For the next three days things were pretty slack with us. What business there was seemed to be going to Jehoshaphat P. Skip, though of course there was just a little trickle of folks into our store. Mark Tidd didn’t pay much attention—just sat around and squinted and pinched his fat cheeks and thought. We couldn’t get anything out of him and there wasn’t any use trying. When he had a scheme all cooked up he’d come and tell us—and we had to be satisfied with that.

Once he looked up when I went past and says, half to me and half to himself, “What I want is somethin’ that’ll shoot two barrels at once. H-hit Jehoshaphat P. with one and fetch down the Wicksville f-f-folks with the other.”

“Sure,” says I, “but any old kind of a scheme that will do any old thing to bring a little business is what we need. We haven’t sold enough stuff in three days to pay wages to an invalid cat.”

“Huh!” says he; “I can bring business in. Anybody could. But so l-long as Skip stays here it’ll mean one scheme after another—and that’s hard work.”

“I’d rather go huntin’,” says I, “and shoot the first rabbit I see—and git it—than to sit around waiting for two to stand in a row so’s I could shoot ’em both to once. ’Cause they might never git in a row.”

“All right,” says Mark, with a sigh, “if you’re so all-fired impatient. We’ll s-start somethin’ to-morrow.” He stopped and wagged his head. “Nope, not to-morrow. ’S Friday. ’Tain’t s-safe to start things Friday.”

“Saturday’s a better day, anyhow. Farmers’ll be comin’ in.”

“Saturday it is,” says Mark. “We’ll b-begin gittin’ ready.”

“For what?” says I.

“For the votin’ contest,” says Mark. “Plunk, we’re a-goin’ to do a lot of good in Wicksville.” His little eyes were twinkling and glowing, but his face was as solemn as a ball of putty. “We’re a-goin’,” says he, “to settle a question that’s been b-b-botherin’ some folks I could name for years.”

“Well,” says I, “what is it?”

“Who is the h-h-h-han’somest man in Wicksville?” says he.

“What?” says I, and I could feel my nose wrinkle, I was that disgusted.

“Votin’ contest,” says Mark. “But this one’ll be different. Folks have voted for the most popular girl, and the m-most beautiful girl, and sich like. But nobody, so far’s I ever heard, has t-t-tried to pick the han’somest man.”

“Why should they?” I wanted to know. “Besides,” says I, “there wouldn’t be no votes cast in a election to pick Wicksville’s handsomest man. There hain’t no sich thing.” It made me mad to have Mark fooling with me like that when things was so serious. “Jest look at the men that live here,” says I. “There hain’t enough handsomeness in Wicksville to keep a self-respectin’ scarecrow from dyin’ of disgust.”

“It hain’t the han’someness that is,” says Mark, “it’s the han’someness that homely folks thinks there is.”

“Huh!” says I.

“Plunk,” says Mark, patient-like, “have I got to draw a picture of this thing?”

“I guess you have,” says I.

“Well,” says he, “there’s half a dozen old coots here that set consid’able store by their looks. There’s Chet Weevil, eh? How about him?”

“Runs to yaller neckties,” says I.

“Always s-s-stoppin’ to look in the glass, hain’t he?”

I was beginning to get a glimmer of light, so I just nodded and didn’t say anything.

“And there’s Chancy Miller—always w-w-wearin’ a flower in his buttonhole, hain’t he?”

“Yes,” says I.

“And you was here yestiddy when Mis’ Bloom was bragging to Mis’ Peterson about what a upstandin’, fine-lookin’ feller her husband was. Eh?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Well,” says he, again, “wimmin kin s-s-see beauty in a feller that a hoss would shy at. There’s this, too: even if a woman d-d-don’t think her husband’s han’some, she hain’t g-goin’ to let on, is she? Not much, she hain’t. Thing to do, Plunk, is to git the wimmin mad about it. Git them wimmin mad and the m-m-men jealous of one another, and there’ll be votin’, Plunk.”

“There’ll be fist-fights,” says I.

