It seems the ministers didn’t hear how they were nominated in the beauty contest till Sunday afternoon—at any rate, none of them said anything about it. But Sunday afternoon they met and palavered and made up their minds it wasn’t dignified and that sort of thing for preachers to get mixed up in such an affair. So that night they got up in their pulpits and said so. I was a Baptist and heard Rev. Jenkins McCormick state his views. I gathered he didn’t withdraw because he thought ministers wasn’t handsomer than other men, or because he didn’t view himself as being as handsome as any other minister, but because, to his way of thinking, beauty and Baptists hadn’t ought to run together.

Rev. Whipit, of the Congregationalists, and Rev. Hannis, of the Methodists, got off their views on the subject. The result was that there were a few hundred votes that would have to be changed. And there was where the trouble started.

The first thing Monday morning about a dozen women came down to the Bazar to ask what they should do about it.

“Well,” says Mark Tidd, “th-there’s the votes. So long as the parsons won’t have ’em, somebody else’ll have to. You can vote ’em for anybody you w-w-want to.”

Then there was a racket. The Methodists got off in a group and the Congregationalists huddled together and the Baptists sheered off where they could talk it over. And they talked! My goodness! You could have heard the clatter on the other side of the river. Every married woman insisted on having the votes of her church cast for her husband, and the four old maids that were scattered through the three denominations were all for Mr. Pilkins, the school principal—him being an old bachelor. At last the noise got so bad and the women got so mad Mark made up his mind he’d have to do something about it—and he wanted to do something that would help out the Bazar while he was at it. He got up on the counter, and that was quite a job, considering how much of him there was to get up.

“L-ladies,” he yelled, “the m-meetin’ is called to order.”

Well, sir, they stopped off short to see what was going on, just like hens in the yard will stop fussing if you step out with a pan of feed in your hand.

“I got a p-plan to propose,” says Mark.

“Let’s have it,” says Mrs. Goodwillie.

“D-draw lots for ’em,” says Mark. “I’ll fix three boxes, one for each denomination, and put into ’em a slip of p-paper for each lady. Then you draw. One slip will say ‘Votes’ on it—and that one wins in each box. The votes belong to the three ladies d-drawin’ the winnin’ slips, and they can do as they please with ’em.”

“Never,” says Mrs. Goodwillie. “That’s gamblin’!”

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” says Mark, “b-but ’tain’t. Characters in the Bible drew lots. B-besides,” says he, “there was Lot’s wife. How came she by her n-name, d’you s’pose, if d-drawin’ lots wasn’t customary? Eh?”

For a minute the ladies quarreled about it, but it did look like the most sensible way to go at it, and they agreed. We fixed up the boxes, and the drawing started. Every woman grabbed her slip and ran off with it like a hen that finds a worm. Then Miss Snoover yelled, “I got it!” She was a Methodist. But right on top of her yell came another “I got it!” and this one belonged to Mrs. Peterkin—and she was a Methodist, too. Somehow two winning slips had got into the Methodist box! The Baptist box came out all right with Mrs. Jenks a winner; but there wasn’t any winning slip at all in the Congregational box! It was a pretty situation, but Mark didn’t appear flustered a bit—he just looked solemn and interested, and when nobody was looking he winked at me sly. For some reason or other he’d gone and fixed those boxes like that on purpose!

Well, mister! Maybe there wasn’t a squabble! Miss Snoover and Mrs. Peterkin gripped their slips and glared at each other and screeched that the votes were theirs and they’d drawn fair and square and nobody’d ever get them away. All the other Methodist ladies joined in because they saw a chance for another drawing, when maybe they’d win. The women that won wouldn’t consent to another drawing, and the ones that lost insisted there should be one—and there we were.

In the mean time the Congregationalists had drawn all over and Mrs. Johnson won. That disposed of them.

I just kept my mouth shut and waited to see what Mark would do. He didn’t do anything but look sort of satisfied with the world—why, I couldn’t see. I wished I was a mile away, because you couldn’t tell how mad these women were going to get, nor what they’d do when they got there.

“Why not d-divide ’em equal between the winners?” Mark says.

“Never,” yelled Mrs. Goodwillie. “We’ll draw all over again!”

“Them votes is mine,” says Miss Snoover, “and I’m a-goin’ to keep ’em.”

“What for?” asked Mrs. Peterkin, mean-like. “What you calc’latin’ to do with ’em? Eh?”

