CHAPTER VIII
It seems the ministers didn't hear how they were nominated in thebeauty contest till Sunday afternoon--at any rate, none of them saidanything about it. But Sunday afternoon they met and palavered and madeup their minds it wasn't dignified and that sort of thing for preachersto get mixed up in such an affair. So that night they got up in theirpulpits and said so. I was a Baptist and heard Rev. Jenkins McCormickstate his views. I gathered he didn't withdraw because he thoughtministers wasn't handsomer than other men, or because he didn't viewhimself as being as handsome as any other minister, but because, to hisway of thinking, beauty and Baptists hadn't ought to run together.
Rev. Whipit, of the Congregationalists, and Rev. Hannis, of theMethodists, got off their views on the subject. The result was thatthere were a few hundred votes that would have to be changed. And therewas where the trouble started.
The first thing Monday morning about a dozen women came down to theBazar to ask what they should do about it.
"Well," says Mark Tidd, "th-there's the votes. So long as the parsonswon't have 'em, somebody else'll have to. You can vote 'em for anybodyyou w-w-want to."
Then there was a _racket_. The Methodists got off in a group and theCongregationalists huddled together and the Baptists sheered off wherethey could talk it over. And they talked! My goodness! You could haveheard the clatter on the other side of the river. Every married womaninsisted on having the votes of her church cast for her husband, andthe four old maids that were scattered through the three denominationswere all for Mr. Pilkins, the school principal--him being an oldbachelor. At last the noise got so bad and the women got so mad Markmade up his mind he'd have to do something about it--and he wanted todo something that would help out the Bazar while he was at it. He gotup on the counter, and that was quite a job, considering how much ofhim there was to get up.
"L-ladies," he yelled, "the m-meetin' is called to order."
Well, sir, they stopped off short to see what was going on, just likehens in the yard will stop fussing if you step out with a pan of feedin your hand.
"I got a p-plan to propose," says Mark.
"Let's have it," says Mrs. Goodwillie.
"D-draw lots for 'em," says Mark. "I'll fix three boxes, one for eachdenomination, and put into 'em a slip of p-paper for each lady. Thenyou draw. One slip will say 'Votes' on it--and that one wins in eachbox. The votes belong to the three ladies d-drawin' the winnin' slips,and they can do as they please with 'em."
"Never," says Mrs. Goodwillie. "That's gamblin'!"
"Beg pardon, ma'am," says Mark, "b-but 'tain't. Characters in the Bibledrew lots. B-besides," says he, "there was Lot's wife. How came she byher n-name, d'you s'pose, if d-drawin' lots wasn't customary? Eh?"
For a minute the ladies quarreled about it, but it _did_ look like themost sensible way to go at it, and they agreed. We fixed up the boxes,and the drawing started. Every woman grabbed her slip and ran off withit like a hen that finds a worm. Then Miss Snoover yelled, "I got it!"She was a Methodist. But right on top of her yell came another "I gotit!" and this one belonged to Mrs. Peterkin--and she was a Methodist,too. Somehow two winning slips had got into the Methodist box! TheBaptist box came out all right with Mrs. Jenks a winner; but therewasn't any winning slip at all in the Congregational box! It was apretty situation, but Mark didn't appear flustered a bit--he justlooked solemn and interested, and when nobody was looking he winked atme sly. For some reason or other he'd gone and fixed those boxes likethat on purpose!
Well, _mister_! Maybe there wasn't a squabble! Miss Snoover and Mrs.Peterkin gripped their slips and glared at each other and screechedthat the votes were theirs and they'd drawn fair and square andnobody'd ever get them away. All the other Methodist ladies joined inbecause they saw a chance for another drawing, when maybe _they'd_ win.The women that won wouldn't consent to another drawing, and the onesthat lost insisted there should be one--and there we were.
In the mean time the Congregationalists had drawn all over and Mrs.Johnson won. That disposed of them.
I just kept my mouth shut and waited to see what Mark would do. Hedidn't do anything but look sort of satisfied with the world--why, Icouldn't see. I wished I was a mile away, because you couldn't tell howmad these women were going to get, nor what they'd do when they gotthere.
"Why not d-divide 'em equal between the winners?" Mark says.
"Never," yelled Mrs. Goodwillie. "We'll draw all over again!"
"Them votes is mine," says Miss Snoover, "and I'm a-goin' to keep 'em."
"What for?" asked Mrs. Peterkin, mean-like. "What you calc'latin' to dowith 'em? Eh?"
Miss Snoover sort of choked and spluttered and got red in the face, andsays it wasn't anybody's business what she was goin' to do with 'em,even if it was to paper the inside of her hen-house--and maybe she wasan old maid, but it wasn't anybody's business, and she didn't need tobe if she didn't want to, and a lot better to be one than married likesome she knew--and she'd carry the matter into court and hire a lawyerto defend her rights, and everybody was trying to rob a lone woman.That was all she mentioned before she drew a breath, but I thought thatwas pretty good. Most folks would have had to breathe a lot sooner. Theminute she was through she turned and ran out of the store, stillgrabbing her slip of paper.
The rest of them stayed awhile and argued, but pretty soon they went,too, because they couldn't do anything without Miss Snoover.
"Well," says I when they were gone, "that's a pretty mess to clean up."
