We were all down at the mill before seven o’clock. It wasn’t much of a mill, but when I stood there looking at it, and figuring that I was going to help run it, why, it looked bigger than the Capitol at Washington, and pretty gorgeous, too. Somehow the feeling that you’re interested in a thing always makes it look bigger and better. I guess that’s why a boy always gets the notion that his dog is better than anybody else’s dog, no matter what kind of a dog it really is. I was downright proud of that mill, and I could tell by the way Mark Tidd stood and looked at it, with his head cocked on one side, that he was proud of it, too.

It was all painted red, and was right on the edge of the river, with a mill-race running underneath it. It didn’t run with an engine, but with water-power, and the power came from a dam that ran across the river. I didn’t think much about that dam just then, nor about water-power, but before we got through with things I did a heap of thinking about them, and so did Mark Tidd. Up till then a river didn’t mean anything to me but a thing to fish in or swim in, but before I was many months older I discovered that rivers weren’t invented just for kids to monkey with, nor yet to make a home for fish. They have business, just like anybody else, and they’re valuable just like any other business, getting more valuable the more business they can do.

We went into the mill. The floor was all littered up with sawdust, and chunks of wood, and machinery, and belts, and saws, and holes in the floor. It seemed like there was almost as much hole as there was floor, and you had to pick your way or down you’d go. I didn’t know much about machinery nor what the machines were for, but Mark, he’d hung around there some, and he knew. He was one of them kind that’s always finding out. Always asking questions and bothering folks for no reason but that he’s got an itch to know things and has to be scratching it constant. I’ll admit it pays sometimes. You never know when a mess of information is coming in handy.

“L-let’s see,” says Mark, “you got two back-knife lathes and three novelty lathes.”

“Yep,” says Silas Doolittle Bugg, exploding his voice like a blast of dynamite.

“And a planer, and a swing-off saw, and a circular-saw mill.”

“Yep,” says Silas. “What’s t-t-that thing?” says Mark, pointing off into a corner where a dusty, rusty, busted-up looking thing was setting.

“Dowel-machine,” says Silas. “Bought her to an auction. Never knowed jest why. Fetched her back and stuck her there, and she hain’t been moved since.”

“What’s dowels?” says I.

“Little pegs like,” says Silas.

“Um!...” says Mark. “What you been makin’ m-most?”

“Drumsticks,” exploded Silas, “and dumb-bells and tenpins and chair-rounds.”

“Which made the most money for you?”

“You hain’t askin’ it right,” said Silas. “What you want to say is which lost the most money for me?”

“All right,” says Mark. “Which?”

“I dunno,” says Silas, grabbing into his beard and yanking it off to one side.

“Let’s go into the office,” says Mark.

“Never calc’lated to have much office,” says Silas. “That there room was built for one, but seems like I never had no need for it. I jest wandered around.”

“Oh!” says Mark. “Who kept the books?”

“Books?” says Silas. “Oh yes, books. To be sure—books.”

“Yes, ledgers and journals and such like.”

“Never had one.”

“How ever did you manage to git along?”

“Hain’t I been a-tellin’ you I didn’t git along? I busted.”

“But how did you run without books?”

“Why,” says Silas, “if I owed a feller he sent me a bill, and if I had any money I paid him. If a feller owed me I calc’lated he’d pay me some day, if he was honest, and I kep’ sort of track of that on these here pieces of wood. Whenever I sold a man an order I put it down here, and if he didn’t pay after a while I guessed maybe he didn’t figger to pay, so I chucked the hunk of board over into the office room. There’s quite some boards in there.”

“Didn’t you send out invoices?”

“Invoices? Didn’t calc’late to. Used to set down and write a letter once in a while askin’ for money.”

“I’m s’prised,” says Mark, his voice not getting a bit sarcastic, but his eyes looking that way considerable—“I’m s’prised you went busted.”

“I hain’t,” says Silas. “I always went busted. Seems like goin’ busted was a habit of mine.”

“Have any cost system?”

“What’s one of them?” says Silas, looking around bewildered—like as if he expected one to come up and lick his hand. “Never seen one around here!”

“A cost system is the way you find out how much it costs you to manufacture—how much it c-c-costs to make a hundred d-drumsticks or a h-hundred dumb-bells and sich. Didn’t you know that?”