Miss Snoover sort of choked and spluttered and got red in the face, and says it wasn’t anybody’s business what she was goin’ to do with ’em, even if it was to paper the inside of her hen-house—and maybe she was an old maid, but it wasn’t anybody’s business, and she didn’t need to be if she didn’t want to, and a lot better to be one than married like some she knew—and she’d carry the matter into court and hire a lawyer to defend her rights, and everybody was trying to rob a lone woman. That was all she mentioned before she drew a breath, but I thought that was pretty good. Most folks would have had to breathe a lot sooner. The minute she was through she turned and ran out of the store, still grabbing her slip of paper.

The rest of them stayed awhile and argued, but pretty soon they went, too, because they couldn’t do anything without Miss Snoover.

“Well,” says I when they were gone, “that’s a pretty mess to clean up.”

“Um!” says Mark, and he smacked his lips like he’d had something good to eat.

“What ever,” says I, “did you put two slips in that Methodist box for?”

“To start a s-s-squabble,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “you done it, all right.”

“Plunk,” says he, “excitement is the makin’ of a beauty contest. The more folks gets m-mad the more votes is cast. The more squabbles there is the more money we make—and the more advertisin’ we get. Don’t you calc’late this thing’ll be talked of more’n a simple drawin’ with no row at all would have b-been?”

“I do,” says I, and let it go at that. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.

Binney Jenks, who had been down to the express-office, came in just then.

“Enemy’s takin’ flight,” says he.

“What enemy?” says I, “and where is he takin’ flight to?”

“Jehoshaphat P.,” says Binney, “and he’s goin’ to Detroit. Took the ten-fifty train.”

“F-flight,” says Mark, with a sort of grunt. “More likely some kind of attack. Um!... Wisht I knew what he was up to.”

“If it’s anything to hurt us we’ll find out quick enough,” says I.

“The way,” says Mark, “to win b-battles is to find out the enemy’s plan and beat him to it.”

“You might telegraph Jehoshaphat P.,” says I, sarcastic-like, “and ask him what his idea is.”

“Who’s in charge of his store?” Mark asked.

“That clerk he brought with him. Don’t know what his name is.”

“Does he know you?” Mark asked me.

“Don’t think I ever saw him but once,” I says.

“Well,” says Mark, “it’s about time you bought somethin’ at the t-t-ten-cent store. Take a quarter, Plunk, and spend it judicious. Take consid’able time to it, Plunk, and get friendly with the clerk. If you get curious you might ask a question or so. Good way would be to make b’lieve you thought the clerk was the boss. See? Then you could ask about the boss. Maybe this clerk is one of these t-t-talkative, loose-jawed fellers. Worth tryin’, anyhow. Might drag a crumb of information out of him.”

“And git hanged for a spy,” says I; but for all that I was glad to go. To tell the truth I was sort of tickled that Mark wanted me to go instead of going himself. It showed he had some confidence in me and thought I was sharp enough to do what he wanted.

I took a quarter and went across to the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. The clerk was lazying around without much to do but look at himself in a little hand-glass. He had one of those little pocket-combs and he was busy with it, fixing his hair just so. It was kind of straw-colored hair with a wiggle to it. He had a kind of strawberry complexion and blue eyes and chubby cheeks. Sort of cunning, he was. I says to myself he ought to be entered in our beauty contest.

I went along the counter, looking at things, but he didn’t pay much attention. He got through with his hair and then began bringing up his mustache. It was a cute mustache. Yellow like his hair, it was, but you couldn’t see it from some directions. When the light was right on it, though, you got a good view. I kept getting closer and closer. When I was almost in front of him I dropped my quarter and had to go chasing after it. That attracted his attention away from his mustache.

“What’ll you have?” says he, crosslike.

“Oh,” says I, “dun’no’. I got a quarter to spend and I’m lookin’.”

“All right,” says he, “look.”

“You got a fine store, mister,” says I.

“Yes,” says he.

“Do you own all of it?” I says, “or have you got a partner?”

He felt around till he got hold of his mustache and pulled at it careful so as not to pull any out. He couldn’t have spared much.

“Well,” says he, “to tell the truth I hain’t the proprietor. I’m just sort of manager. More money in that than ownin’ the store—and no risk.”

“Oh,” says I. “Who does own it, then?”

“Feller by the name of Skip.”

“Hain’t he ever here?”

