I thought I’d steal a march on Mark Tidd next morning, and got to the Bazar at half past six instead of seven. I figured he’d come mogging along in half an hour and I’d have some pretty smart things to say. But when I got there I found the door open, and inside was Mark with his coat off and dust on his nose and dust on his hands, digging around among the stock to see what was there.

“There’s enough st-stuff here for three bazars,” he says to me like he judged it was my fault.

“All the more to sell,” says I.

“There’s truck here you couldn’t t-t-trade to Injuns for pelts,” says he, and then he grinned, “but maybe we can sell ’em to white folks for m-money.”

“When does the new store open?”

“Monday.”

“And this is Wednesday.” I expect I said it sort of downhearted, for Mark wrinkled his nose like he does when he doesn’t like anything, and says:

“Figger on shuttin’ the door and lettin’ ’em have the t-town to themselves?”

“No,” says I.

“Then,” says he, “git a box of starch from the grocery and f-f-fix up your spine with it.”

“They’ll have a grand openin’,” says I.

“To be sure. And we’ll have somethin’ that’ll make a grand openin’ look like scratchin’ a match at the eruption of Vesuvius.” Right there I saw he had a scheme already hatched, but he didn’t go any further with it and I knew it wasn’t any use to ask questions. He’d tell when he was ready.

“Come on,” says he, “and let’s find out what’s here to sell.”

We began rummaging around, and every minute or so we’d find something that father had tucked away years ago and forgot. Every shelf was full. There’d be a row of things in front, and then rows of other things behind that had been pushed out of sight. I had a sort of an idea it was that way, but in half an hour I was so surprised at the things we’d dug up that there wasn’t any more room for surprise in me.

By that time Binney and Tallow got there and Mark set them to work.

“Th-there’s goin’ to be system in this store,” he says. “Each of you has got to be one of these things they call specialists.”

My, how he spluttered on that word!

“As how?” asked Binney.

“Each feller will take so much of the s-store, and he’s got to know where every single thing in his department is so he can put his hand on it in the d-dark.”

We poked around and overhauled things and sorted and fixed up till ’most noon. A couple of folks came in to buy things and stopped to talk and grin at us, and one old lady predicted we’d turn the Bazar into what she called a Bedlam in a week. Nobody seemed to think it was anything but a joke, but it wasn’t any joke to us, I can tell you. We were working. Yes, sir, if anybody ever worked, we did.

Along about eleven in come a man I never saw before. He was pretty tall, and half of him looked like it was neck. That neck stuck out through his collar so far you had to keep lifting your eyes a full minute before you got to his head. His hair was kind of pinkish, and his eyes were so close together they almost bumped when he winked. Outside of that he looked like any other man except for a wart just on one side of his nose. It was the finest wart you ever saw, and he must have been proud of it. I don’t know as I ever saw a wart that came anywhere near it.

I went up to wait on him.

“Howdy, my lad?” says he, sort of oozy-like.

It made me mad right off, because there’s nothing that riles a boy so as to have some man grin soft-soapy and call him a lad. What is a lad, anyhow? I never saw one, and I never saw anybody that would own up to being one. But you mustn’t get mad at customers, so I was as polite as a girl at a party.

“Pretty well, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Is the proprietor in?” he wanted to know.

“No, sir,” says I. “He’s out of town and we don’t know just when he’ll be back.”

“Who’s in charge durin’ his absence?” says the man, talking like a college professor looking for a job.

I was going to say I was, but before I spoke up I knew that wasn’t the truth. Not a bit of it. Mark Tidd was in charge, and don’t you forget it. Being in charge was a habit he’d got, and nobody will ever cure him of it.

“Why,” says I, “Mark Tidd is the boss right now.”

“I’d like to speak to him,” says he, so I turned and called.

Mark came waddling up with the dust still on his nose and more dust on his fingers, and what you might call a freshet of sweat cutting streaks down his face.

“This,” says I, “is Mark Tidd, our manager,” and then I stood off to see what would happen.

Mr. Long Neck wrinkled his nose till his wart moved up almost to his eyebrows and squinted at Mark.

“I hain’t here to be made fun of,” says he, mad-like.

Mark turned his head on one side, and that’s a dangerous sign. When you see him pull his cheek or turn his head on one side or go to whittling—well, you want to look out, for something is going to happen.

“What can I do for you?” Mark asked, without a stutter.

“I want to see somebody in authority,” says Mr. Long Neck.

“I’m the b-b-best we got,” says Mark, smiling sweet as honey.

The man looked all around and didn’t see anybody older than we were, so I guess he must have believed Mark. He took hold of the end of his nose and bent it back and forth a couple of times as if he expected it was going to help him talk better.

“I,” says he, “am Jehoshaphat P. Skip. The P. stands for Petronius.”

“I know him,” says I before I could think. “He’s in The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mark’s father knows that by heart.”

“Huh!” Mr. Long Neck sniffed.

Mark looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and after that I kept still.

“P-p-pleased to meet you,” says Mark. “What can I do for you?”

Mr. Skip straightened up and lengthened his neck till he looked as dignified as a turkey gobbler. “I,” says he, “am the sole proprietor of the Gigantic Five-and-Ten-Cent Stores, a branch of which is now being located in your village.”

You could see right off that Mr. Skip wouldn’t start to argue with anybody who said he was a great man.

Mark didn’t say anything; he just waited.

“I came,” says Mr. Skip, “to talk business—serious business.”

