“What we got to do,” says Mark, next morning, “is to get a l-little money ahead so we won’t have to be b-bustin’ ourselves every day to p-pay the men. If we only had two-three hunderd d-dollars it ’u’d give us time to start in to run this mill.”

“If I had it,” says I, “I’d lend it to us.”

“There must be some m-m-money owin’ to Silas,” says Mark. “Let’s ask him.”

Silas Doolittle Bugg was just sort of roaming around, keeping an eye on things and waggling his head. He didn’t seem to be bossing anything, but just strolling around to see the sights. He’d stop and look at the men in the log-yard a minute, and scratch his head and waggle it as much as to say, “Well, if that hain’t the beatinest thing I ever see!” like he was astonished ’most to death, you know, when he had been seeing that selfsame sight almost every day of his life. Then he would mogg into the mill and stand alongside the saw for a spell and talk to himself and act as if a saw cutting through a log was a miracle right out of the Bible. I never saw a man that could get up so much surprise over something that didn’t surprise him a bit. He was always surprised. I’ll bet it surprised him when he woke up in the morning.

Mark and I went over to him, and Mark says:

“Mr. Bugg, see if you can’t think of somebody that owes you some money—somebody you’ve sold things to.”

“Wa-al,” says Silas, “I calc’late I’ve sold a heap of folks a heap of things. Some more and some less. Mostly they been in the habit of payin’. Some has, and I figger there’s some that hain’t, but for the life of me I can’t make out which is which.”

Mark jerked a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at Silas.

“I’ve copied off of those p-pieces of wood in the office,” says he, “about all I could make out to read. How much of this is paid and how much is owed?”

“When a man paid I mostly looked for his chunk of wood and fired it out of the window,” says Silas.

“Then all of these haven’t p-paid?”

“I wouldn’t go so far’s to say that. I hain’t what you might call a good hand at firin’ things out of windows. There was times when I aimed at the window and never come near it. Them blocks that didn’t go out must’a’ fell back on the floor. And then there was times when I was too busy to go lookin’ for anybody’s piece of wood and jest let her slide. No, I don’t calc’late you kin tell much by them blocks.”

“Looks that way,” says Mark. “Who was the last firm you shipped chair-spindles to?”

“Lemme see, now, was that Gorman and Peters, or was it the Family Chair Company? Dummed if I know. Maybe it wasn’t neither. But I shipped a mess away jest a few days before I shut down.”

“Git paid for ’em?”

“There was money comin’ in every leetle while. How d’you expect a feller to remember who it come from? Seems like maybe that there lot wa’n’t paid for, though. Seems like.”

“Um!” says Mark. “Say, Silas, where’s there another mill around here that makes things like we do here?”

“Over to Sunfield; and then there’s some over to Bostwick where them chair-factories is.”

Mark walked off, and I followed him. He hunted up Tallow and Binney and give them their orders for the day. They was to check up every foot of timber that come into the mill, and to keep track of just how many spindles, or whatever it was, that every man made, and all that. “It’s for the c-c-cost system,” says Mark. “We got to have f-facts, and have ’em exact.”

“While we’re doin’ that,” says Tallow, “what be you goin’ to do?”

“I’m goin’ to Bostwick,” says Mark, “to git two things—information and m-m-money.”

“Hope you have luck,” says Binney.

“Calc’late to,” Mark says, in that funny way of his; it’s a determined way. When he speaks like that you know he has made up his mind to do what he’s set out to do or bust. “Come on, Plunk,” says he to me; “you’re goin’ along.”

We went down to the depot, and Mark yelled for old Lish Peasley, the freight-man. “Mr. Peasley,” says he, “who did the last shipment from Bugg’s mill go to?”

“Bugg,” snapped Lish, and scowled at Mark like he was figgering on taking a nip out of him. “Think all I got to do is keep track of who that old foozle ships stuff to?”

“I know you’re m-m-mighty busy,” says Mark, as sober as a judge, “and I know what a heap of awful important things you got to be thinkin’ about all the t-t-time, but folks says you got a wonderful m-m-memory. I was thinkin’ maybe you’d recall about this.”

“Huh!” says Lish. “Folks beginnin’ to appreciate what a job I got, eh? Beginnin’ to see that old Lish is some pumpkins when it comes to rememberin’. ’Bout time! Huh!... Now lemme see. Sile he made a less-car shipment along about a week ago, somewheres near. Remember who it went to? You kin bet I do? Ever hear tell of me forgettin’ anythin’ havin’ to do with this here perfession of mine? I calc’late you didn’t.”

“I certainly never d-d-did,” says Mark.

“Hain’t many freight-handlers to touch me,” says Lish. “’Cause why? ’Cause I made a study of it. That’s why. Some fellers treats it like a job. I hain’t never viewed it so. Perfession’s what I call it. Like bein’ a lawyer or a minister or sich. Made a study of it.”

“Wonderful,” says Mark, and he said it so sincere and natural-like that I almost believed he felt that way about it myself. He didn’t even wink at me when he said it. No, sir, you can bet he didn’t. When Mark Tidd was doing a thing, he did it thorough. I knew he was taffying Lish, and he knew I knew it, but would he wink at me? Not much. He was pretendin’ he did admire Lish, that’s what he was doin’, and he pretended it so hard that he did admire him while it was going on.

