When I told Tallow and Binney how we’d harpooned Mr. Skip for two hundred dollars they were so tickled they almost jumped out of their shoes. Tallow wanted to go over and stand in front of the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store to gibe at Jehoshaphat, but Mark wouldn’t have it. He said Skip didn’t know who was at the bottom of the scheme, and wasn’t going to find out yet. Mark had his reasons, and, because he owned the scheme, so to speak, we did as he said.

Two hundred dollars! That made up for the hundred we had to send mother and gave us an extra hundred into the bargain—and about a million dollars’ worth of satisfaction. It beats all how you can make money if you happen to know how. Mark Tidd didn’t spend more than a couple of hours earning this—but I suppose he did two hundred dollars’ worth of thinking, or he wouldn’t have made a go of it. He says if you want to make money you’ve either got to do the money’s worth of work or the money’s worth of figuring. I expect he’s right.

Business was pretty fair the rest of the day. We didn’t close until half past ten, and we were good and tired, I can tell you. Our beauty contest was getting along fine. Nobody forgot to ask for votes when they bought a dime’s worth, and the big talk of the day was about Old Miller and his thousand votes. I don’t suppose there was anybody in that contest who didn’t hope to pry those votes away from Old Mose, and everybody was looking for a hint about how to go at it. Mark Tidd was the chief hinter. He told every one the same thing.

“If I was you,” says he to everybody that asked his advice, “I’d w-w-wait till sometime when Mose was likely to be alone. Sometime like Sunday afternoon. Then I’d go out to his place like I was j-just makin’ him a call. ’Twouldn’t do any harm to talk about cats. Just mention cats casual-like. It’ll s’prise you how it’ll strike him. Then you might edge along and m-mention that you got a kitten. Tell him you hate to spare that kitten, but, seein’ who he is and what a high regard you got for him, you’ll fetch it out for him. Don’t mention votes yet. See if you can’t git him to m-mention ’em himself. Yes, sir, if I was you I’d go out about half past two; he’ll be through dinner then and feelin’ perty good.”

That’s the answer Mark had for everybody. Cats! We found out a couple of months ago how Old Mose hates cats—hates ’em and is afraid of ’em. He’d rather pet a rattlesnake than a cat.

That night as we were walking home Mark says:

“Guess we b-better meet about two o’clock and slide out to Old Mose’s. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was somethin’ there to see that ’u’d be worth watchin’.”

We wouldn’t be surprised, either, and you can bet we agreed to meet him.

Sunday morning everybody in Wicksville went to church and the young folks stayed to Sunday-school. I hurried through my dinner and was at Mark’s house before he was through. He didn’t hurry his dinner. Not much! Anybody that finds Mark Tidd slighting a meal wants to report it, for it’ll be one of the wonders of the world. No, he wasn’t through yet and Mrs. Tidd made me come in and eat a piece of apple-pie. Mark was just finishing up his second piece and was looking covetous-like at the third, but his mother put her foot down and wouldn’t let him have it. So he finished off with an apple and a banana and a bit of rice-pudding left from yesterday and then said he guessed he’d put half a dozen cookies in his pocket to eat on the way.

By that time Tallow and Binney came along and we started out the river road to Old Mose’s.

We began going cautious before we got in sight of the farm, because we didn’t want Mose to see us and we didn’t want anybody from Wicksville to know we had put up a joke on them—that would be bad for business. So we turned off the road and dodged closer, all the time keeping out of sight behind shocks of corn in the field that was next to Old Mose’s farm-yard. We crept up behind a clump of lilac-bushes and then craned our necks to see where we could find a good place to hide and watch what went on.

Old Mose was out on his porch, playing his phonograph. He had one of those talking-records going—we could hear it plain as could be.

All at once we heard him yell:

“Shut up! Shut up! I tell you. Hain’t you been jawin’ enough? Say! Hain’t you goin’ to give a man no peace?”

Then he jumped up and shut off the machine. Of course the talking stopped. Old Mose grinned proud-like, just as if he’d done something worth while.

“Haw!” says he, “you will, eh? You will set there and jaw and jaw! I’ll show you. Jest like all folks, hain’t you? Want to keep wagglin’ your tongue all the time. But I kin shut you up. Old Mose is the feller that kin turn you off.”

He sat down and chuckled and talked to himself and paid his respects to the way folks like to talk for quite a spell. Then he got up and started off another talking-record. He let it run about two minutes and then up and began yelling at it.

“Whoa-up! You’ve talked enough, mister. Close your mouth and give a body a chance to think.” And up he jumped to turn off the machine again. He acted just as tickled this time as he did before. I never saw anybody get so much pleasure out of anything.

“He d-didn’t buy that phonograph to run,” says Mark. “He bought it to sh-sh-shut off.”

Yes, sir, that was it. The thing he wanted that machine for was to have something that talked that he could shut up whenever he wanted to. The satisfaction he got out of ordering wax records to keep quiet and then making them mind him was a caution.

