“What makes you think George Piggins is on Big Hole Island?” says I to Mark when we met early the next morning. I didn’t see why he should hit on that place for George to hide. The world looked like a pretty good-sized place to me, and I couldn’t see any reason for picking a couple of acres of marshy ground out of it. But he had some reason and I wanted to know what it was.

“Well,” says he, “you know George.”

“I do,” says I.

“What’s the m-m-main thing about George? If you was g-goin’ to p-pick out somethin’ that George was famous for, what would it be?”

“Laziness,” says I.

“Well?” says he, as if that settled it right there.

“Well what?” says I.

He sort of scowled impatient, as if it made him have a pain somewheres to have to talk to a person that was as dumb-headed as I was, and says, “How far would a lazy man row a b-b-boat?”

“Not farther than he could help,” says I.

“Right the first time,” says he. “Now what’s the nearest place a man could hide—that he has to git to in a boat?”

“Why,” says I, “I guess Big Hole Island.”

“Sure,” says he, “and we know he’s on an island, because if he wasn’t he wouldn’t use a boat. He’d ride a horse or walk. Both is easier’n rowin’ a scow. So he’s on an island, and the nearest island is Big Hole, which p-proves that’s where he is.”

“Have it your own way,” says I, “and let’s git started.”

Now my way of getting to Big Hole Island would have been to take a boat and row there as fast as I could, but not Mark. He always had to do things the hardest way, and he had to be secret about it and drag in a lot of pertending and that sort of stuff. He wouldn’t just walk up to George Piggins and tell him all about it, but he’d have to make up a lot of things so that by the time we got there we would all be tired out and ready to quit. Besides, he said George would run if he saw us coming, and that we’d have to sneak up on him. Just where he would run to on Big Hole Island I didn’t see. He couldn’t run more than a couple of hunderd feet in any direction, and if he went to running circles around the shore I figgered we boys could soon tire him out at that; but Mark wouldn’t have it so.

His idea was for us to walk up to the shore across from Big Hole and then to swim to the island. We was to be a party of scouts and George Piggins was an Injun chief that was off alone making medicine and getting ready to turn his braves loose on the whites in the biggest Injun war that ever was. Mark’s notion was that if we caught the chief and carried him off it would spoil the whole war, and then maybe the Injuns wouldn’t ever uprise any more, but would become tame and gentle forever after. The notion of George Piggins as an Injun chief made me snicker. Why, any sort of a decent Injun would be ashamed to slam a tomahawk into George for fear of soiling it; and as for wearing George’s scalp, I’ll bet you couldn’t find even a squaw that would do it for money.

“I’m g-g-goin’ to make this Injun sign a treaty never to butcher any more whites,” says Mark, “and I went to a lawyer to get it done right.” At that he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to me. On top it said “Option” in big letters, and then there was a lot of legal words and a place to have George sign his name and for witnesses to sign their names.

“’Tain’t no treaty,” says I. “That’s just business, like the time we bought the store in Sunfield.”

“Huh!” says he. “I guess we kin pertend it was a treaty, can’t we?”

“We kin pertend it’s a bunch of bananas or a ham or a two-headed hoo-hoo bird,” says I, “but that don’t make it so.”

“It does while we’re pertendin’ it,” says he, as stubborn as a mule. “Anythin’ s-s-so while you’re p-pertendin’ it.”

That was the way with him. Yes, sir, whatever he pertended he believed was so while he was at it. And he acted as if it was so and talked as if it was so. Which hain’t all. He managed somehow to make the rest of us feel just like he did. There was times when we had some mighty fine adventures that way—that was real adventures till we woke up and found out we’d just been pertendin’.

Anyhow, we started up the river toward the island, and made pretty good time in spite of having to hide every now and then because hostile bands was monkeying around. At last we got into the woods just across from Big Hole and scrooched down to see if we could catch a sight of George. We couldn’t. Not even a sign of smoke like he had been cooking his breakfast. But that wasn’t so surprising, for the island was all over trees and bushes and vines, and a lot of it was swampy. There was a time once when folks used to have picnics there, and then there was a little floating bridge across that used to get about ankle-deep with water when a crowd walked over it; but that was a long time ago, and now there wasn’t much left except a tumble-down dance-floor with a roof and no sides, with a refreshment counter across one end. Mark judged George would most likely be living somewheres in that old dance-hall.

