When I got back to the Bazar from dinner that Saturday noon Mark had a big sign in one window that said the list of candidates with their votes would be put up at two o’clock. In the other window was just a line across the top that said:

CANDIDATES AND THEIR VOTES

There wasn’t anything under—it was just waiting there, staring folks in the face.

Along about a quarter past one in came a delegation of ladies from the Methodist church, nominating their parson, Rev. Hamilton Hannis. They were buzzing away, and all excited as a meeting of crows in a maple-tree. Somehow the Congregationalists had got hold of the news and in came six of them before the Methodists had cleared out. They nominated Rev. Orson Whipit, their minister. We got a matter of six dollars and seventy cents out of the two parties.

“Binney,” says Mark, “hain’t your f-f-folks Baptists?”

“Yes,” says Binney.

“Skin home, then,” says Mark, “and tell your ma.”

Off went Binney with the news, and in twenty minutes in came seven Baptist ladies with their pocketbooks and determined expressions, ready to stand up for their parson, Rev. Jenkins McCormick. They invested three dollars and forty cents. That made ten dollars and ten cents we got out of those three denominations.

There were three others to hear from—the United Brethren, the Universalists, and the Catholics, but they didn’t get wind of what was going on till later in the day. We got the whole six of them in the end, but the main contest turned out to be between the first three.

Six other women came in to put up their husbands’ names, and four school-teachers got there separately and privately to nominate Mr. Pilkins, the principal.

“If they v-v-vote as hard as they nominate,” stuttered Mark, “we’ll have to order more goods.”

We put up the list at two o’clock. Just before it went up Chancy Miller came sneaking in the back door with two dollars and twenty cents, and nominated himself. He bought a pair of military brushes and a bottle of perfume. He let on he was going to buy some kid gloves as soon as he saved up another dollar.

“I calc’late,” says he, “that folks’ll sort of flock in to vote for me as soon’s they see my name.”

“Well,” says Mark, “they’ll f-f-flock in, all right, Chancy, but I calc’late you got to depend on the unmarried vote. It beats all what a p-p-pile of han’some husbands and ministers there is here.”

“Ministers!” Chancy was like to choke. “Is ministers comin’ in? Now I don’t call that fair. Why,” says he, “them Prince Albert coats of theirn give ’em a head start right off. Besides,” says he, “ministers have more time to slick up.”

“Sure,” says Mark, “but not a one of ’em has c-c-curly hair.”

“I’d buy me one of them coats,” says Chancy, “but I hain’t got the money. Besides,” says he, “what money I git has got to go for votes.”

Mark was quick as a flash.

“We can order a suit to your m-m-measure,” says he, “from a Chicago catalogue. That’ll give you a sight of votes and us a little profit.”

But Chancy didn’t have the money and we didn’t give any credit, so that deal was off.

There was quite a few folks waiting in front to see the list go up, so we went and got it ready. There were a lot of names on it, but the three ministers were ahead, with Chancy and Chet next and the school principal next, and then Mr. Peterson and Mr. Bloom and the handsome husbands in a string, pretty much together.

All told there were two hundred and twenty-six votes cast. That made our morning’s business twenty-two dollars and sixty cents. That was pretty good for the first half-day.

First off most of the men in town looked at it as a joke and put in considerable time laughing. That was mostly early in the day, though. By the middle of the afternoon their women folks had done more or less talking, and the men got around gradual to seeing it wasn’t so awful funny, after all. The women never saw anything funny about it at all. It was pretty serious to them, I can tell you, especially to them that had husbands a person could look at without smoked glasses on.

Probably not a woman in Wicksville ever thought whether her man was handsomer than somebody else until Mark schemed up this contest. But, as Mark says, as soon as somebody else lets on he’s handsomer or bigger or smarter than you are, you get mad and say he isn’t. It don’t matter, says Mark, whether you ever thought you were handsome or big or smart before. You begin to think so then. Even if you don’t really think so you let on you do and are willing to back it up.

