“Mark!” I yelled as soon as I got to the front door. “Hey, Mark! Quick!”

“T-take it easy,” says he. “Where’s the fire?”

“Fire!” says I. “You’ll wish it was a fire.”

“Um!” says he. “Out with the sad news, Plunk. Let’s weep t-t-together.”

I told him as fast as I could. His little eyes began to glow and you could see his chin setting under the fat. He was mad, mad clear through the whole of him.

“That J-j-jehoshaphat P. Skip,” says he, “is about as low down as they make ’em. He’s a human skunk.” Then he shut up like a steel trap.

“Well?” says I.

“Stay here,” says he. “I’m goin’ out—and I’ll be b-b-back when I git here.” My! how he stuttered!

“Where you goin’?” says I.

“Telegraph-office first,” says he. “Don’t know where then.” At that he waddled out of the door as fast as he could go. He had some scheme, and he was after Jehoshaphat. Somehow I felt as if I’d rather be somebody else than Mr. Skip, too. When Mark has that look on his face you want to look out for him.

He went to the telegraph-office and sent half a dozen telegrams to the folks we did business with in Detroit. They were all the same:

Look out for a man named Skip. Make no deal till I come.

After that he rented a horse and buggy and drove off somewhere into the country. I didn’t know where, and nobody else did. He was gone till almost five o’clock. Then he came dashing in, looking pretty pleased about something, and says:

“Got to g-go to Detroit on the five-thirty. Comin’?”

“Yes,” says I. “When’ll we be back?”

“T-to-morrow,” says he.

He left Tallow and Binney in charge of the Bazar, and we hurried off to get our nightgowns and tooth-brushes. The train was five minutes late as usual, or we never would have caught it.

It was ’most midnight when we got into Detroit, so we went to a hotel right across the road from the depot and went to bed. Mark told the man at the desk to call us at six o’clock.

I went to sleep right off because I was tired, and I guess Mark did, too. Sleeping was one of the things he was good at. He could sleep and eat more than any fellow I ever knew—and stay awake more when it was necessary.

We were waked up by the telephone-bell and got dressed and went down to breakfast.

“Now what?” says I.

“Wholesale houses first,” says he.

Neither of us knew anything about the city, so we had to ask our way, but we didn’t get lost. It was quite a walk to the first place we wanted—Spillane & Company—and when we got there it wasn’t open yet. We sat down in the doorway to wait.

After a while an old gentleman came along in an electric automobile and got out and came up to the door. We moved over to let him through.

“Early birds, aren’t you?” says he, sort of squinting at us under his gray eyebrows.

“Yes,” says Mark, “but the w-w-worm hasn’t come yet.”

“Who’s the worm?” says he.

“Spillane & Company,” says Mark.

The old gentleman kept on squinting at us under those eyebrows without ever the sign of a smile.

“What do you want of Spillane & Company?” says he.

“Want to talk business to ’em,” says Mark.

“Haven’t any jobs for boys,” says he, and stuck the key in the lock.

“I’ve got all the j-j-job right now I need,” says Mark, with a twinkle in his eye.

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to talk to the man that runs this business,” says Mark. “The boss of the whole th-thing.”

“What about?”

“Are you him?” Mark asked.

“What if I’m not?” says the man.

“Then,” says Mark, his mouth setting stubborn-like, “I’ll wait till he comes.”

“Huh!” says the old gentleman, and it was hard to tell if it was a growl or a chuckle. “My name’s Spillane, and I’m president of this concern. What is it, now? Don’t keep me standing here all day.”

“I want to t-talk to you about Jehoshaphat P. Skip.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mark Tidd.”

The old gentleman grunted again and scowled—actually scowled. I edged off because it looked to me like he was going to do something unpleasant. “So you’re Mark Tidd, are you? You’re the one that sends mysterious telegrams? What do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by sending telegrams nobody can make head or tail to?”

“I meant business when I sent it, and I m-mean business now,” says Mark.

“Come in,” says Mr. Spillane.

We followed him into the office and he jerked his head toward a couple of chairs.

“Always get down first,” says he. “Open the door myself. Get in half an hour’s thinking before the help comes.”

Mark and I nodded polite.

“Well,” says Mr. Spillane, “what about Jehoshaphat P. Skip?”

“Jehoshaphat P. Skip,” says Mark, “was here to see you yesterday. I d-don’t know what he told you—maybe it was true and maybe it was lies. We’ve come to tell our side of it.”

“And who are you?”

“We’re Smalley’s Bazar,” says Mark.

“Where’s Mr. Smalley?”

“In the hospital. We’re runnin’ the business.”

“Four kids,” says Mr. Spillane.

“He told you, didn’t he? Yes, sir, four kids—but we play fair. We don’t go s-s-sneakin’ off to spoil a competitor’s credit, and we don’t lie and we don’t cheat.”

“Smalley’s Bazar is on the verge of bankruptcy,” says Mr. Spillane. “I am writing you a letter to-day refusing further credit and demanding a settlement of the account now standing.”

Mark thought a minute. “The more retail businesses there are,” says he, “the more goods wholesale houses sell. Every t-time a little store is killed off it costs the wholesaler money, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s to your advantage to keep the l-little stores going.”

