I don’t know how Jehoshaphat P. got back to Wicksville, but he did get back, because I saw him next noon—passed him so our elbows touched. I couldn’t help looking right in his eye and grinning. I expect it was pretty impudent, but—well, it was a special case. If he’d known what I was grinning about he’d probably have taken me apart and put me together wrong—but he didn’t know. All he knew was that he had a chattel mortgage on the Bazar that was due Friday, and that there wasn’t any chance for us to pay it. One of the worst things a man can do is to know facts that aren’t so.

Skip scowled at me and says, “You won’t have much grinnin’ to do after Friday, young feller.”

“Um!” says I. “You can’t tell about grins. They grow promiscuous like Canada thistles. Never can tell where one’ll spring up.”

“What you goin’ to do about that chattel mortgage? Goin’ to turn over the stock without a fuss, or have I got to fetch in the constables and dep’ty-sheriffs and court officers? Eh?”

“Well,” says I, “if we’re goin’ to git busted up we might as well have all the trimmin’s. Can’t you call out the militia, too?”

“Who’s boss of your store, anyhow? You or that fat boy?”

“I calc’late,” says I, “that Mark Tidd’s in command.”

“Guess I’ll see him, then. Maybe I can git him to let go peaceable.”

“He’ll be glad to see you,” says I, with another grin.

Jehoshaphat turned around and made for the Bazar. Mark was waiting on a couple of customers and there were three other folks in the store. That was unusual, but I says to Skip:

“Things is perty dull with us. Only five customers in the store.”

He grunted, but didn’t say a word. Mark looked up and saw him, but his expression never changed.

“Mr. Skip wants to see you when you get time,” says I.

He nodded, and in a minute he came over. The woman he’d been waiting on didn’t go out, but hung around to listen, I guess. Folks in Wicksville was right on hand when curiosity was being handed out.

“What can I d-do for you?” says Mark to Jehoshaphat.

“Chattel mortgage ’s due Friday. What you goin’ to do about it?”

Mark got on the dolefulest, mournfulest look I ever saw.

“Mr. Skip,” says he, good and loud, so everybody could hear him, “can’t you give us a l-little time?”

“Not a day,” says Skip, snapping his jaws shut.

“I know we owe the money,” says Mark, “but we didn’t git it of you. You went out of your way to buy up that chattel mortgage. You did it just so as to bust up this b-b-business.” He didn’t say it mean, but just like he was almost ready to cry. Skip’s eyes was blinking with satisfaction.

“We can p-pay you part of it,” says Mark. “Won’t you give us time on the rest?”

“Not a minute,” says Skip.

“But, Mr. Skip, think about Mr. Smalley. He’s hurt and in the hospital. Think about Mrs. Smalley. This store is all they’ve got. Nobody knows what’ll h-happen to ’em if you don’t give us time.” He was saying this loud so everybody in the store could hear.

Skip looked around uneasy and says: “There hain’t no use hollerin’. This is private talk.”

“Maybe it is,” says Mark, but he didn’t lower his voice. “But what’re you g-goin’ to do? Like as not the Smalleys would have to go to the p-poor-farm or somethin’. You’ll git your money, Mr. Skip, if you’ll let us have a little time.”

“Not a minute,” says Skip, beginning to get mad.

“Then,” says Mark, “you want to hurt Mr. Smalley in the hospital, and fix it so his wife hasn’t got a cent to buy a meal? Do you want to do that, Mr. Skip?”

“I hain’t got nothin’ to do with that. The money’s due me and I need it. If you hain’t got it to pay I’m goin’ to take the stock.”

“You won’t take part and wait f-for the rest?”

“No,” says Skip.

“All right, then,” says Mark. “Friday’s the day, I expect. It’s perty hard on the Smalleys, though.”

Well, sir, you should have seen the customers that were hanging around with their mouths open. They were eying Skip like they thought he was the meanest man alive, and I could hear them saying things to each other under their breath. Skip was getting some fine advertising.

“What I want to know,” says Skip, “is, will you turn over the stock without a lot of officers and papers?”

“I don’t b-believe we can,” says Mark. “If you take this stock you got to take it the way the law says.... Now good-by, Mr. Skip. This store is ours till Friday, and if you so much as step a foot in it again till you c-come with the sheriff somethin’ will happen to you that’ll make you wish you’d fallen down a well.”

At that he turned his back and went behind the counter. Skip sneaked a look at the women and slunk out as fast as he could go.

When he was gone you should have heard those five women sail into him. My! the things they said about him! In another hour Wicksville would know just what had been said and just what those five women thought about it. Mark winked at me solemn. When the folks were gone he says:

“P-public opinion, Plunk. Ever hear of it?”

“Yes,” says I.

