He was thinking hard. "Suppose I don't make good?" he says. "I never
worked in my life. And suppose she--"

"Oh, suppose your granny's pet hen hatched turkeys," I says, getting
impatient, "I'll risk your making good. I wa'n't a first mate, shipping
fo'mast hands ten years, for nothing. I can generally tell beet greens
from cabbage without waiting to smell 'em cooking. And as for her, it
seems to me that a girl who thinks enough of a feller to run away from
him so's he won't spile his future, won't like him no less for being
willing to work and wait for her. You stay here and think it over. I'm
going out for a spell."

When I come back Jonesy was ready for me.

"Mr. Wingate," says he, "it's a deal. I'm going to go you, though I
think you're plunging on a hundred-to-one shot. Some day I'll tell you
more about myself, maybe. But now I'm going to take your advice and
the position. I'll do my best, and I must say you're a brick. Thanks
awfully."

"Good enough!" I says. "Now you go and tell her, and I'll write the
letter to Dillaway."

So the next forenoon Peter T. Brown was joyful all up one side because
Mabel had said she'd stay, and mournful all down the other because his
pet college giant had quit almost afore he started. I kept my mouth
shut, that being the best play I know of, nine cases out of ten.

I went up to the depot with Jonesy to see him off.