“Sure. Just went to town, though. Important business.”

Hum! thought I, this is one of those talking jackasses. He’s all excited about what a man he is and he’ll just naturally lay himself out to make an impression.

“It’s a big responsibility to be left in charge, hain’t it?” I says.

“Oh, Skip gives me all sorts of responsibility,” says he. “He knows me.”

“I’ll bet he don’t,” says I to myself, “or he wouldn’t have you around.” But I only grinned at him admiringly. “Say,” I told him, “them clothes of yourn wasn’t just bought, was they? They look different. Bet a real tailor made ’em.”

“Course,” says he. “I couldn’t wear store clothes. Man in my position has to look swell.”

“You do it, all right,” says I. Then I got an idea. “Are you figgerin’ on winnin’ the contest?”

“What contest?”

“Handsomest man in Wicksville,” says I. “Everybody’s votin’.”

“Oh, that,” says he. “No. I dassent be in that? Boss wouldn’t like it.”

“Shucks!” says I. “You ought to enter. You’d win easy.”

He took another look at himself in the glass and didn’t seem disappointed by what he saw.

“Well,” says he, “I might have a chance.”

“Chance!” I says. “Why, there wouldn’t be anybody else in it!”

“I don’t know many folks here,” he says.

“Bet lots of folks wished they did know you. All you’d have to do would be enter the contest, and the way they’d vote for you would be a caution.”

“Boss wouldn’t like it,” says he.

“If somebody put up your name without your knowin’ it he couldn’t object.”

I could see him sort of thinking that idea over. It was one that attracted him like a bald head attracts flies.

“I sure would like to git my name in,” says he, “but the boss hain’t got any use for that Bazar. He’s mad at the folks that run it and he says he’s goin’ to put it out of business. He’s a bad one, Jehoshaphat P. Skip is, and when he gits after anybody they want to look out.”

“Pretty smart man, hain’t he?”

“You bet he is—smarter ’n a weasel.”

“Don’t b’lieve he could put the Bazar out of business, though,” I says, shaking my head.

“You don’t know Skip,” says he. “Why, kid, what d’you s’pose he’s up to now? Eh?”

“Hain’t the slightest idea,” says I, as if I didn’t care much.

“He’s got ’em pretty near busted now. Bought a chattel mortgage they’ll never be able to pay off. He’s goin’ to see to it they don’t pay it off. That’s one reason he’s in Detroit. Yes, sir. Take the wind plumb out of their sails, I tell you.”

“Huh!” says I. “Easier said than done.”

“He’s goin’ to the wholesale houses,” says the clerk in a whisper.

“What of it?”

“The Bazar owes money,” says he. “He’s goin’ to tell the wholesale houses they better look out or the Bazar’ll bust. See? Then the wholesale houses’ll demand their money. Besides that, the Bazar won’t be able to buy no more stock. Skip’ll fix their credit, and no store can git along without credit. See?”

Did I see? I should say I did see! This was almost worse than the chattel mortgage.

“Another thing,” says he, “the Bazar’s got the local agency for Wainright’s sheet music. Must be a pretty good thing. Skip’s going to get that away from ’em. Hurt some, I calc’late. And he’s goin’ to take away their agency for phonographs and records. Bet that’ll hit ’em a wallop. Eh? Skip says he’ll take away every one of their agencies.”

“But,” says I, “this is a five-and-ten-cent store. How can he sell things that come to more?”

“Oh,” says the clerk, “he’s goin’ to open a separate department and sell every single thing the Bazar does—and cut prices. Guess this beauty contest won’t get much for the Bazar folks against lower prices.”

That was the way I looked at it, and my heart went ’way down into my boots, but I wouldn’t let him see it.

“About that contest,” says he, “I’d like to get my name in. But I wouldn’t like Skip to know I went in myself. He’d have to think somebody else did it without me knowing.”

“Sure,” says I.

He looked all around to make sure nobody was looking, and then handed me half a dollar.

“Here,” says he in a whisper. “Buy me a necktie with this, and have my name entered. Will you? Eh?”

“Course,” says I; “glad to do it for you.”

I hurried right out of the store and across the street, not waiting to spend my quarter at all. I had to see Mark Tidd, and see him quick. Something had to be done. Something had to be done in a minute. If we lost these agencies and had our credit cut off we might as well close our doors. Here was Mark’s chance to show if he was as great a man as folks thought he was.