Sunday afternoon Mark came and got me to go for a walk.

“Where to?” I asked him, because I was pretty tired and didn’t feel like I needed to do any unnecessary scattering around.

“Uncle Ike Bond’s,” says he.

Then I knew there was a reason for it, so I didn’t make any complaint. Uncle Ike drives the ’bus in Wicksville when he isn’t too busy fishing—which is mostly. He’s a great friend of ours, and if anybody in the world admires Mark Tidd more than he does then I want to see that person. Uncle Ike would get up in the middle of the night to stand on his head in the middle of the road if Mark was to ask him.

So we went to his house, which is close to the river and just outside of town. Uncle Ike was sitting on the front stoop, whittling out one of the things he’s always working on—this time it was a double chain with ten links and a sort of a bird-cage with a ball in it at the end.

“Howdy, Uncle Ike!” says Mark.

“Um?” says Uncle Ike, not speaking to us at all, “if ’tain’t that Mark Tidd ag’in. Um! Alfiredest smartest kid in town is what I say, and I been drivin’ ’bus here long enough to know.”

“G-goin’ to be busy to-morrow, Uncle Ike?” asked Mark.

“Middlin’ busy, middlin’ busy.”

“We’re goin’ to have an aw-aw-auction,” says Mark.

“Um!” says Uncle Ike. “Auction, eh? Um! Calc’late I may find a minnit or two somehow. Auction. Um! Where?”

“Haven’t you seen our signs?”

“To be sure. To be sure.” We knew he was just pretending, and that he knew all about the auction all the time. “Was them your signs?”

“Yes,” says Mark. Then he wrinkled up around his eyes like he does when he’s going to think of something especially smart. “What’s the m-main difficulty with auctions, Uncle Ike?”

“Auctioneer’s wind gives out,” says the old fellow.

“N-no,” says Mark.

“Nobody to buy,” guesses Uncle Ike.

“N-no. It’s gittin’ f-folks to bid as much as you want ’em to.”

“’Course,” Uncle Ike said. “Never’d ’a’ thought of that. Never! Beats all how this Mark Tidd thinks of things. Quicker ’n greased lightenin’ he is. Twicet as quick.”

“If there was s-somebody in the crowd,” says Mark, “that folks didn’t suspicion b’longed to the auction, it might help some.”

“F’rinstance?” says Uncle Ike, making one word of it.

“If,” says Mark, “the real bid wasn’t h-high enough, then the auctioneer could m-make some kind of a sign, and the feller in the crowd could give her a boost.”

“Um!” says Uncle Ike.

“S’pose the bid was a d-d-dime,” says Mark, “and the thing you was sellin’ was worth more. What happens? Why, the auctioneer he wiggles his thumb like this—and the feller in the crowd bids fif-fifteen cents. See?”

“Calc’late to,” says Uncle Ike.

“Comin’ to the auction?” says Mark, grinning like everything.

“Calc’late to,” says Uncle Ike, grinning back.

“Got t-time to stay around?”

“Put in the whole day,” says Uncle Ike.

“Wigglin’ the thumb means raise it a nickel,” says Mark. “Wigglin’ both thumbs means raise it a d-dime.”

“Listen to that, now,” says Uncle Ike to himself. “Easy, hain’t it? Jest as easy as swallerin’ slippery ellum. But it took him to think of it.” Then he looked at Mark and says, “Your Uncle Ike’ll be there, you can bet you; and will he bid? Jest you lissen to him holler.”

“You m-might sort of act mean, too,” says Mark. “That’ll make the other folks that’s biddin’ get mad. If they get good and mad they’ll bid high just out of spunk.”

Uncle Ike slapped his knee and laughed all over, though you couldn’t hear a noise. That’s the way he always laughed. To see him you’d think he was hollerin’ loud enough to bust a gallus, but there isn’t a particle of sound.

“G’-by, Uncle Ike,” says Mark.

“G’-by, boys,” says he, and Mark and I came away.

Monday morning bright and early all four of us boys were at the Bazar, getting things ready. The first thing we did was to fix up a place for Mark to do his auctioning from. That was easy. We put two big packing-boxes side by side against the front of the store, and on one of them we put a smaller box to use for a table. We covered these all over with flags and bunting and signs. This was done before another store on the street opened up. Even Jehoshaphat P. Skip wasn’t stirring around yet.