“S-swim over one at a t-time,” says Mark. “Each f-feller pull up a bush and hold it in his teeth and come down with the current. Then the chief’ll think it’s jest a bush adrift and won’t suspect it’s a party comin’ to capture him.”

“Who first?” says I.

“Me,” says Mark.

“I’m the best swimmer,” says Tallow, which he was by long odds.

“Don’t make no d-difference. It’s my p-place to go first,” says Mark, and that settled it. It was just as if he was going into real danger, and he almost believed he was. That was the way he would have acted, anyhow. You never saw him dodge or try to get out of doing his share and more than his share whenever a pinch came.

So we all took off our clothes and did them up in bundles, and we got us each a bush, and Mark started off. It was only about a hunderd-foot swim, but there was quite some current. Now maybe Mark Tidd looked like a bush floating down-stream to an Injun on the island, but to me on the shore he looked more like a hippopotamus carrying home his dinner. Anyhow, he got across, and then came Tallow, and then me, and Binney last. We all got there safe and sound and pulled on our clothes and held a council of war.

Mark laid out a lot of plans about how we would surround the Injun chief and pounce on him before he could get his hand onto his tomahawk, and how we would tie him to a tree and all that. But I says:

“Hain’t it a good idee to find out if he’s here before we catch him? ’Cause if we pounce when there hain’t nobody to pounce onto we kind of waste work.”

“He’s got to be here,” says Mark. “Everythin’ p-p-points that way. It wouldn’t be reasonable for him to be any place else.”

“It’s all right to reason somethin’ out,” says I, “and maybe you can do it and feel sure in your mind it’s so; but for me, jest give me one peek at George Piggins and I’ll believe he’s here.”

“Listen,” says Mark. “I kin p-p-prove it easy. Jest start out and skirmish around the island till you f-f-find his boat. It’ll be close to the shore, because he’s too lazy to pull it up far. When you find the boat you’ll know he’s here, won’t you?”

“I’ll feel reasonably certain,” says I.

“Then scoot,” says he.

I took off as fast as I could go—that is, as fast as I could crawl on my stummick, for Mark said I had to go that way. Well, I hadn’t gone far, sort of poking my head in front of me regardless, when all of a sudden it brought up against a plank with a bump that made me see a Fourth of July celebration, and when I got so I could see what was going on, why, it was George’s boat! Sure enough Mark had reasoned it out right. I might have known he would.

So I raised myself up to turn around to report. I just happened to look across the river to the mainland, and there I saw something moving. I watched, and in a second a man came into sight. He was a stranger. Right then I didn’t think much about it, because I didn’t know him, but I did notice he had on some kind of a fancy vest with a lot of color into it. He came out and looked across at the island, and I says to myself it was a city man looking for a place to fish. Then I crawled back to Mark and the fellows.

“He’s here,” says I.

“Huh!” says Mark.

“Of course you knew it,” says I, “but don’t say so.”

“Anyhow,” says he, “let’s go ahead with c-catchin’ him.”

“Shoot,” says I.

“I wish,” says he, “that we had a witness.”

“What kind of a witness?”

“A man over twenty-one, to s-s-sign that paper after George does,” says he.

“I know where we kin git one,” says I.

“Where?” says he.

“Right across the river,” says I. “There’s a feller lookin’ for a place to fish. City feller. Kind of big, with a gaudy vest on him.”

“What’s that?” says Tallow, sharp-like.

“With a gaudy vest on him,” says I. “Why?”

“All red and blue and orange and sich?”

“Looked that way,” says I; “anyhow, it was mighty dazzlin’.”

“Where was he?”

I pointed. “Right over there.”

“Mark,” says Tallow, “that was the feller I was followin’ yesterday. The man Wiggamore’s got lookin’ for George.”

“The f-f-feller I sat on last night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Might ’a’ known somethin’ disagreeable would h-happen,” says Mark. “I never yet see anythin’ come off plain and easy. Now I calc’late we’re in for a fracas with Wiggamore and his gang.”

“Aw, let’s catch George,” says I, “and worry later.”