Everybody got it—even old Peasley Snell. His name wasn’t on the list, and if you was to ask me, it wasn’t likely to be, for old Peasley was about the weazenedest, orneriest, dried-up, scraggly-haired critter in Wicksville. But Peasley he stopped and read the list. His wife was with him. Peasley read from top to bottom. Then he began talking to his wife:

“Pete Bloom!” says he, and sniffed. “Huh! Handsome! Huh!... Jason Peterson. Whee! And them others! Who d’you calc’late nominated ’em, Susie?”

“I dun’no’,” says Susie.

“It was their wives,” I says from the door.

“Wives,” grunted old Peasley. “Wives, is it? Huh! Why, young feller? Why?”

“I guess they nominated ’em,” says I, “because they wanted to let on they thought their husbands was as good as anybody else’s husbands.”

Old Peasley stopped and thought and blinked and chewed on his tongue. Every once in a while he’d look at his wife and scowl. Pretty soon he raised his bony finger and tapped her on the shoulder:

“Susie,” says he, “my name hain’t on that list.”

“No,” says she.

“Why?” says he.

“I dun’no’,” says she.

“Peterson’s there,” says he, “and Bloom.”

“Yes,” says she.

“Their wives done it.”

Mrs. Snell nodded her head.

“Mis’ Snell,” says old Peasley, “don’t you calc’late I got any pride? Don’t you calc’late I got any feelin’s? Say! Do I want folks rushin’ around sayin’ Peasley Snell’s wife says her husband is homely as a squashed tomato? Eh? Well? Maybe,” says he, “I hain’t what you’d call handsome, but b’jing! I don’t have to wear no veil—not when Pete Bloom and Jase Peterson’s around, anyhow. What’ll folks think? Eh?”

“I dun’no’, Peasley,” says his wife.

“I know,” says he. “They’ll say Peasley Snell’s wife don’t love, honor, and obey him, that’s what they’ll say. They’ll say Peasley Snell hain’t of no account in his own family. They’ll say his wife’d rather have any other man in town than him.... And, Mis’ Snell, I hain’t a-goin’ to endure it. Mark me! Your duty is plain before your eyes. You git into that Bazar, Mis’ Snell, and you git my name on that list. And you see to it that your husband has as many votes after his name as Bloom or Peterson. That’s what. Now Mis’ Snell, march.”

She marched, and old Peasley’s name went on the list with one vote more than Bloom.

That’s the way it went. Fellers that were nominated started worrying about how many votes they were going to get, and fellers that weren’t nominated got mad about it. Also there were others besides Chet and Chancy that nominated themselves.

Till ’most midnight customers kept us so busy we couldn’t hardly breathe. At last we shut the doors and counted up to see what we’d done. A hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty-seven cents for one day! That wasn’t the best of it, either, for we’d got rid of a lot of old stuff that had been cluttering up the store for years. In a little more we’d be down to real stock.

“Calc’late,” says Mark, “we better be castin’ our eyes around for somethin’ new and special to sell. We want our stock to be b-b-better than Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s.”

“Sure,” says I.

“We got to stock up on first-class s-s-staples,” says Mark, “and git, besides, some specialties that’ll stir folks up a leetle.”

We were pretty tired and sleepy, so we didn’t talk about it any more that night. Next morning all of us went to church, but after dinner we went to Mark’s house, and his mother made molasses taffy—and kept scolding about it all the time and saying we’d ruin the furniture and mess up our clothes. That was the way with Mrs. Tidd. She was always stirring around, busy as could be, and mostly she was sort of scolding at Mark or Mr. Tidd—but she didn’t mean a bit of it. I never knew anybody so free with pies and fried cakes and things as she was.

Along about the middle of the afternoon we heard a jangling and rattling, and above it all somebody whistling like all-git-out. Well, sir, we jumped for the window, because we knew that racket. There, just turning into the yard, was a red peddler’s wagon. To-day, it being Sunday, the pots and pans and brooms and whips and things that usually were stuck all over it were out of sight inside, but they jangled just the same. On the seat was a man whistling “Marching Through Georgia” with runs and trills and funny quirks to it. His nose was pointed straight up and his eyes were shut. His horse was finding its way without any help from him. If you didn’t look at anything but the man’s face you’d have said he was about six feet and a half high, but when you looked at the rest of him you saw right off that things had got mixed—he had the wrong body. He was less than five feet tall, and he was more than three feet wide—or he looked so, anyhow.