“Hope so,” says Mark; “it’ll advertise.”

“How we goin’ to work it?”

“One v-v-vote with every ten-cent purchase,” says he. “Any voter can enter a candidate. We’ll paste a l-list of candidates in the window and every afternoon at two o’clock we’ll put up the vote.... The p-p-prize to the han’somest m-man,” says he, with the first grin he’d let loose, “will be that mirror back there with an imitation silver Cupid on top of it.”

“Some folks’ll make a joke of it.”

“Sure,” says Mark. “Some smart Alecs ’ll be votin’ for ol’ Stan Brazer, like’s not. That’ll only make them that takes it serious madder ’n git-out. Every v-v-vote’s a dime sale, Plunk.”

“All right,” says I, “go ahead. But this’ll stand Wicksville on its head.”

Mark only grinned and wagged his head. Then he went back and printed a big sign:

When that was done Mark stood tugging at his cheek for a minute. “B-better send Tallow and Binney out with the wagon again,” says he.

So he went to work making more signs for the wagon. One of them says:

The other says:

We called in Tallow and Binney and explained things to them. They were more tickled with the scheme than I was, though that last sign of Mark’s did make it look more likely. By printing that thing and sending it around town he’d practically fixed it so every woman would have to do some voting for her husband or let him think she didn’t set much store by him. It beat all how Mark seemed to understand folks. He could sit and figure and come pretty close to guessing what anybody would do if this thing or that thing should happen. Sometimes it seemed almost like mind-reading.

“Now,” says he, “we’ll get tickets printed for votin’.”

“How many?” I says. “A hundred?”

“Hundred,” he snorted; “we’ll start with f-five thousand.” He was a little mad I could see—he always stuttered worse when he was mad.

I thought he was crazy, but there wasn’t any use arguing. When once Mark Tidd gets his head set you can’t move it with a crowbar. So I said all right, and he went over to the printing-office and gave his order.

Just before noon who should we see coming into the store but Jehoshaphat P. Skip. It made me mad to see him and I’d have gone right up and told him to use the door for going out and never to use it for coming in again, but Mark saw what I was up to, I guess, and grabbed me by the arm.

“B-better let me talk to Jehoshaphat,” says he, and off he went before I could say a word.

“G-good mornin’, Mr. Skip,” says he, as sweet as molasses. “How’s business with you?”

“Huh!” grunted Jehoshaphat P., and he set to twisting the little bulb on the side of his long nose.

“Hope things are openin’ up w-well for you,” says Mark.

“You do, eh? You do, do you?” snapped Mr. Skip, and you could see the red start ’way down by his Adam’s apple and begin to crawl up his neck. It took quite a while to get to his face. Somehow he made you think of a giraffe that was provoked. “I hain’t come here for no talk,” says he. “I’ve come for business. Once and for all, will you stop sellin’ five-and-ten-cent goods?”

“Once and f-f-for all,” says Mark, “we won’t.”

Then Mr. Skip he grinned sort of mean.

“Ever hear of a chattel mortgage?” he says.

“Seems like I’d heard ’em mentioned,” says Mark.

“Know how they work?”

“Can’t say I d-do.”

“They’re sim’lar to a mortgage on land,” says Skip, “only they hain’t on land, but on chattels—which is things sich as furniture and animals—and bazars.”

“Oh,” says Mark, “bazars, eh?”

“Yes,” says Skip. “You give a chattel mortgage when you got to have money, and you put up your furniture or your animals—or your bazar—to secure the loan. That means if the loan hain’t paid the man with the chattel mortgage can take your furniture or your animals or your—bazar—instead of his money.”

“Um,” says Mark; “looks like a d-d-dangerous kind of a deal, don’t it?”

“I’m a-goin’ to show you how dangerous it is,” says Skip, squinting at Mark out of his mean, narrow little eyes. “I’ve got one of them on this Bazar.”