“Yes.”

“It’s to your advantage to keep Smalley’s Bazar going.”

“That’s another matter. You owe us money you can’t pay. It would be poor business to let you owe us more.”

“It would be if we couldn’t pay,” says Mark, “but if we get a square deal we can p-pay—every cent. Yes, sir, and make money besides.”

“Smalley’s Bazar never did amount to much.”

“It’s going to.... Just lemme t-t-tell you about this Skip and what we’re d-doin’ and what we’re goin’ to do.”

“I don’t think it will make any difference. Our credit man has looked you up and he advises against further dealings.”

Well, Mark set in and began to talk. He told about how we boys started into the Bazar and about how Skip came to town and about the auction Skip broke up and about the threats he made and the chattel mortgage and about his trip to town. He told about his plans and how they were going to work, and then he ended up:

“Skip may have money now—but he ain’t honest. Nobody’s honest that’ll do what he’s d-done. We haven’t his money—but—but you can ask anybody in Wicksville about us—anybody. If we’re let alone we’ll pull through. If creditors come down on us we’ll b-bust—and there won’t be much for the creditors. Here’s your chance, Mr. Spillane, to give us a chance to make good or to play into the hands of a feller like Skip. The d-difference between us and Skip is, we’ll pay if we can and he’ll cheat you if he can. Now, sir, is it Skip or us?”

“Who thought up that auction scheme?”

“I did,” says Mark.

“Who thought up the beauty contest?”

“I did,” says Mark.

“Who thought up these other things you’ve told me?”

“I did,” says Mark.

“Young fellow,” says Mr. Spillane, “how’d you like to work for me?”

“F-f-fine,” says Mark, “but I’ve got something else to do now.”

“I’ll give you more than you can make out of the Bazar.”

“I’m making nothing out of it,” says Mark. “I d-d-don’t get paid.”

“What?” says Mr. Spillane.

“None of us does,” says Mark.

“Ummmm!” says Mr. Spillane.

We waited and didn’t say a word. The old gentleman didn’t say a word, either, for quite a while; then he grunted ferocious-like again, and says:

“Where else are you going?”

We told him the names of the other firms, and then he turned around to his desk and began working at some papers just as if we weren’t there. I thought it was a funny sort of thing to do, and it made me mad. He had a right to refuse to do what we wanted, but he didn’t have any right to treat us like that. I started to get up, but Mark looked at me and winked and shook his head. So I sat back.

It was twenty minutes before Mr. Spillane paid any more attention to us. By that time other men had come in and there was a pile of mail on his desk. He looked that over and then turned around.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for his hat.

We followed him without any idea where he was going. He made us get into his electric and drove us across town. There he stopped at a big building and we got out. It was The Wolverine Novelties Company, another of our wholesalers. He went right in and pushed past a clerk that wanted to know what he wanted, and into a private office where a fat man was sitting at a desk.

“Hello, Jake!” says Mr. Spillane.

“Hello, Pat!” says the other man.

“Here’s a couple of kids, Jake. From Wicksville. Fat one’s the author of the telegram you got yesterday about Skip. Runs Smalley’s Bazar.”

“Goin’ to shut ’em up, Pat?”

“I was—but I’ve arranged differently.” Mr. Spillane turned and scowled at us. “This kid”—he stuck his thumb at Mark—“has argued me out of it. I’m going to give ’em a new line of credit.”

“Not feeling sick, are you? Better get more fresh air, Pat.”

“And,” says Mr. Spillane, just as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “you’re going to extend their credit, too.” He jerked his head at Mark. “Tell him about it, Tidd.”

Mark sailed in and told it all over again, while the fat man began to grin and grin. When Mark was done the fat man says:

“Looking for a job, Tidd?”

“N-no, sir,” says Mark. “Not till I get this Bazar off my hands.”

“Well, when you do want a job come around to see me.”

“He’s mine,” says Spillane. “Keep off.”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” says the fat man. “You write me a letter so I get it every Saturday, telling me everything that goes on and what schemes you work, and—you can have any reasonable credit you want. You won’t be pushed, either.”

Marked thanked him and then Spillane hauled us off in a hurry. Mark tried to thank him when we were outside, but he only growled at us, so it wasn’t possible. From The Wolverine Novelties Company he took us to every other wholesaler we did business with, and to the sheet-music people, where he fixed it so Skip couldn’t take away our agency. He fixed everybody. Then he went back to the office and dictated letters to the phonograph company and other folks whose goods we were handling—folks in New York and Chicago and Cincinnati, and they were real bang-up letters, too. When he got through there wasn’t a thing for us to worry about on the score of credit. Then he took us to dinner at a big hotel and drove us to the train.

We got back to Wicksville toward evening, tired, but pretty average well satisfied with things in general, I can tell you. The Bazar was closed, of course, so we went right home.

“Wish I could see Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s face when he hears about it,” says I.

“He’s goin’ to hear about somethin’ he’ll like worse,” says Mark, in the way he talks when he’s done something big but isn’t ready to tell about it.

“What’s up?” says I.

“You’ll find out pretty soon,” says he. “It’ll m-make Mr. Skip swaller his false teeth.”