By Saturday our beauty contest was getting pretty warm. Folks had talked about it and argued about it till they really got to believe there was some importance to the thing. There were quarrels over husbands, and Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller had to be separated every time they met. Those two young men took it pretty serious. Chet said if Chancy was to win he’d pick up and leave Wicksville for ever, and Chancy said if Chet was to win he’d go off and live in a cabin in the woods where he never would see another human being, he’d be that ashamed.

Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Bloom didn’t speak to each other any more, but put in all their spare time fussing around town trying to scrape up votes for their husbands. There were a lot of others just as bad.

But when Wicksville heard how Old Mose Miller had a thousand votes and didn’t know who he was going to cast them for, there was excitement. You can bet there was. Early Saturday morning Chancy came sneaking into the store to find out about it.

“Mark,” says he, “is it a fact that Old Mose has got a thousand votes?”

“Yes,” says Mark. “He’s got ’em, all r-right.”

“Sort of an uncle of mine—Old Mose is,” says Chancy, and he grinned satisfied-like. “Blood’s thicker ’n water. Guess I’ll go out to see him.”

“I would,” says Mark. “If I was you I wouldn’t l-lose any time.”

Chancy was no sooner gone than Chet came in with the same question.

“Huh!” says he when Mark told him the rumor was so. “Thousand votes. That’ll about win this contest, won’t it?”

“Come p-pretty close,” says Mark.

“Then,” says Chet, “I got to have ’em. Got to! I’m goin’ out to see the old skeezicks. I’m goin’ this minnit.”

“Good idee,” says Mark. “But Old Mose is Chancy’s uncle. Know th-that? Blood’s thicker ’n water.”

“No sich thing,” says Chet. “There hain’t no sich hate as that between relatives. Chancy’s father and Old Mose had a row over their father’s will. Been hatin’ each other twenty-odd years. Chancy ’ll never count them votes, you listen to me.”

Well, sir, I looked toward the door, and who should be coming in but Old Mose himself. Right behind him was Chancy. Chet he took one look and made for the old fellow and grabbed him by the arm.

“Why, Mr. Miller,” says he, grabbing for the old man’s hand to shake it, “I dun’no’ when I’ve been so tickled to see anybody. How be you, anyhow? Hope you’re feelin’ spry as a two-year-old.”

Old Mose scowled at him.

“Do, eh? Do you, now? Huh! Who be you, anyhow? What call you got to be mixin’ up with my health? Glad to see me, be you? Well, young feller, ’tain’t mutual. Not none. Leggo that hand. Leggo.”

“But, Mr. Miller, I am glad to see you. You and my father is old friends. He often speaks of you. Honest he does. You hain’t forgot Henry Weevil, have you?”

“No, nor I hain’t likely to, the shiftless old coot! Henry Weevil’s son, be you? Reckon you take after him, too. Necktie looks like it. Henry had about gumption enough to spend his last quarter for a red rag to tie around his neck.”

Just then Chancy came springing forward and made a grab at Chet.

“You quit pesterin’ and disturbin’ this old gentleman,” says he. “He’s my uncle, he is, and I hain’t goin’ to stand by to see no town loafer molestin’ him. You git.”

Old Mose took one look at Chancy—and it was considerable of a look, too.

“Uncle!” he snorted. “Uncle, is it? Don’t let it git out. I hain’t proud of it. Don’t go claimin’ no relationship with me, you young flapdoodle. I’d rather be catched stealin’ sheep than to have folks remember I was your uncle. Git out. Git away from me ’fore I up and bust the toe of my boot on you.”

Well, Chancy drew back a little, quite a little. He got clear out of range. Chet grinned at him provoking. But Chancy was a persistent sort of fellow; he tried Old Mose again.

“I don’t see what for you hold anythin’ agin me, uncle, I never done a thing to you.”

“Don’t you dast call me uncle,” says Old Mose, and he takes a step forward, belligerent-like.

Chet put in his oar. “That’s right, Mr. Miller. I’d hate to own he was a relative of mine—him and his curly hair.”

Old Mose turned his head slow so he could look at Chet, and says:

“One more peep out of you and I’ll take you acrost my knee and fix you like your ma ought to fix you often. I calc’late you figger you’re growed up past spankin’s. Huh! You yaller-haired slinkum!”

Things looked pretty discouraging for Chet and Chancy when in came Mrs. Bloom, all out of breath. Right at her heels was Mrs. Peterson, panting like all-git-out. Up they rushed to Old Mose.

“Why, Mr. Miller,” says Mrs. Bloom, almost putting her arm around him, “I just heard you was in town. My! I’m that glad to see you! You’re a-goin’ to come and take dinner with us, hain’t you?”

Old Mose blinked. He didn’t know what to make of it, and before he decided what was going on Mrs. Peterson wedged herself in and got him by the other arm.

“Mr. Miller’s comin’ to our house to dinner,” says she. “We’re a-goin’ to have chicken and biscuits in gravy and punkin-pie. You’re a-comin’ to our house, hain’t you?”

Old Mose waggled his head and scowled, and waggled his head some more, and opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again. He had to try three times before he could get out a word.

“Hey!” he yelled, “you lemme be. You git away from me. What’s the matter with these here wimmin? Say! Dinner! Naw, I hain’t goin’ to dinner with nobody. Me set and listen to female gabble! Whoo! You leggo my arms. Hear me? Has this whole consarned town up and went crazy? Eh? Or what?”

Well, right on top of all that three young women came pushing in and rushing up to Old Mose. I knew what they were after—it was votes for School-Principal Pilkins.

“Why, Mr. Miller,” they says all at once, “as soon as we heard you was in town we come right down to see you. How be you? My! it seems nice to see you again!”