“The feller that d-d-does his worryin’ ahead of time is the f-f-feller that comes out on top. You got to f-figger what the other feller’s goin’ to do, and then do somethin’ first that’ll upset his plans. That’s the only way. Now I calc’late that man’s reasoned out like we did that George is here somewheres. Maybe he hain’t sure he’s on this island, but he will be. Then he’ll come rammin’ over and we’ll have him on our hands. If he gits to George before we git George all signed up, no tellin’ what’ll h-happen. Maybe he’ll have so much m-money he’ll jest wind George around his f-finger. See? So we got to head him off. We’ll have to p-plan.” He sat back and squinted some for a minute, and then he says: “Binney and Tallow stay here and keep w-w-watch. The first sign of him comin’ across, you whistle our whistle. You know. Keep out of sight.... I do wish I had a witness.”

“You hain’t,” says I.

“I know it,” says he. “Come on.”

Well, we crawled in toward the middle of the island where the old dance-hall was, and got perty generally messy with the soft black muck that was everywheres, but we did it scientific, anyhow, like regular Injun scouts. We come so cautious we didn’t hardly realize we was getting anywheres ourselves, and that’s being perty cautious, I can tell you. At last we came to the old clearing and peeked out, and there sat George Piggins on a rickety step, a-smoking and a-whittling, about half asleep and the other half dozing. He looked happy, like a man that has got a job that just suits him. George had that kind of a job. The only anxiety he had at that minute was to keep himself from doing anything to make him tired.

There wasn’t any place for him to run, and, besides, it would have taken him a couple of minutes to get up the energy to move, so Mark says, “Git him,” and we up and run at him for all that was in us. George didn’t notice us for a minute, and then he got up kind of dazed and put in a couple of seconds looking startled and scairt, and then there we were, standing one on each side of him.

“Howdy, George?” says Mark.

“Why,” says he, “I hain’t sure. Honest Injun, I hain’t sure exactly how I be, but seems like I was feelin’ middlin’ well a minute back.... Say, ’tain’t right to come rushin’ up on a feller and scare him so he jumps fit to crack his neck. Hain’t you got no consideration for folks’s feelin’s? Eh? And me a-settin’ so peaceable and not even thinkin’.”

“Didn’t mean to s-s-scare you, George,” says Mark. “But we wanted to see you p’tic’lar.”

“What on account of?” says George, nervous-like.

“On account of two things—a chunk of land and a hog.”

“Doggone that hawg!” says George. “I ’most wisht I hadn’t never heard of no hawg.”

“George,” says Mark, “hain’t you ’m-most tired of l-livin’ out here?”

“Better ’n where the sheriff ’u’d have me livin’,” says he. “’Tain’t so much jail,” he says, “but they might set me to some job that would bust me down. I hain’t robust. There hain’t many jobs of work I’ve got health to undertake.”

“You and your sister owns a p-piece of land across the river from t-t-town,” says Mark.

“Calc’late so. Why?”

“We want to buy it.”

“Huh! How much?”

“How much you want?”

“What’s my sister say?”

“She l-leaves it to you.”

“Um!... That there’s a mighty fine piece of land.”

“For hogs to root on,” says Mark.

“We’re mighty fond of that land. It’s been in the family a long time.”

“N-never earned nothin’ for you?”

“Some.”

“What you askin’?”

“I druther you made an offer.”

“Three hunderd d-d-dollars,” says Mark.

“Shucks!” says George.

“More’n it’s worth by half,” says Mark.

“Gimme five hunderd and it’s yourn,” says George.

“Give you f-f-four hunderd and fix it up for you about that hog so’s you kin come back and live to home.”

“Kin you?”

“To be sure.”

“Gimme the money.”

“Whoa!” says Mark. “We’ve got to have deeds and things b-before you git all the money. But we f-f-fetched along an option. All you got to do is sign that, and we give you t-t-twenty-five dollars down. If we don’t g-give you the rest in thirty days you kin keep the twenty-five.”

“I dunno,” says George.

“It’s b-business,” says Mark. He pulled out his paper and a fountain-pen and stuck them under George’s nose, with twenty-five dollars in bills, and says, “Sign r-right there.”

“I dunno,” says George again, but his eyes was on the twenty-five perty sharp, and ’fore he knew it he was reaching for the pen and in another minute his name was all hitched to the paper. Mark handed over the money.

“Now to git a w-witness,” says Mark.

“Witness? What for a witness?”

“Jest to write his name alongside of yourn. It’s legal.”

“I hain’t havin’ much to do with legal things lately,” says George.

“No harm in this,” says Mark. “We guarantee there hain’t.”

“I hain’t got no witness,” says George; and that very minute came our whistle from the place where Binney and Tallow were hiding.