“Course not,” said Silas. “What’s the difference, anyhow?”

“How could you f-f-figger your sellin’ prices?”

“Mostly I took what was offered.”

“Um!...” says Mark, and for a minute he looked clean discouraged.

“What did your l-l-logs cost you?”

“I figgered to pay twelve dollars a thousand.”

“How much did it cost to h-h-handle ’em?”

“How should I know?”

Mark waggled his head like he didn’t feel very comfortable inside of it. “Course you don’t know what the l-labor cost on each article?”

“Now you look here, Mark Tidd, I hain’t no ’cyclopedy. How ever you think I was goin’ to know them things?”

“Know how many drumsticks you got out of a thousand f-foot of timber?”

“Never counted.”

“Near as I can g-gather,” says Mark, “the main thing you know about this b-b-business is that it’s busted.”

“Calc’late you’re right,” says Silas.

“Men work by the piece or by the d-day?”

“Some of both,” says Silas.

It looked pretty close to hopeless. I didn’t understand exactly what Mark was getting at all the time, but I sensed some of it, and it looked to me like we was grabbing holt of about as big a muddle as anybody ever saw.

“Could we start up this mill to-morrow?” Mark asked.

“Calc’late we could—if we could git the help and if nothin’ else didn’t prevent.”

“Have you got l-logs?”

Silas pointed out of the window to the log-yard, and anybody could see he did have logs, quite a consid’able stack of them.

“Paid for?” says Mark.

“Mostly,” says Silas.

“Why didn’t you turn ’em into m-m-money, then?”

“The faster I manufactured ’em the faster I went busted,” says Silas, “so I jest up and quit.”

“Who do you owe m-money to besides Pa?” Mark wanted to know.

“Not many. You see I kep’ usin’ the money I borrowed off him to pay other folks.”

“That’s a help, anyhow,” Mark says. “How many logs do you use a d-day?”

“Some days more, some days less.”

“Got any orders on h-hand? For drumsticks and dumb-bells and s-s-sich?”

“Not to speak of,” says Silas.

“That’s good, too,” says Mark. “It lets us take a f-f-fresh start. Who you been sellin’ to?”

Silas told him the names of several concerns, and Mark wrote them down in a little book.

“Now,” says he to Silas, “you stir around and get a crew here to start up to-morrow. We’re a-goin’ to manufacture, and we got to manufacture before I kin do any f-f-figgerin’. Maybe there’s experts could figger costs without startin’ to manufacture, but I’m dummed if I kin. We’ll run a week or so and then we’ll start to f-f-figger.”

“Jest as you say,” Silas roared, like a boiler was busting, and out he went, grabbing at his whiskers and hanging on like they were some kind of a balloon that carried him through the air. The rest of his long, lank body kind of trailed behind like the tail of a kite.

“Now,” says Mark, “l-let’s start in.”

“How?” says I.

“Gittin’ ready. I studied some bookkeepin’ in school this year, and I guess Clem Brush down to the bank will give me some p-pointers. I’ll git him to help buy a set of books. I want you fellers should hustle around here and sort things over, and make a list of everything in the m-m-mill. And while you’re doin’ it you might clean up some. Never seen sich a dirty mill. Looks like Silas never cleaned any sawdust out of here from the day he started to run. As full of sawdust as an ice-house. Two of you go at that—Plunk and Binney. Tallow, you go to the office and see if you can’t m-m-make it look more l-like an office and less like the place where a boiler exploded.... If you kin f-f-find a stock-room, take an inventory of it.”

Off he went down-town, and we set to work with shovels and brooms and paper and pencils. Looks like a fellow gits more ease and quiet and comfort out of a lead-pencil than he does out of a shovel. Binney was willing to do all the listing if I’d do all the cleaning; and I was willing to wear my brain out with inventory if he’d crack his back shoveling sawdust. When we saw neither of us was going to give in, we made the best of it and divided up. Tallow didn’t have anything to double up while he was working in the office; shovel up was his job, and we guyed him some.

I was cleaning up around the saw-carriage when I looked up and saw a man standing there, looking at me kind of surprised, like the sight of me actually at work was more ’n he could bear. I couldn’t see why he should feel that way, because I never seen him before, and, anyhow, I wasn’t any lazier ’n Tallow and Binney, though they hid it easier.