“Come right down to see me, did you?” Old Mose was about as mad as he could get by this time. “Well, now you’ve saw me. Here I be from boots to bald spot. I’m well. But I’m gettin’ worse. I’m gettin’ worse quick. In a minnit I’m goin’ to git vi’lent.” He backed off and got around the end of the counter where nobody could reach him. “Keep off’n me, the whole dod-gasted passel of you. I hain’t no idee of the cause of these goin’s-on, and I hain’t no hankerin’ to find out. But I hereby issues a warnin’ to all and sundry—keep off’n me! I’m a-goin’ to git into my buggy and make for home. I’m a-goin’ to git out of this townful of lunatics. When I come ag’in I’m a-goin’ to fetch my dawg. He’s the meanest dawg in the county. And I’m a-goin’ to sic him on to the first man, woman, or child that comes gabblin’ and flitterin’ around me. Take warnin’. Now git out of my way, for I’m a-comin’.”

At that he began waving his arms and started pell-mell for the door. The folks opened up a way for him and he scooted through like the way was greased. Just a second he stopped in the door to shake his fist. Then he made a jump into his buggy, whipped up his horse, and went tearing for home.

Mark Tidd had stood watching the whole thing as solemn as an undertaker’s sign. Not even a little twinkle in his eye! When Mose was gone he says:

“Don’t seem like Old Mose was in g-good humor to-day.”

“He’s a rip-roarin’, cross-grained, pig-headed, rat-minded old coot,” says Mrs. Peterson, “but I’m a-goin’ to git them votes of his’n yet.”

“Think you be, do you?” snapped Mrs. Bloom. “Well, Mis’ Peterson, you’ll have to git up earlier in the mornin’ than you do on wash-days if you beat me. So there.”

“P-prob’bly,” says Mark, “it would be b-better to see Old Mose out at his house of an evenin’. Maybe he’d be more reasonable.”

“We’ll see him of an evenin’, all right, and we’ll see him of a mornin’,” says one of the young women that were after votes for Pilkins. “And we hain’t after his votes for ourselves, neither,” she says with a sarcastic look at Chet and Chancy.

“Ladies,” says Mark, breaking right in on them, “have you seen the new p-patent hooks and eyes we just got in from New York? Finest thing of the kind ever was in Wicksville. Lemme sh-show you how they work.”

He set in and described those hooks and eyes and told what they would do, and showed how they did it. “And,” says he, “we give votes with th-these just like with anythin’ else. How many cards, Mis’ Peterson?”

“Gimme a quarter’s worth,” says she. “Sich things always come in handy.”

Mrs. Bloom, she bought a quarter’s worth, and each of those young women bought a card for a dime. That was eighty cents sold that wouldn’t have been sold but for Mark taking advantage of things. But he was the sort that took advantage. Maybe there wouldn’t be much in it every time, but add up a dozen or so times and it was quite a bit. He was business from front to back.

“Mark,” says I, when the folks were all gone, “I’m beginnin’ to b’lieve maybe we’ll pull through and pay off Skip’s mortgage.”

“Hum!” says Mark. “You be, eh? Remember we got to raise five hundred d-dollars and pay expenses and keep sendin’ money to your f-folks. ’Tain’t so easy as it looks. Comes perty clost to bein’ impossible, I’d say.”

“Not gittin’ discouraged?” I says, frightened-like.

“No,” says he, “but I h-hain’t gittin’ over-confident, neither. Maybe we’ll pull through if somethin’ don’t hit us an extra wallop. But we’ll keep a-tryin’.”

“You bet,” says I. “How do we stand now?”

“There’s ninety-six d-dollars in the bank,” says he, “that we can figger on for the mortgage.”

“Fine,” says I; “’most a fifth of it.”

“But we’ve had l-luck. There was sellin’ that phonograph. Twenty dollars clear. Don’t happen every day.”

“But our daily sales are keeping up pretty well.”

“If we d-depend on our daily sales to pull us through,” says he, “Jehoshaphat P. Skip ’ll be foreclosin’ his mortgage. We g-got to keep a-thinkin’ up schemes. We got to crowd the business and keep crowdin’ it. Then, if somethin’ we d-don’t foresee now don’t happen, we got a chance. But if somethin’ does happen—” He stopped and shrugged his fat shoulders as much as to say that would be the end of the Bazar.

But I was feeling pretty good. Ninety-six dollars in the bank! That seemed like a lot; and we had put it there ourselves. It seemed to me we were coming along fine.

That night I got a telegram from mother. It says:

Father must have operation. Cost hundred dollars. Can you send money?

I just sat down limp in a chair with all the stiffening gone out of my backbone. There was the extra wallop Mark Tidd was afraid of. I ran right over to his house and showed him the telegram.

“Hum!” says he. “L-lucky we got that money in the bank. Send it to-morrow.”

“Course,” says I. “But it licks us.”

He stuck out his jaw and his eyes got sort of hard and sparkly.

“D-does, eh?” says he. “Well, Mr. Plunk, we hain’t licked yet. I felt in my bones bad luck was comin’—and here it is. But we’re a-goin’ to stick to it, you can bet. Skip hasn’t put us out of b-business yet.”

There you were. That very day he’d said something like this would dump our apple-cart for us—and now that it had happened he was as much for keeping on as ever. Looked like he didn’t know when he was licked. But that was Mark Tidd all over. He wouldn’t let on he had the worst of it till the sheriff had come and closed up the Bazar. And then, maybe, there’d be something else he’d think up to try as a last resort.

Next morning we sent mother the ninety-six dollars in the bank with four dollars besides. It left us with only enough money in the till to make change with.

Mark looked at it and scowled.

“Got to m-make it grow,” says he, “and grow quick.”

“All right,” says I; “but how?”

“I’m goin’ b-back to whittle,” says he. “In an hour we’ll start somethin’ goin’.”