The whole front of his place was covered with big signs and flags. Between us we made Wicksville look like it was the Fourth of July. Pretty soon we saw Skip come down from the hotel. He walked past our place with his nose in the air and never looked. My! but he was mad! He went into his store and opened up. For his Grand Opening he had four clerks he’d brought from some of his other stores, because he figured he’d have a whale of a crowd. His store did look nice and attractive. I went snooping past, and in that little time I could see a bunch of things I’d like to buy—but I’d have gone without them till a week from next year before I’d have bought from him.

Our auction was set for ten o’clock. You see, Mark Tidd knew the Wicksville folks. Everybody had something to do early in the morning, and nobody would have time to go down-town before ten. But Jehoshaphat P. he didn’t know. He started right off to boom things—hired a fiddle and a horn and an accordion to sit inside his place and play tunes. But there wasn’t anybody to play to, and wouldn’t be for a couple of hours.

“Tallow and Binney’ll stay inside,” says Mark, “to l-look after folks that want to buy things—”

“But,” says Binney, “we want to be out at the auction.”

Mark he looked at them for half a minute without saying a word. “This here,” says he, “hain’t a movin’-p-p-picture show or a picnic. It’s business.”

They didn’t have another word to say, because they knew Mark would have discharged them in a second if he had thought it was necessary.

“There’ll be folks nosin’ around,” says Mark, “and they g-got to be looked after. Plunk’ll help me.”

We had piled a lot of things up in front that we figured would tempt folks, and everything was ready for the auction. We didn’t open the store door till it was time, but at half past nine Mark sent Binney and me out with big bells.

“Walk up and d-down the street and ring ’em,” says he, “and carry these signs.”

Each of the signs had printed on it: “All ready for the auction. She’s going to start.”

Binney went one way and I went the other, which was right past Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s new store. There were a couple of folks in there and the music was a-going it as tight as it could, but Mr. Skip didn’t seem like he was happy. I stuck my head inside his door and hollered, “Auction’s goin’ to begin,” and then ducked. He started after me, poking his long neck ahead of him like a giraffe, but I knew he wouldn’t chase me, so I walked off—when I’d got outside—as calm as a parade of Odd Fellows.

Just before ten o’clock I hustled back. Mark had put the phonograph outside and it was doing the best it knew how. Quite a crowd was beginning to gather around. I looked at Mark to see if he was scared. Scared! He looked tickled to death.

“Come on,” says he.

We opened the front doors and out we went. The folks let out a laugh; a couple of fellows cheered. Some kids that were hanging around began to holler at us, and it made me mad, but Mark let on he didn’t hear. He climbed up on his platform and looked at the folks without saying a word. A kid on the other side of the street yelled, “Look at what’s tryin’ to be a auctioneer,” and folks laughed some more.

I saw Mark sort of squint up his eyes and pinch his cheek.

“Aw,” yelled the same kid, “better git started ’fore the box busts in.”

If there’s one thing Mark hates it’s having anybody joke him about being fat. He squinted his eyes so you could hardly see them and waddled up to the edge of his platform.

“L-ladies and gentlemen,” he stuttered, “the auction is about to commence, but before the first article can be sold I got to have a boy to help me.” He looked all around, and then pretended he just saw the kid that had been yelling at him. “Sam Jenks,” says he, “will you come here and help me just a m-minute?”

Sam puffed up important-like and pushed his way across the road and scrambled up by Mark, and Mark took hold of his arm. When you look at Mark he don’t seem to be anything but fat, but he’s strong. He’s got a grip in his fingers like you wouldn’t believe.

“L-ladies and gentlemen,” says he, again, “I have the p-pleasure of presentin’ to your notice a ree-markable spectacle. This is it,” says he, pointing to Sam. “It l-looks like a boy. It’s got arms and legs and a head. But it hain’t really a boy, ladies and gentlemen. It’s nothin’ but a noise. In the mornin’ this n-noise gits up and starts to goin’; it goes all day; and it don’t stop at night, ’cause it snores.” Everybody hollered and laughed fit to kill, and Sam tried to pull himself away, but Mark hung on to him. “It’s a novelty, ladies and gentlemen. Nobody in Wicksville ever owned such a thing—so I’m a-goin’ to auction it off.”