About a dozen feet to our right was a shed with a roof that sloped back toward the fence. The front of it wasn’t over eight feet from the porch. A clump of sumach grew toward the road and would hide anybody who was of a mind to lie on top of it, and a maple-tree grew right up behind. It was the bulliest kind of a hiding-place. We made for it one at a time, and in three minutes and a half we were all up there, lying in a row, overlooking Old Mose and his porch and his phonograph. We could see and hear everything that went on without a bit of danger of anybody seeing us.

“’Most t-time the folks were comin’,” says Mark in a whisper.

“Yes,” says I. “Here comes a buggy up the road now.”

Sure enough, there was a buggy, only there were two of them, and they were coming pell-mell for election. It was a race. We could hear the drivers yelling at their horses and leaning over the dashboards to larrup them with their whips. Side by side they came, rolling and pitching and looking for all the world as if they were going to bang into each other or turn bottom side up any minute. At first we couldn’t see who was in them for the dust they kicked up, but pretty soon they came near enough so we could tell it was Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller.

They galloped their horses right up to Old Mose’s front gate and then pulled them in so quick they almost busted the lines. Neither one waited to tie up, but just jumped over the wheel and made for the gate. It wasn’t a very wide gate, and it opened outward. Chet got there just a tenth of a second ahead, but before he could get the gate open Chancy banged into him and began clawing at him and pushing to get past. Chet hung on to the gate and Chancy hung on to Chet. Old Mose got up and stood looking at them with his jaw dropped down and his eyes big as turnips. He was so surprised he couldn’t even move.

Chet kept on hanging to the gate and fumbling for the catch. Chancy tugged and jerked and braced his feet—and all at once the gate swung open and down they went, with Chancy on the bottom. Chet’s elbow went kerplump into his stomach, and Chancy let loose a yell that was mournfuler than a cow mooing when she’s lost track of her calf. Chet jumped up quick to make a dash into the yard, but Chancy reached out and grabbed his foot, and down he went on his nose. Then it seemed like both of them forgot just why they came. For a while votes and Old Mose left their minds entirely, and they set themselves to the job of pulling each other to pieces.

By this time Old Mose was coming to a little, but hadn’t got so he could talk much yet. But his mad was getting up. First he began to step up and down like the porch was too hot for his feet. Then he began waggling his head and working his jaw. Then he began sawing the air with his arms. All that exercise cleared out his throat so it could be used, and out came a yell. It wasn’t a word and didn’t mean anything; it was just a yell, but it was a mad yell. I’ve heard a lot of yells at one time and another, but I don’t remember any one of them that beat this one of Mose’s much.

He went hobbling down the path to the gate and slammed it shut. Outside in the sand Chet and Chancy were wallowing and clawing around and pulling hair and kicking and trying to rub each other’s faces in the dirt. Old Mose leaned over the gate and watched them. All of a sudden he chuckled. It wasn’t a good-natured chuckle, by any means, but the sort of a chuckle a mean man gives when he sees something disagreeable happening to somebody he doesn’t like. He leaned over farther and began yelling at Chet and Chancy.

“Give it to him. That’s the way. Come squabblin’ around my gate, will you! Git a holt on to his nose, there. Whee!... Shove his face in the dirt. Who! Consarn ye—both of ye! Hope ye git them dude clothes fixed for once. Grab him by the collar. Ya-aah! Whoop!”

He was going on at a great rate when another buggy stopped and out climbed Mrs. Bloom. She looked for a minute, and then swooped down on Chancy and Chet like a mad turkey hen and grabbed each of them by the handiest part she could get a hold of.

“Git right up,” says she. “Hain’t you ashamed of yourselves, fightin’ like two roosters—and on Sunday afternoon! Where’s the town marshal? Git right up out of a body’s way. I want to git through that gate. Git up, I say, and let a body by.”

“Want to git through this gate, do ye?” says Old Mose. “I got somethin’ to say about that. What d’ye want to git through this gate for? I don’t want ye. Hain’t got no use for wimmin folks, anyhow, and special I hain’t got no use for gabblin’ wimmin folks. You jest git into that buggy of yourn and go away from here.”

“Why, Mr. Miller!” says she, sweet as honey all of a sudden. “I didn’t see you standin’ there. How be you this afternoon?”

“Sick,” says Old Mose, “and gittin’ worse fast.”

Before Mrs. Bloom could say anything back two more buggies came to a stop and out got Mrs. Peterson and two young women that were after votes for Professor Pilkins. By this time Chet and Chancy got untangled, and two such looking critters you never saw. Dirty! And their clothes were torn, and their collars were half off, and they were daubed and scratched and red and panting and pretty clost to crying. All they could do was lean on the fence and glare at each other and try to get back their breath. The three last women started for the gate. Old Mose looked at them and began backing off. All of a sudden he started on a run for the house and slammed inside. In just a minute he came back with a pail of steaming water. He was getting ready to defend his fortification. He went down close to the gate and held the pail threatening-like, and says:

“Don’t ye open that gate, not any of ye. The fust one to set foot on my land gits this b’ilin’ water. Git, now! Git right out of here ’fore I send for the sheriff of this here county. Git!”

But nobody got. Instead of that more folks began arriving. As far as I could see down the road buggies were coming—more than a dozen of them. There were men and women and kids, and they all congregated in a knot outside of the gate. But nobody offered to go in—not with that pail of boiling water to face.