All of a sudden his horse stopped. The little man raised his big head with a snap and jerked it first in one direction and then in another. Then he took hold of the end of his nose and gave it a tweak as if it had managed to get out of shape. Then slow as molasses he began to get down.

At that we boys rushed out of the house, and Mr. Tidd and his wife followed a little slower. The little man saw us, put his hand on his stomach and made a low bow; then he put a thumb in the armhole of his vest and straightened up as dignified as a senator.

“You are not mistaken, my friends. Your eyes do not deceive you. It is Zadok Biggs. None other. I am entranced—delighted is the more ordinary expression—to see you. I am more than delighted to see that prodigious—remarkable is the commoner word—youth, Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. There’s a name! The parents who gave that name to their son are remarkable parents! Parents, I salute you.... And there, too, are my three young friends, Plunk and Binney and Tallow.” He waved his hand at us as though we were a block away.

He didn’t give anybody a chance to say a word, but led us into the house and invited us to sit down.

“Ah, this is magnificent, this is glorious. How Zadok Biggs has looked forward to it! Madam, aside from a seat on the Supreme Bench at Washington, I most aspire to this one. Tell me all about yourselves; you, Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, tell me all about yourself. Have you been finding opportunities? Ah, there’s a word! Opportunities are everywhere. There’s Plunk, now, missing an opportunity. There’s a chair, a comfortable chair, yet he remains erect—standing is the more usual expression. Seize your opportunity, Plunk, and be seated. Now Marcus, I listen. My ears yearn for the news you have to tell.”

Maybe you never met Zadok Biggs before, but we had, I can tell you. We got acquainted with him when Mr. Tidd come close to losing the turbine-engine he had invented and which made him rich, and Zadok did a lot to help us get it back. I really don’t believe we ever would have got it back if it hadn’t been for him. So we were pretty good friends, and every time he was near Wicksville with his tin-peddler’s wagon he’d stop overnight with Mark, and we’d all spend the evening together.

“Relate—tell is the less dignified term—the news, Marcus,” he directed a second time.

Mark started in and told him all about everything: how father was hurt and had to go to the hospital, and how we four boys were running the store, and about Jehoshaphat P. Skip, and about the chattel mortgage, and about the handsomest-man contest. When Mark was done Zadok got up and rushed over to me and patted me on the shoulder. There were tears in his eyes.

“Plunk,” says he, “my heart bleeds for your father and mother. I could weep for them in their trouble. I will visit your father in the hospital—be sure of that, Zadok Biggs will visit him and cheer him. Ha! That is something. Also I shall tell him about his son. A father loves to hear good of his son. It will help him on the road to recovery. I am proud of you, Plunk. I am proud of all of you. You are—indeed, I may say it with honest pride—you are a credit to me.” Then he hurried back and sat down.

“I’m afraid,” I says, after a while, “that we’ve bit off more’n we can chew comfortable—countin’ in that chattel mortgage.”

“It is an obstacle. Oh, there is no doubt of that! Alone you might fail, but is not Marcus Tidd with you? Ha! That counts for much. And Zadok Biggs! What of him? He is heart and soul with you. From this minute Jehoshaphat P. Skip is his enemy. Zadok will help you. Zadok will advise you. Best of all, Zadok will look about him for opportunities.” Looking for opportunities was Zadok’s specialty. “We will show this Jehoshaphat P. Skip—a detestable name; I abhor such a name—we will show him!”

He turned to Mark.

“You are in business,” says he. “Business is the game that keeps the world going. Business is checkers; business is football; business is Brains. Would you hear my business rules? They will aid you—help is the more common word. I will write them in a row so you can see them and remember them.”

He pulled a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and wrote:

First—Find out what people want.

Second—Give it to ’em.

Third—Buy it cheap.

Fourth—Only a fair profit.

Fifth—Never spend a cent that won’t bring back a cent.

Sixth—Every man is a customer—treat him so.

Seventh and last—Never sell a thing you wouldn’t be glad to buy yourself at the price.

He stood up, bowed like he was going to speak a piece, and read it off to us. Folks may think Zadok is a little peculiar, but I want to tell you that every inch of room in his big head is stuffed full of brains. A half-witted cat could see the sense in those business rules of his.