“Lemme go,” says Sam, wiggling like a basketful of eels.

“The defect in this article,” says Mark, “is that it’s jest noise. We can’t guarantee that b-brains goes with it. If you buy, it’s at your own risk.”

Well, sir, you should have heard those folks laugh, and you should have seen Sam’s face. You could have auctioned him pretty cheap if you sold him for as much as he felt like.

“What am I offered?” says Mark.

Folks started to bid. One man offered a dead dog, and another bid a plugged cent, and another the squeak of a pig and another the hole in a fried cake. All the time Sam was straining and tugging, but Mark didn’t let go. Then a man back in the crowd yelled, “I bet Sam Hoskins’s yaller dawg.”

“Sold,” says Mark, and he let loose of Sam. You never saw a kid disappear as quick as that kid did. He just vanished. You can bet no more kids interfered with Mark’s auction that day.

As soon as folks had quit laughing Mark started in to sell things in earnest. First thing was a wash-bowl and pitcher, and to hear Mark talk about it you would have thought the King of England was all broken up because he was so far off he couldn’t be there to bid on it.

Mrs. Sanders bid a dime. Mark just looked at her and pretended he couldn’t hear. He put his hand up to his ear and asked her to repeat it. She got sort of red in the face and bid a quarter.

“A q-quarter—a quarter I’m bid for a bowl and pitcher the Queen of Sheeby’d be tickled to death to wash her f-face in.” Mark was sort of excited and the way he stuttered was a caution. “What lady or gentleman desirin’ an heirloom to hand down to their g-g-great-g-g-grandchildren raises that bid?” It was worth a dime to hear him splutter “great-grandchildren.”

“Thirty cents,” says somebody.

“Huh!” snorted Mark. “It cost more’n that to paint the pictures on it.” He wiggled two thumbs at Uncle Ike Bond, who opened up his mouth and roared “Forty cents,” and then looked as proud of himself as if he’d sung a solo in church.

Mrs. Sanders shot a mad look at Uncle Ike and bid forty-five. Mark wiggled one thumb and Uncle Ike bid fifty. Mrs. Sanders turned around and scowled at him. I could hear her whisper to Mrs. Newman, “That ol’ scalawag sha’n’t have it.” Mark heard her, too, and he gave me just the beginning of a wink. “Sixty cents,” snapped Mrs. Sanders. Marked wiggled a thumb. “Sixty-five,” says Uncle Ike. “Seventy-five,” says Mrs. Sanders, setting her mouth in a straight line and shaking her head. “Eighty,” yelled Uncle Ike. Mrs. Sanders straightened up and glared at him—glared! I wouldn’t ’a’ had her look at me like that for a quarter. Her eyes ’most bored holes in him, but Uncle Ike only grinned aggravating, like Mark told him to. “A dollar,” says Mrs. Sanders, and then put her fists on her hips and tossed her head.

“Dollar ten,” says Uncle Ike.

“Dollar ’n’ a quatter,” snaps Mrs. Sanders.

“Dollar thutty.”

“Dollar fifty,” says Mrs. Sanders, “and if you’re fool enough to bid more you kin have it.”

Mark pretended to try to get more bids, but there weren’t any, so he stuttered, “G-goin’, goin’, g-gone to Mis’ Sanders for a dollar ’n’ a half.”

I wrapped up the sale and handed it to her and she gave me the money. I was trying hard to keep my face straight—for that pitcher and wash-bowl had been standing in our window for two months with ninety-eight cents marked on it as plain as the nose on Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s face.

The next thing was a new-fangled carpet-sweeper that father had bought a year ago and never got anybody interested in. Mark he explained it careful, and threw a handful of papers and things on the floor and swept them up to show how well it worked. Then he looked the crowd over slow and calculating. Over at one side stood old man Meggs, who was an old batch and kept house by himself.

“L-labor-savin’,” says Mark. “Just the thing for a single man. No broom. Gits all the dirt. Almost works by itself. Make me an offer, Mr. Meggs.”