“I’m s-sickin’ it on Jehoshaphat. He’ll be a popular feller in Wicksville. Won’t he be popular, though!”

“What’s the idea?” says I. “Why didn’t you pay him his money and kick him out?”

“Because,” says he, “I want to make folks love him. I want to fix it so f-f-folks will go out of their way to buy from him. Do you think this fight’s over when the mortgage is paid? No, siree. We have got to get the business of this town and keep it away from Skip. When I’m through with Jehoshaphat Wicksville’s goin’ to think he’s about the meanest man that ever pinched a p-penny.”

“What next?” says I.

“A l-little advertisin’,” says he.

That afternoon he painted a lot of signs, big and little. Some were for the wagon, and Binney and Tallow were to drive it around town, banging on the drum. Others were for our windows and others were to tack up on fences. The one in our window says:

Jehoshaphat P. Skip holds a chattel mortgage on this stock. He bought it just to bust this business. He won’t give us time. Friday he’s going to seize the Bazar. Everybody come. At two o’clock. Come to see Jehoshaphat P. Skip foreclose his mortgage.

That was one sign, others were like it, but every one said something different and something that wasn’t calculated to make folks fond of Skip. All day Wednesday and all day Thursday we kept them going, inviting folks to be on hand to see the end of the Bazar.

“How do you know it’ll be at two o’clock?” says I.

Mark grinned. “I saw the sheriff,” says he, “and f-fixed it up.”

Wouldn’t that beat you? He’d thought of everything.

Friday came along just as the calendar said it would, but it seemed to us it took quite a while to do it. When you’ve got a surprise in your pocket all ready to spring, it always takes the right minute a long time to get there. In the mean time we went along just as if nothing was going to happen, and we didn’t let on to a soul what we had in pickle for Jehoshaphat. We just kept advertising the foreclosure at two o’clock Friday afternoon like it was some sort of bargain sale. It was a novelty, all right. Folks don’t usually brag about being busted, so folks took quite an interest, and we were certain to have a good crowd on hand. I guess they figured something out of the ordinary would happen. That was on account of Mark Tidd and his reputation.

Lots of folks stopped in to tell us how sorry they were and to tell us their opinion of Jehoshaphat P. Sympathy doesn’t cost a cent, so you can always get more of it than you need. But it did show that Mark had fixed things so Skip wouldn’t be the best-loved man in our county, which was something, anyhow.

Friday morning seemed like it could have held all the seven days of the week. We took lunch in the Bazar. At a quarter to two Mark had us put a big sign in each window that said:

There was a good crowd there—probably fifty or sixty people—when Skip and the officer came in. The officer went over to Mark and says:

“I’ve come to take charge of this stock, young feller.”

“But,” says Mark, “d-don’t you have to give folks a chance to pay up before you seize the store?”

“Yes,” says the officer, “but I understood there wasn’t any chance of that.”

“Um!” says Mark, and he scrambled up on top of the counter. “Folks,” says he, as calm and cool as a chunk of ice, “here’s Jehoshaphat P. Skip and the officer to put us out of business. They’ve got a chattel mortgage for f-five hundred dollars, and if we can’t pay it the Bazar is b-busted. You know about Mr. Smalley. You’ve all been friends of his for years. What d’you think of a man who’ll take away everything Mr. Smalley’s got, just out of m-meanness?”

“Here,” says the officer, “none of that, now. Git off’n that counter and keep quiet.”

Mark looked down at him and says:

“I’ve talked this thing over with my lawyer, and I know what I can do and what I c-can’t. I can keep possession of this store till twelve o’clock to-night if I want to. So, if you want to have your f-foreclosure to-day just hold your horses till I get through talkin’.”

The officer scowled a bit and then grinned and said to go ahead with the celebration.

“Mr. Smalley didn’t borrow this f-five hundred dollars from Mr. Skip. But what does Mr. Skip do? He sneaks around and finds out about it, and b-buys up the mortgage so he can use it to put the Bazar out of business. He knew there wasn’t room for his store and this one in Wicksville, so he started in to git rid of us. He’s been m-mean and underhanded from the start. He tried to get our credit cut off with the wholesale houses, and whatever he could d-do to hurt us he’s gone ahead and done it.”

Skip stood and scowled and wabbled his nose back and forth, but he didn’t say a word.

Mark went on: “We had to m-make money for Mr. Smalley in the hospital, and we had to keep the business running. That took all we could make. So if we paid this chattel mortgage up we’d have to get the money some other way.

“Well, folks, it happened that Mr. Skip didn’t know how long he’d last here, so he didn’t t-take a lease of the store he’s in. We found that out. Then, folks, we went and got a lease of it ourselves. We could ’a’ kicked Skip out of it, but we didn’t want to do that. We wanted to p-pay off the mortgage.”