“Who did you say that s-s-shipment went to?” Mark says, in a minute.

“Family Chair Company, of course. Over to Bostwick. How many times have I got to tell you, eh? Got to stand here a-yellin’ it at you all the mornin’?”

“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and out we went.

We didn’t have to wait long for the train to Bostwick, and it was just an hour’s ride, so we got there quite a while before noon. Bostwick was considerable of a place, with lots of factories and about fifty-six times as many stores and houses as Wicksville. I was bothered a little thinking maybe we might get lost, but then I says to myself:

“So long as you’re with Mark Tidd you’re all right. You might get lost, Plunk Smalley, but there hain’t any chance of mislayin’ Mark. Might as well try to lose the Goddess of Liberty.” So I went along with him and kept my mouth shut, which is a wise thing to do in a heap of cases.

Mark he prances up to a policeman and says, “Mister, where be we g-g-goin’ to find the Family Chair Company?”

The policeman looked at Mark and grinned, and then he says, “They don’t make that kind of furniture, son.”

“What kind?” says Mark.

“Iron,” says the policeman.

“Hain’t l-l-lookin’ for iron furniture.”

“You hain’t? Now I made sure you was. Lookin’ at you, I jest naturally says to myself, here’s a feller lookin’ for a chair he kin set in without smashin’ it flat. That’s what I says. And, says I, no wooden chair made’ll hold him more’n a second. No, if you’re lookin’ for furniture to set in yourself, young feller, better go somewheres else.”

He didn’t say it mean and disagreeable, but jolly and good-natured, and Mark didn’t get mad like he generally does when somebody twits him about being fat. He grinned back and says:

“’Tain’t for me, mister. I hain’t usin’ furniture no m-m-more. I busted up so much the f-f-folks makes me set on the floor. There’s a dent in the f-floor where I gen’ally set, but Dad’s propped it up from underneath with a four-by-four.... Where’d you say that factory was?”

“Hop on this street-car,” says the policeman, “and git off when it gits to the end of the line. You’ll see a whoppin’-big factory to your left.”

“Yes,” says Mark.

“Well, that hain’t it,” says the policeman, and grins again. “It’s the whoppin’-big one to your right.”

“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and we went out and got on the car that was stopping. It took us maybe twenty minutes to get to the end of the line, and there we got off and looked around. Say, I never saw a factory the size of that one. It was big enough to hold the whole town of Wicksville, with some of the outlying districts thrown in.

“Come on,” says Mark.

“What we goin’ to do, now we’re here?” says I.

“Hanged if I know,” says he, “but we’re goin’ to do somethin’.”

We went to the office entrance, and there was a boy with a uniform on, and brass buttons, setting behind a desk and looking as important as a banty rooster.

“What do you kids want?” says he, proud and haughty. “If you hain’t got business here, don’t be hangin’ around. We don’t want any kids loafin’ here.”

“We come to see the m-m-monkeys,” says Mark, solemn and gentle.

“Monkeys?” says the boy, and set up a laugh that was enough to make a saint mad. “There hain’t no monkeys. Think this is a circus? This is a chair-factory.”

“Oh!” says Mark. “Chair-factory, eh? Well, I see how I come to m-m-make the m-mistake. It was lookin’ at you. I seen you all tricked up in that monkey suit and how much you l-looked like a monkey, and of course I f-figgered it was a monkey-show inside. When you come to speak I was sure of it, ’cause you talked jest like I imagine a trained monkey would talk—if its trainer had forgot to teach it manners.”

The kid opened his mouth and panted once; then he shut his mouth careful, like he was afraid something would escape out of it, and he turned pink and red and let out a cough, and wiggled in his chair. Seemed like nothing occurred to him to say just at that minute. Mark did the saying.

“We’re here on business,” says Mark, “and we want to see the man that owns this factory. We want to see him quick.”

“He don’t want to hire any boys.”

“He will,” says Mark, short and sharp. “He’ll want to hire one to t-t-take your job if you don’t git a move on you.”

Just then a tall gentleman came along the hall and looked at Mark, and sort of grinned when he heard what Mark said. He stopped and says, “What seems to be the main difficulty here?”

“We came to see the m-m-man that owns this factory—on m-mighty important business—and this kid spoke a piece he didn’t seem to know very well,” says Mark.

The man coughed into his hand and says: “I own the mill, young man. What’s your important business?”

“Money,” says Mark.

“That’s always important,” says the man.

“You bet,” says Mark. “So we come to git some. You owe us f-f-for ’most a car of chair-s-spindles shipped a week ago, and if you had any idea how much we need that money I’ll bet you’d send it by telegraph. Honest, I dunno’s anybody ever needed money as bad as we need that.”

“Who are you, anyhow?”

“I’m Mark Tidd and this is Plunk Smalley. We’re from Wicksville and we’re runnin’ Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill. He got it all messed up and we s-s-stepped in to straighten him out.”

“Silas Bugg, eh?” says the man. “And you stepped in to straighten him out? Mill experts, are you?”