The man wore one of them stovepipe hats, and he had a cane, and there was a sparklish stone in his necktie, and he had things over his shoes that were kind of gray and had buttons on ’em—spats, Mark said they were. I calc’late he had on brand-new pants, because the crease wasn’t wore out of them, and a kind of a perty vest, and one of them coats like the minister wears Sundays. He wasn’t big, and he wasn’t little. He wasn’t what you’d call terrible old—maybe forty—and he wasn’t fat or lean. Just one of them in-between sort of men. He wore a little stubby mustache that looked like he could take it off and use it for a tooth-brush if it was loose, and he had two eyes, one on each side of his nose. His nose wasn’t much to speak of, just a reg’lar nose—the kind you can blow, but not very loud. That reminds me: did you ever hear Uncle Ike Bond blow his nose? Well, lemme tell you you missed something. When Uncle Ike hauls out that red bandana of his and grabs a-hold of his nose with it and lets her go, you’d think the train was whistling for a crossing. Wow! I’ve seen him scare horses so they ’most jumped out of their harness. Why, when Uncle Ike drove the bus to somebody’s house he never got out to ring the bell—he just blowed his nose. Sometimes, if he was in a hurry, he blowed it when he was a block away, and the folks would be all out and ready, standing waiting for him when he got there. Once there was a motion before the selectmen to hire Uncle Ike to be the fire department, so’s they could use his nose for the fire whistle, but somehow it never went through.

This man here didn’t blow his nose at all. He just stood there looking at me a minute, and then he picked his way over, taking a lot of pains not to get any dust onto his pants; and when he got clost he says:

“Where is the proprietor?”

“Of what?” says I.

“This mill,” says he.

“Depends,” says I, “on who you mean by proprietor. I’m dummed if I know jest who is holdin’ down that job. There’s things in favor of sev’ral folks. Now there’s Silas Doolittle Bugg; some might claim he owns it. Then there’s Mr. Tidd; some might say he was the feller. Then there’s Mark Tidd; he comes in somewheres, but I’m blessed if I know just where.”

“Where are they?”

“Different places,” says I. “Was there anything I could do for you?”

“Answer questions so I’ll know what you’re talking about,” says he.

Well, that made me mad. From that minute I took a dislike to the man, and I never got over it. I guess I wouldn’t be letting go of any secret if I was to say that the longer I knew him the less I liked him.

“Mister,” says I, not smarty, but just firm and business-like, the way Mark says you should always be, “I’m one of the fellers that’s runnin’ this mill. If you got any business here you kin state it to me. If you hain’t got any business here, why, I’m sort of busy dustin’ off the furniture. Now, what kin I do for you?”

“I want to find the owner.”

“I’ve explained about the owner.”

“Who is in charge, then? Who is running this business?”

“Mark Tidd,” says I.

“Well, I got something out of you at last,” says he. “But it was like mining for it. Do you always keep what valuable information you have sunk as deep as this?”

“We make drumsticks and dumb-bells and tenpins and chair-rounds,” says I. “Do you want to buy any?”

“No,” says he.

“Be you a travelin’-man? What you got to sell?”

“I’m not a salesman,” says he.

“What be you, then?” says I.

“Nothing that would interest you, young man. Where will I find this Mr. Tidd?”

“Mark Tidd?”

“Yes,” says he.

“You’ll find him here,” says I, “pervidin’ you wait long enough. This is about the only place I know of where he’ll be. I calc’late to see him amblin’ in perty soon.”

“I’ll wait,” says he. “Where’s the office?”

“If you’d call it an office,” says I, “it’s through that door.”

He walked over and jerked open the door. One look inside give him a plentiful sufficiency. You couldn’t see for dust and cobwebs and chunks and dirt that Tallow was stirring around like he was one of these whirlwinds. The air was plumb full of rubbish. I bet Tallow was having a bully time. The man shut the door quick and backed off.

“Is that the office?” says he.

“Sich as it is,” said I.

“Where can I wait?” says he.

“Pick out a place yourself,” says I.

He walked around disgusted-like, looking for a place to sit down, but he didn’t seem to get suited. There wasn’t a place that would have agreed with them pants of his. He didn’t hanker to git dirt on ’em, and I wasn’t dusting off anything for him just then.