I almost flopped over on the floor, but Mark didn’t turn a hair. He was as startled as I was, I’ll bet, but he didn’t let on but what he was more pleased about it than anything else.

“Oh,” says he, “you got one of ’em, eh? How’d you come to git it?”

“Bought it,” says Skip. “Did you know this Bazar was pretty near busted?”

“We calc’lated she’d hang together a s-s-spell longer,” says Mark.

“It’s been runnin’ down for years,” says Skip. “It would of busted more’n four months ago if this here Mr. Smalley that owns it hadn’t of borrowed money to pay his debts. He up and borrowed five hundred dollars and give his note and a chattel mortgage on this Bazar. That’s what he done. And I was lookin’ around yestiddy and found out about it. That’s me, Jehoshaphat P. Skip. I look around—and I find out. Folks don’t want to git me down on ’em or they’re sorry for it.”

“To be sure,” says Mark.

“This here mortgage and note is due six weeks from to-day,” says Skip.

“Six weeks,” says Mark, slow-like. “Guess there won’t be any trouble about that, mister.” Jehoshaphat P. choked and gurgled and blinked his eyes.

“There won’t, eh? Think you can pay off five hundred dollars in six weeks, do you?” He grinned again as mean as a cornered alley cat. “Don’t matter what you think,” says he, “it can’t be done. Six weeks from to-day I’m goin’ to be the owner of this Bazar.”

“If I was you,” says Mark, “I w-wouldn’t go spendin’ any m-m-money you’re goin’ to make runnin’ this store—yet. Mister,” says he, “there’s fair business and there’s rotten business. There’s things it’s right to do to a competitor, and things a skunk would b-be ashamed of. Mister, a skunk that was well brought up, and had a f-f-family to think about, wouldn’t stay in the same town with you.” He stopped for breath and to give his jaw a rest, for the way he’d been stuttering was enough to knock chips off his teeth. “That’s what we th-th-think of you, mister. Now about that chattel mortgage—it’ll be paid, on the m-m-minute. We’ve got six weeks. When the six weeks are up you’ve got something to say—but if you come into this place again before that note’s due—if you even stick your long nose inside the door—we’ll throw you out and r-r-roll you in the mud for the whole town to see.... Now, mister, git.”

I’d seen Mark pretty worked up before, but I don’t recollect ever watching him when his lips got white the way they were then. His lips were white and his cheeks were gray, and his little eyes sort of glowed like there was a slow fire in them that was apt to break into a blaze.

Jehoshaphat P. Skip looked at Mark and sort of caught his breath and began to look uneasy.

“Git!” says Mark, again, before Skip could open his mouth.

Jehoshaphat didn’t offer to say another word—he just turned around quick and slunk out of the store.

Mark stood right in his tracks for more than a minute, looking after Skip. Then he sighed ’way down deep and blinked and turned around to me.

“Fellers like that,” says he, “ought to be shut up in the pen with the p-p-pigs. They hain’t got any right minglin’ with human beings.”

I was about ready to cry. There was my father in the hospital, and my mother with him. Every single thing in the world they had to support them was this Bazar. If it went I couldn’t see what would happen—and it looked to me like it was gone. Mark saw how I felt, I guess, for he came over and put his big hand on my shoulder, gentle-like. You wouldn’t believe how gentle and sort of comforting it was!

“Plunk,” says he, “it’s a hard b-b-bump, all right. But don’t get downhearted. We’ll pay that note, Plunk, and that hain’t all. Before we’re through with Jehoshaphat P. we’ll tie him into a d-double bow-knot with a pin in the middle of it.... Keep your b-backbone stiff, Plunk. We’ll pull her through.”

“Mark,” says I, and I wasn’t much used to saying things like that, “you’re—you’re all right.” And deep down inside I felt he was all right—and maybe he was a bigger sort of fellow than even we three boys had thought he was. My worry wasn’t all gone, but I did feel better and a little hopeful. But five hundred dollars—and in six weeks! For the life of me I couldn’t see where it was to come from—and father’s expenses and mother’s living, too!