luck in it.” “You’ll sign sure?” “Sure.” “Get George,” says Mark. I scooted off and began hollering for George, and pretty soon he hollered back, and when he was sure it was me he came out, and I told him what had happened. “Mark wants you,” says I. “Is it safe?” I told him it was, and he came along. When we got back Mark took his pen, and a note-book to write on, and the option, and talked to the man a minute, and passed them down. “Is that your signature, George?” says Mark. “Yes.” “You want this man to witness it?” “Yes,” says George, and down in the well Mr. Man signed his name the best he could.