He stopped and looked down at Skip and grinned. Folks all looked at Skip, too. He was white, he was so mad, and if all the folks hadn’t been there I don’t know what he’d have done, but he didn’t dare wiggle. Mark started in again.

“We wanted Skip to pay himself the f-five hundred dollars. That’s what we wanted. Right there, folks, he paid part of it. We made him p-pay two hundred dollars to stay in his store. He didn’t know he was payin’ it to us, but he was.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bundle of bills. “There’s the very identical money he paid us. Two hundred d-dollars of it.... There, Mr. Skip, is t-two hundred dollars on account. It’s from you to yourself.” And Mark tossed the money down to the officer. I thought Skip would choke.

“But that wasn’t enough,” says Mark. “There was three hundred dollars more. It seemed like we couldn’t raise that much, but this week we arranged to have Mr. Skip p-pay that to himself, too. We did it this way: over in Sunfield was a man named Hoffer who had a f-f-five-and-ten-cent store. He wanted to sell cheap. We knew about it and we fixed it so Skip heard about it, too. He started over to buy. We started the same day—and we beat him there. But we didn’t have any m-m-money to buy with. That’s where Skip came in handy again. We went to Mr. Hoffer and got him to give us an option on his stock at nine hundred d-dollars. Then we went to a lawyer to handle it for us. Skip came to see the lawyer, not knowin’ we had anything to do with it, and the lawyer sold him the stock we had bought at nine hundred dollars for twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars—givin’ us a p-p-profit of three hundred d-dollars and payin’ our lawyer for his services. Perty kind of Skip, wasn’t it? Eh, Mr. Skip? And, Mr. Skip, there’s the three hundred dollars. The same b-bills you gave us. That squares us, Mr. Skip. You’ve p-paid yourself what we owed you and we’re much obliged. ’Tain’t every man would be so kind.” Here he tossed over the three hundred.

You should have seen Skip. He couldn’t say a word. I don’t believe he could think. He just stood and trembled, he was so furious, and waggled his nose, and his Adam’s apple went up and down like an elevator in a busy building. And the folks yelled. It wasn’t a cheer; it was a laugh. They hollered. Men and women threw back their heads and laughed like I’ve never seen folks laugh before. And the things they said to Skip! I wouldn’t have had folks poke fun at me like that for seven times five hundred dollars. Mark held up his hand.

“I advertised this f-foreclosure,” he said, with a grin, “so all Wicksville would know what kind of a man Skip is. I wanted Wicksville to appreciate how generous he is. I hope after this f-folks won’t bother to trade here at the Bazar. We don’t deserve it, for all we do is give an honest bargain for every cent you spend here. Go to Skip.... And now, Mr. Skip, you’ve got your money. I calc’late you and the officer hain’t got anythin’ more to d-do here, and I’ll bet you’ve got business somewheres else. So good afternoon, Mr. Skip; and, Mr. Skip, you might carry off the thought that competition in business is all right, but that folks that tries to squeeze and won’t play f-fair is apt to git into a pinch themselves.... Good afternoon, Mr. Skip.”

Skip and the officer started for the door, with folks jostling them and making funny remarks and laughing at them fit to bust. I’ll bet he was glad to get to the door, and the way he shot out into the street and dodged toward his own place was enough to make you laugh if you had a sore tooth.

Then folks crowded around Mark, and he stood and let them admire him, and enjoyed it to beat everything. Mr. Bloom got up on a chair and says:

“Fellow-townsmen, that there man Skip hain’t the sort of citizen we want here. There’s some way to git rid of him. You know what that is.”

“You bet,” says Chet Weevil, “just keep away from his store.”

“That’s the ticket,” says Mr. Bloom. “Now, folks, see what you can do. It won’t take long.”

“Jest you watch us,” says Mr. Hoover. “We’ll ’tend to Skip.”

Mark stood up again. “Now, folks,” he says, “the place is ready for business again. You’ll find us behind the counters, and we’ll be there six days a week, ready to g-g-give you your money’s worth and a little more every time.”

The crowd hung around a spell, gabbling and talking and buying a few things, but they finally left and we four were alone.

“Mark,” says I, “I’m goin’ to write mother now. Whatever else there is to do can wait. And when her letter comes back I’m goin’ to give it to you. She’ll say in it the things that I hain’t got any idea of how to say right.”

“There don’t need to anybody say anything,” says he, but all the same I knew he’d be pretty disappointed if nobody did, and I knew he’d want mother’s letter to keep always. There was Mark’s little weakness. He could do big things and fine things and he was honest and the sort of fellow you could downright admire—but he did like to be admired. I don’t know as I blame him. I’d like to be admired myself if I could find some way of making folks do it.

CONCLUSION

That’s about all there is to it. Skip stuck it out two weeks, then he moved over to Sunfield into Mr. Hoffer’s store where he couldn’t bother us any more. And that was the last of him.