Right off Mark looked serious. He did it fine. I don’t believe there’s an undertaker can look more serious than Mark when he’s a mind to.

“I came,” says Mr. Skip, “to warn you.”

“Oh,” says Mark, “to warn us? Oh.”

“I,” says Mr. Skip, “propose to sell articles for five and ten cents. In some measure your Bazar will conflict with me—you will be almost a competitor.” He stopped and bent his nose back and forth again.

“Yes,” says Mark, “I calc’late we will—almost.”

“But,” says Mr. Skip, “it will not be a real competitor.”

“Um,” says Mark. “Why?”

“Because,” says Mr. Skip, “I’m here to warn you not to encroach on my business.”

“Um,” says Mark, again. “What was your ideas about en-encroachment?”

“Simple,” says Mr. Skip. “I sell things for five and ten cents. You mustn’t. You can sell for a penny or for fifteen cents or for five dollars—but not for a nickel or a dime. That’s my business.”

Mark began tugging at his fat cheek. “I calc’late,” says he, as gentle as a lamb, “that there’s some such law, eh? You got a law passed sayin’ nobody but you could s-s-sell for five and ten cents.”

“I don’t need any law. I say you mustn’t. That’s enough.”

“T-to be sure,” says Mark. “But if anybody was to g-go right along and pay no attention, what then? Eh, Mr. Skip? What if somebody did?”

“In that case,” says Mr. Skip, scowling until his two eyes looked like one slit, “in that case I’d bust ’em. Bust ’em, is what I’d do. Nobody can go against Jehoshaphat P. Skip and be the better for it.”

“You’re willin’,” says Mark, “that we should s-s-sell for fifteen cents, and for a quarter, and for a d-d-dollar?”

“Yes,” says Mr. Skip, beginning to smile like the cat that ate the canary-bird.

Mark thought a minute; then he says, “We’ll m-make a trade with you, Mr. Skip.”

“What is it? Glad to oblige if possible,” says Mr. Long Neck.

“We’ll swap you the r-right to open a store in Wicksville for the right to sell whatever we please,” says Mark.

Mr. Skip kind of clouded up and I judged he was getting ready to thunder a bit. He did. He roared and grumbled, and made a sight of noise about it, too.

“Don’t make fun of me, young feller. Don’t make fun of Jehoshaphat P. Skip. Nobody ever did and failed to regret it. I’ve told you you can’t interfere with my trade, and you can’t. This is the first and last warnin’. Don’t dare sell a nickel’s worth or a dime’s worth or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

Mark looked sort of meek. “My f-f-father says competition is the life of trade,” he says.

“I won’t have no competition,” says Mr. Skip.

“Maybe not,” says Mark, still as meek as a sheep. Then all of a sudden he perked up and looked right into Mr. Skip’s narrow eyes. “Maybe not,” he says, again, this time some louder, “but I’m calc’latin’ you will. I’m calc’latin’ you hain’t ever seen any competition till n-n-now.” He swept his hand around the store. “This Bazar,” says he, “is full of stuff to sell for five and ten cents—and it’s goin’ to be sold. It’s g-g-goin’ to be made a specialty of. I was plannin’ on bein’ fair. I was figgerin’ on makin’ it as easy for you as I could, but now, Mr. Skip, you’re goin’ to find your store’s got the liveliest c-c-competition in Michigan. We’ll s-sell what we like for how much we like.... Now, Mr. Skip, good mornin’. We’re pretty b-busy.”

Not another word did he say, but turned his bulging back on Mr. Long Neck and walked to the back of the store. Mr. Long Neck swallowed a couple of times so you could see it all the way from his collar to his ears, and went out muttering to himself. Mark grinned at me and winked encouraging.

“There,” says I, “now see what we’re up against.”

“Hain’t it b-b-bully? Better ’n I hoped,” says he.

“He’ll bust us,” says I.

“He’s more likely to bust his neck,” says Mark.

“What you going to do?”

“I’m goin’ to give Mr. Skip the time of his life,” says Mark. “I’m goin’ to give him c-c-competition till he’s so sick of it he won’t be able to eat it with molasses.”

“But he’s a business man, and he’s got lots of money.”

“Hum!” says Mark.

“His Grand Openin’ ’ll draw everybody in Wicksville, and maybe they’ll never come here any more.”

“Plunk,” says Mark, “Mr. Skip ’ll think his Grand Openin’ has a smallpox sign stuck up on it.”

“How?” says I.

“Folks’ll never n-n-notice it’s goin’ on,” says he.

I was beginning to feel some better, for it was as plain as the wart on Mr. Skip’s nose that Mark had hit on a scheme. “Why won’t they?” I asked.

He asked a question back: “What had Wicksville folks rather g-g-g-go to than anythin’ else?”

“Fires and weddin’s and auctions,” says I.

“We won’t have a f-fire,” says Mark, “nor a weddin’, but you can kick me seven times, Plunk, if we don’t have the rippin’est, roarin’est, bang-up-est auction ever held in the county.”

I sat right down on the floor, kerflop. I might have known it. He’d hit on the very thing, and done it as easy as wiggling your thumb. Almost anybody can cook up a scheme, but Mark Tidd always cooked up the scheme, the one that was copper-bottomed and double-riveted, and guaranteed to do just the business where it was most needed.

“Where,” says I, “will you git an auctioneer?”

“M-me,” says he, and walked off to go to work just like he’d said he’d play a game of miggles.