“We hain’t much of any experts,” says Mark, “but when it comes to business, anythin’ would be an improvement over Silas. We calc’late to pull him through.”

“How much do we owe you?”

“Silas don’t know and we don’t know.”

“Then how do you expect I can pay you? It’s customary to send an invoice.”

“Not with Silas it hain’t. Silas never got introduced to an invoice. But we got the amount of stuff that was s-s-shipped, and we figgered you knew how much you was payin’ for it. ’Most gen’ally men that’s been able to git to own a factory like this know what they’re payin’ for a thing before they buy it.”

“Hum!” says the man, and he looked at Mark kind of interested. “You got some powers of observation, haven’t you?”

“That’s common s-s-sense,” says Mark.

“A good many folks don’t have common sense.... But you’re right this time. We had a contract with Silas Bugg. I’ll look it up. When did you ship those spindles?”

Mark told him.

“Your money isn’t due, then,” says the man. “We have thirty days to pay, and almost two weeks of it are left.”

“Um!” says Mark. “Git a discount for thirty days?”

“Two per cent.,” says the man, trying to look severe and sober, but with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Business is business,” says Mark; “if we ask for s-somethin’ we hain’t entitled to we’re willin’ to pay for it. If you git two per cent, for thirty days, you ought to get three, anyhow, for f-f-fourteen.”

“If I pay now you’ll give me an extra one per cent, discount?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come into the office and we’ll look up Bugg’s contract. How is it you haven’t a copy?”

“Most likely Silas Doolittle used his c-copy to kindle a f-f-fire with,” says Mark.

The man, whose name turned out to be Mr. Rushmore, took us into his office and told us to sit down, and pressed a button. In come a girl and he told her to bring the Silas Bugg contract. She came back in a minute and put it on his desk. Mr. Rushmore read it through and sort of frowned. Then he figured a little.

“According to this,” he says, “we owe you three hundred and sixteen dollars.”

“With the discount off?” says Mark.

“Yes; I figured that.”

“More ’n I hoped,” says Mark. “That’ll t-take care of the pay-roll for quite a spell.”

“This last shipment completed your contract,” says Mr. Rushmore. “Do you want to make a new contract with me on the same terms?”

“I m-may,” says Mark, “but not to-day.”

“Why not to-day?”

“Because,” says Mark, “Silas Doolittle never knew what it cost him to manufacture, and he was always l-losin’ money. It don’t take much work to guess he was sellin’ for too little. We’re workin’ out the costs of everything, to get it exact, and until we know we hain’t makin’ a contract.”

“By Jove!” says the man. “Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” says Mark.

“Who is running that mill?”

“Us four boys.”

“No man to boss you?”

“Only man around the p-premises is Silas Doolittle.”

“And you stepped in to untangle things, eh? Well, young man, I shouldn’t be surprised if you did it. Where did you get your ideas of business?”

“Hain’t got many, but we got to have somethin’ to go by. Common sense tells a f-f-feller he can’t make money sellin’ for less’n cost.”

“That’s a great truth,” says Mr. Rushmore.

“How about our m-m-money?” says Mark.

“I’ll have a check for you at once. When you get around to it, let me know. We need quite a lot of spindles and will need them all this year.”

“Glad to supply ’em,” says Mark, “but not till we got our costs.”

“I’ll take a chance if you will,” says Mr. Rushmore, and I saw a twinkle come into his eye again. “I’ll raise the figures in this contract five per cent. That ought to make you come out right.”

Mark studied a minute. “No,” says he; “that wouldn’t be business for either of us. We m-m-might not be gettin’ enough, or you m-might be p-payin’ too much. The only way is to be f-f-fair to both parties. We want you satisfied as well as us.”

“Son,” says Mr. Rushmore, “you’ll get along. That’s a business principle that will bring success. The satisfied customer is the valuable customer. Stick to it.”

“I’m goin’ to,” says Mark.

Mr. Rushmore had a check made out and gave it to us. “What are you going to do the rest of the day?” says he.

“We’re goin’ to go around some of these turnin’-mills in Bostwick and see how they work, and t-t-talk to some of the bosses and git what information we can. I got a n-notion Silas’s way of doin’ things might be improved some.”

“Maybe you’re right,” says Mr. Rushmore. “We do quite a bit of our own turning. Glad to have you go through the plant.”

“Make any dowels?” says Mark, and I wondered what he asked that for.

“About a hundred millions a year.”

“Um!... Any money in ’em?”

“We think so.”

“Make all you n-need?”

“We have to buy a great many.”

“Maybe,” says Mark, “we kin do some b-business in dowels, too. We got a dowel-machine that Silas bought because he thought it was pretty, or s-somethin’. Never set it up.”

“When you’re ready, let me know,” says Mr. Rushmore, and he sent for a man to show us through the factory. It was mighty interesting and we found out a lot of things that was valuable to know. After dinner we went to a couple of small turning-mills, about the size of ours, and we got to know quite a lot that was worth money to us. At five o’clock we took the train back to Wicksville, and the first man we saw when we got off the train was Amassa P. Wiggamore, the man that tried to buy our dam.