The business was a little slack at first, but it began to pick up in a day or two, and just before the Saturday when the announcement of the result of the beauty contest was to be made there was quite a rush. Mark Tidd had stirred it up with advertising. The last time we put up the names before the final count the contestants stood:

Mr. Pilkins, 967 votes.

Mr. Bloom, 958 votes.

Chet Weevil, 947 votes.

Chancy Miller, 941 votes.

Of course there were others, but these men were at the top and nobody was near them.

Well, sir, on Saturday morning in came young Mr. Hopkins, whose father owns the bank, and bought a phonograph just like Old Mose Miller’s, and a lot of records. It gave him eleven hundred votes.

“You can v-vote ’em for yourself,” says Mark, with a grin, “and elect yourself the handsomest m-man in town.”

Mr. Hopkins, who was a bully fellow, grinned back. “What’ll I do with ’em?” says he.

Mark’s eyes twinkled. “It wouldn’t be f-f-fair for me to suggest anything,” says he, “but if those votes were mine I’ll bet I’d have some f-f-fun with ’em.”

Mr. Hopkins thought a few minutes and then began writing a name on every ballot. It took him quite a while. I couldn’t see who it was, but all of a sudden Mark started to grin and I knew there was a joke on somebody.

“Who is it?” says I.

“Peabody,” says Mark. “Jupiter Peabody.”

“Don’t know him,” says I. I didn’t, either. I’d never heard of such a man. “Who is he?”

“Oh, he’s been living here a long time,” says Mr. Hopkins. “Maybe you never happened to meet him, though.”

I racked my brains, but for the life of me I couldn’t catch on to who he was.

At half past two the list was to go up, and there was a crowd on hand. Everybody was anxious, especially Chet and Chancy and some of the women. The men mostly pretended it was a joke, anyhow, and they didn’t care how it came out—but they did care, all the same.

Prompt on the minute Mark stepped into the window and pasted up the list. For a minute the folks were quiet; then there was a hubbub. Everybody was astonished. Here, at the last minute, somebody had come in and beaten everybody.

“Peabody,” says a man, “who’s Jupiter Peabody? I know Sam Peabody, but he hain’t got no relatives named Jupiter that I know of.”

“Me, neither,” says Mr. Bloom. “Anyhow he’s handsomer’n I be. I’d like to git a look at him.”

Chet and Chancy both looked like they wanted to cry.

“Who is it?” says Chet.

“Never heard of him,” says Chancy, “but I’ll bet he’s homelier’n you be.”

“Anyhow,” says Chet, “he probably hain’t got curly hair.”

It looked for a minute like there might be a scrimmage, but just then an old man came along, driving a dump-cart filled with pumpkins.

“There,” says Mr. Bloom, “is Sam Peabody. Let’s ask him if he knows this Jupiter.”

So they stopped the old fellow, and Mr. Bloom says:

“Got any relatives livin’ here?”

“No,” says Mr. Peabody, “nary relative.”

“Any other Peabodys hereabouts that you know of?”

The old man shook his head slow and allowed he didn’t know of any.

“Well,” says Mr. Bloom, “this here is a mystery, all right. Here’s a Jupiter Peabody that’s won the handsomest-man contest, and nobody knows him.”

“What?” says the old fellow. “What’s that? Won the handsomest-man contest? Got most votes for bein’ the handsomest man in Wicksville? Ho!” He threw back his head and roared. “Handsomest man! Whee! Think of that, now.” He sat a minute laughing like all-git-out; then he reached out with his whip and touched his mule. “Giddap, Jupiter!” says he. “Giddap!”

It was a minute before folks caught on—and then you should have heard the laugh. Jupiter, Jupiter Peabody—a mule. And he’d been elected the handsomest man in Wicksville. Everybody, including even Chet and Chancy, roared so hard they almost choked, and they pounded each other on the back and danced up and down and shrieked. It was the funniest joke that ever happened in Wicksville.

Maybe if a real man had won the losers would have been mad, but nobody won but a mule! And everybody saw the joke. I guess it was about the best way the thing could have come out.

So that was the end of the beauty contest.

In another two weeks father came home, a little lame, but so he would be all right in no time, and mother came with him. I’ll never forget the way she took Mark Tidd by the hand, nor what she said to him. It made him blink his eyes, I can tell you.

“Mark,” she says, “it’s a fine thing to have brains that you can scheme with, and it’s fine to be brave, and it’s fine to be able to stick to things to the very end, but when you add to that a heart that’s willing to do things for other folks, and that is happiest when it’s helping somebody that needs help, you’ve got about the finest kind of a man there is. And that’s the kind of man you’re going to be, Mark. I’m glad my son is your friend.”

I felt the same way about it myself.