I was sorry for him if he was tired, because he didn’t have but two choices—to stand up or sit and git his new pants all grime. He stood.

In about half an hour in come Mark Tidd with his arms full of whopping-big books. He dumped them on the saw-carriage and stood and panted, looking around.

“How’s it c-c-comin’?” says he.

“Two in a hill,” says I. “Got a visitor.”

Mark looked at the man and then at me. “Who’s he?”

“Dunno,” says I, “and I hain’t got no ache to find out.”

“What’s he w-want?”

“To see you,” says I.

Mark walked over toward him and says, “Was you l-lookin’ for me, mister?”

“I’m waiting for Mr. Tidd. Mr. Mark Tidd, I believe was the name.”

“That’s me.”

“You! That boy told me Mark Tidd was in charge of this mill.”

“He’s f-f-famous for tellin’ the truth,” says Mark.

“But you’re nothing but a kid.”

“Uh-huh,” says Mark, sort of squinting his eyes like he does sometimes when somebody says something he doesn’t cotton to, “but I’m boss, just the same. What kin I d-d-do for you?”

“This is business,” says the man. “I want to do business with somebody who can do business.”

“You might t-try me,” says Mark, as calm and gentle as a kitten. “I’m the best in that line we got. If you got business to do with this m-m-mill, I calc’late you got to do it with me.”

“Huh!” says the man.

“I’m p-p-perty busy,” says Mark. “If you got somethin’ you want to say you better git to the p-p-p’int.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” said he; “I’ll get to the point. I represent the Middle-West Power Company. We own water-powers all over this state and other states. We have one below on this river and a couple above. You have a small power here that doesn’t amount to a great deal, but we’ll be willing to take it off your hands. Your dam is going to pieces and will need expensive repairs. I take it you own this dam and site?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll take it off your hands—at a figure.”

“What figure?”

“I’m not prepared to say exactly, but if you like we can go into the matter thoroughly and then I’ll make you an offer.”

“Don’t f-f-figger to sell,” says Mark. “We need this p-power to run our mill.”

“But we want to buy,” said the man.

“Uh-huh,” says Mark. “Well, if you want it bad, you kin have it. But you got to buy power and mill. Mill’s no good without p-p-power, is it? I’ll figger up what the whole thing is worth to me, complete as it stands, and let you know.”

“I’m not buying any mills, my friend. I guess you didn’t understand me. I represent the Middle-West Power Company.” He said it as a fellow might say he was the ambassador from England, or a special traveling-agent from the moon.

“I heard that,” says Mark.

“Then you must have heard that when we want to buy—we buy.”

Mark looked the man right in the eye for a minute and didn’t say a word; then he asked, “What did you say your name was, mister?”

The man handed him a card.

“Amassa P. Wiggamore,” says Mark. “Well, Mr. Amassa P. Wiggamore, maybe you never heard of me—like I’ve heard of your company—but I’ll give you some news about me free of charge. When I sell I s-s-sell, and when I don’t want to sell I don’t sell, Power Company or no Power Company. I calc’late you was m-m-makin’ some kind of a threat.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll sell you this outfit,” says Mark, “for f-f-fifteen thousand dollars. That’s my f-first offer and that’s my l-last offer. You got a chance to take it or leave it.”

Mr. Wiggamore laughed. “I’ll leave it,” said he. “Now look here, my young friend, we want this power and we’re going to have it. I’m willing to offer you a fair price, but if you don’t accept it now you’ll be mighty glad to accept a blame sight less before long.”

Mark looked him in the eye a minute again and then stepped over to one side. “If you’ll turn around, mister,” says he, “and l-l-look where I’m pointin’ you’ll see a door. It leads outside. Jest take your Power Company in your hand and hike through it.”

“Young man—” says Mr. Wiggamore, very pompous and impressive.

“That way out,” says Mark, and walked away, leaving Mr. Wiggamore with his mouth all open and ready to speak—but with nobody to speak to. I guess he was an economical man, and not wasteful of words, because he shut his mouth again before any of them got out of it, and scowled a second, and then turned around quick and went out.

Mark came over to me and stopped. “Say, Plunk,” says he, “don’t it b-b-beat all? Every time we git into anythin’ trouble’s sure to t-t-turn up.”

“Yes,” says I, “and you’re glad of it.”