Mrs. Peterson spoke up.

“Why, Mr. Miller,” says she, “what’s the meanin’ of this? Here I drive ’way out here of a Sunday afternoon just to fetch you this punkin-pie, and this is how I git treated.” She glowered at the rest of the crowd. “What’s these folks doin’ here? They ought to be ashamed of themselves—pesterin’ a poor old defenseless man.”

“Poor old defenseless man, eh? Jest you stick a foot this side of my gate and you’ll see how defenseless I be. Jest stick a toe inside!”

Everybody began to talk at once. They crowded up to the gate and sassed each other and tried to be polite to Old Mose at the same time. ’Most everybody had brought him a pie or a cake or something. The old man was so mad he just hopped up and down and raved at them.

Right there Mark Tidd made a noise like a cat. He could imitate a kitten so it sounded more natural than the kitten doing it himself. Old Mose straightened up and cocked his ear. Mark let him have it again.

“Scat!” he yelled, looking around scared-like. “Scat!”

Well, that reminded folks of the cat. Mrs. Bloom spoke up and says:

“Mr. Miller, I got the cunnin’est kitten to home. I set a heap of store by it, but knowin’ how fond you be of cats I dun’no’ but I’d be willin’ to give it to you—”

She never got any farther because everybody in the crowd—and there were twenty if there was one—set up a yell about their kittens. A couple of folks actually had brought cats along and held them up in the air for Old Mose to see.

The old man just took one look and let his pail of water go swoosh right into the crowd. Pretty lucky it had time to cool, but it was just as wet as ever. You never saw such a mess! Chet and Chancy got first choice of it, but everybody got all he had any use for. Those two young fellows, though, looked like they had taken their Sunday baths with their clothes on. Nobody waited. Everybody decided he wanted to be somewhere else, and they scattered like a bunch of quail when you walk into the middle of them.

Old Mose began yelling after them. Then he charged through the gate in pursuit, and first off he grabbed Chancy.

“Hey, you,” says he, giving him a shake that must have loosened his curly hair, “what’s this about, anyhow? What’s the reason everybody in Wicksville’s pesterin’ around my front door? Eh? What’s the reason?” He gave Chancy another shake. “Out with it. What’s fetched this gang of lunatics here? Tell me ’fore I shake the ears off’n you.”

Chancy choked and coughed and got his voice.

“Votes,” says he in a sort of husky whisper.

“Votes?” says Old Mose. “What votes?”

“Beauty contest,” says everybody, crowding around. “You got them thousand votes and nobody to vote ’em for.... Handsomest man in Wicksville—”

“Huh!” says Old Mose. “And you lunatics come out here hopin’ to pry them votes out of me, eh? Thought you’d fool Old Mose Miller with pies and cakes, eh? Votes.... I’ll vote ye. If this here was the homeliest-man contest, nobody’d git them votes, I can tell ye. Vote ’em myself, then. Take study, though. Homeliest man in Wicksville. There’d be a contest! Everybody could git into it. Hain’t much to choose. Votes.... Jest stand there a minute, and don’t a one of you dast step on to my premises.”

He turned and went into the house. In a couple of jiffies he was back with his hands full of votes. The folks drew a long breath and crowded closer.

“Ye want votes, eh?” says he as he got to the fence. “Well, then, help yourselves.”

At that he began chucking handfuls of them into the faces of the crowd, and chuckling. Handful after handful he threw—and everybody began a scramble. It was the worst mix-up that ever happened within a hundred miles of Wicksville. Everybody was in it—and in it to get votes. I never saw such a tangle of human beings. I bet there wasn’t one of them could have sorted himself out and got his own arms and legs to save his life. And noise! It’s lucky it was so far out in the country. Squealing and gouging and kicking and scratching. My! my! And all the time Old Mose leaned over the fence to sic them on and chuckle. The air was full of votes and arms and legs and noises!

That sort of thing can’t keep up long, but it’s fine to watch while it keeps on. In two or three minutes folks began to feel around to find if they were all there and to scramble out of the mess. It didn’t take them long to get separated—and there they stood, everybody clutching a few votes in his hand and glaring at everybody else. Then all of a sudden it seemed like everybody got ashamed. A scurry for the buggies set in, and the whole crowd, still as anything and, I expect, wishing they hadn’t come, started off for town. The only folks who were pleased all the way through were Old Mose Miller and us fellows on top of the shed.

Mark Tidd was laughing that still laugh of his till I was afraid he’d roll off the roof.

“B-b-beauty contest!” says he.

“Don’t seem like folks would make such idiots of themselves over a contest that don’t make any difference to anybody!” I says.

Mark chuckled again.

“’Tain’t the reason for the c-c-contest that counts,” he says, “it’s that it is a contest. The whole idee of the thing is that nobody likes to have anybody else b-b-beat them at anything.”

“That’s so,” says I. “Seems like I’d be sorrier to have Jehoshaphat P. Skip beat us than I would be to lose the Bazar.”

“Um!” says Mark. “Neither of these things is l-l-likely to happen.”

And then we sneaked back home.