Mr. Meggs scratched his nose and hunched his shoulders and pulled down his hat and cleared his throat. “Calc’late she’s wuth a quatter,” says he.

“It’s worth more to Miss Mullins than that,” says Mark, looking over at her where she stood. Miss Mullins wasn’t married, either, and she wore clothes like a man and talked about running for town clerk. She and Meggs didn’t like each other, for some reason, and wouldn’t even speak on the street. “You ain’t g-goin’ to let him have this splendid carpet-sweeper for a quarter, are you?”

She tossed her head. “Fifty cents,” says she, just to show Meggs there was some real bidding going on.

Meggs says something under his breath that wasn’t what you could call a compliment, and boosted it to seventy-five.

“No man that’s too lazy to support a wife can outbid me,” says Miss Mullins. “A dollar.”

“Dollar ten,” says Meggs, scowling like everything.

Miss Mullins edged over toward him where she could look right into his face, and says, “Dollar ’n’ quatter.”

“I’m goin’ to have that sweeper,” says Meggs to Uncle Ike, “if I have to sell my hoss.... Dollar ’n’ half.”

Well, sir, those two folks, just because they didn’t like each other kept on a-bidding and a-bidding till they got up to five dollars, which was twice what the sweeper was worth. And then Meggs quit. He let on he didn’t want it, anyhow, and said he never did have any use for them patent contraptions.

“He never had no use for anythin’ he had to spend money for,” says Miss Mullins, passing up a five-dollar bill.

The auction went along like that for an hour, everybody having the finest kind of a time. It was better than a circus. Mark knew just how to get them, too. He played folks against each other and used grudges he knew about until the prices he got were a caution. It looked like we were going to get rich right there.

I looked down the street to the new Five-and-Ten-Cent Store—and it was as deserted as the Desert of Sahara. But coming up the street I saw Jehoshaphat P. Skip, waving his arms and twisting his nose and talking loud and fast to Town-Marshal Sprout. They came right up and pushed their way through the crowd. The marshal walked up to Mark’s platform.

“Mark,” says he, “lemme see your permit to have this here auction in the street.”

Mark looked sort of funny.

“P-permit?” says he.

“Yes,” says the marshal, “you have to have one when you use the public street.”

“Um,” says Mark, “guess I sort of overlooked that.”

“Then,” says the marshal, “you’ll have to quit. Sorry. I wouldn’t ’a’ said a word if somebody hadn’t complained, but this here feller complained, so I got to perform my duty.”

“Sure,” says Mark. “D-don’t blame you a mite.” He turned to the crowd and says, “Owin’ to the law bein’ called down on me, this auction is called off. Folks that want to buy—and buy cheap—will step inside.”

It made everybody kind of mad, because Wicksville loves to be at an auction, and people scowled at Skip, but he didn’t care. He just went hurrying back to his store and got his music to playing loud, and then stood in front with one of those megaphone things and yelled:

“Grand openin’ now in progress. Greatest bargains ever offered in Wicksville. Step right this way.”

Well, maybe folks were mad at Mr. Skip, but they were down-town to have some fun and see something and buy something, so they started stringing down his way, and pretty soon the whole crowd was jamming into his store. We were all alone. I looked at Mark and was feeling pretty glum. I expected he would look glum, too, but he didn’t. His jaw was sticking out like I’d never seen it stick out before.

“We’re licked,” says I. “I knew we couldn’t go against a grown-up business man.”

“Licked?” says Mark. “Huh!”

“We might as well close up,” says I.

“There’s only one th-thing we might as well close,” says he, “and that’s croakin’. We thought we had Jehoshaphat P. Skip licked this m-mornin’, but did he quit? Huh? He didn’t quit, but he played low-down mean. We won’t quit, and we won’t play low-down mean—but Mr. Jehoshaphat P. Skip’ll wish he had two noses to wiggle ’fore this l-little fuss is over. Come on,” says he, “and look a little happier. We hain’t licked,” he says, “till the sheriff takes the store away from us.”

“But what’ll we do?”

“How do I know?” says he. “We’ll do somethin’. I’m goin’ back to set d-down and think.”