"Um!" says Mark, and he smacked his lips like he'd had something goodto eat.
"What ever," says I, "did you put two slips in that Methodist box for?"
"To start a s-s-squabble," says he.
"Well," says I, "you done it, all right."
"Plunk," says he, "excitement is the makin' of a beauty contest. Themore folks gets m-mad the more votes is cast. The more squabbles thereis the more money we make--and the more advertisin' we get. Don't youcalc'late this thing'll be talked of more'n a simple drawin' with norow at all would have b-been?"
"I do," says I, and let it go at that. There didn't seem to be anythingto say.
Binney Jenks, who had been down to the express-office, came in justthen.
"Enemy's takin' flight," says he.
"What enemy?" says I, "and where is he takin' flight to?"
"Jehoshaphat P.," says Binney, "and he's goin' to Detroit. Took theten-fifty train."
"F-flight," says Mark, with a sort of grunt. "More likely some kind ofattack. Um!... Wisht I knew what he was up to."
"If it's anything to hurt us we'll find out quick enough," says I.
"The way," says Mark, "to win b-battles is to find out the enemy's planand beat him to it."
"You might telegraph Jehoshaphat P.," says I, sarcastic-like, "and askhim what his idea is."
"Who's in charge of his store?" Mark asked.
"That clerk he brought with him. Don't know what his name is."
"Does he know you?" Mark asked me.
"Don't think I ever saw him but once," I says.
"Well," says Mark, "it's about time you bought somethin' at thet-t-ten-cent store. Take a quarter, Plunk, and spend it judicious. Takeconsid'able time to it, Plunk, and get friendly with the clerk. If youget curious you might ask a question or so. Good way would be to makeb'lieve you thought the clerk was the boss. See? Then you could askabout the boss. Maybe this clerk is one of these t-t-talkative,loose-jawed fellers. Worth tryin', anyhow. Might drag a crumb ofinformation out of him."
"And git hanged for a spy," says I; but for all that I was glad to go.To tell the truth I was sort of tickled that Mark wanted me to goinstead of going himself. It showed he had some confidence in me andthought I was sharp enough to do what he wanted.
I took a quarter and went across to the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. Theclerk was lazying around without much to do but look at himself in alittle hand-glass. He had one of those little pocket-combs and he wasbusy with it, fixin
g his hair just _so_. It was kind of straw-coloredhair with a wiggle to it. He had a kind of strawberry complexion andblue eyes and chubby cheeks. Sort of cunning, he was. I says to myselfhe ought to be entered in our beauty contest.
I went along the counter, looking at things, but he didn't pay muchattention. He got through with his hair and then began bringing up hismustache. It was a cute mustache. Yellow like his hair, it was, but youcouldn't see it from some directions. When the light was right on it,though, you got a good view. I kept getting closer and closer. When Iwas almost in front of him I dropped my quarter and had to go chasingafter it. That attracted his attention away from his mustache.
"What'll you have?" says he, crosslike.
"Oh," says I, "dun'no'. I got a quarter to spend and I'm lookin'."
"All right," says he, "look."
"You got a fine store, mister," says I.
"Yes," says he.
"Do you own all of it?" I says, "or have you got a partner?"
He felt around till he got hold of his mustache and pulled at itcareful so as not to pull any out. He couldn't have spared much.
"Well," says he, "to tell the truth I hain't the proprietor. I'm justsort of manager. More money in _that_ than ownin' the store--and norisk."
"Oh," says I. "Who does own it, then?"
"Feller by the name of Skip."
"Hain't he ever here?"
"Sure. Just went to town, though. Important business."
Hum! thought I, this is one of those talking jackasses. He's allexcited about what a man he is and he'll just naturally lay himself outto make an impression.
"It's a big responsibility to be left in charge, hain't it?" I says.
"Oh, Skip gives me all sorts of responsibility," says he. "He knows_me_."
"I'll bet he don't," says I to myself, "or he wouldn't have youaround." But I only grinned at him admiringly. "Say," I told him, "themclothes of yourn wasn't just _bought_, was they? They look different.Bet a real tailor made 'em."
"Course," says he. "_I_ couldn't wear store clothes. Man in my positionhas to look _swell_."
"You do it, all right," says I. Then I got an idea. "Are you figgerin'on winnin' the contest?"
"What contest?"
"Handsomest man in Wicksville," says I. "Everybody's votin'."
"Oh, that," says he. "No. I dassent be in that? Boss wouldn't like it."
"Shucks!" says I. "You ought to enter. You'd win easy."
He took another look at himself in the glass and didn't seemdisappointed by what he saw.
"Well," says he, "I might have a _chance_."
"Chance!" I says. "Why, there wouldn't be anybody else in it!"
"I don't know many folks here," he says.
"Bet lots of folks wished they did know you. All you'd have to do wouldbe enter the contest, and the way they'd vote for you would be acaution."
"Boss wouldn't like it," says he.
"If somebody put up your name without your knowin' it he couldn'tobject."
I could see him sort of thinking that idea over. It was one thatattracted him like a bald head attracts flies.
"I sure would like to git my name in," says he, "but the boss hain'tgot any use for that Bazar. He's mad at the folks that run it and hesays he's goin' to put it out of business. He's a bad one, JehoshaphatP. Skip is, and when he gits after anybody they want to look out."
"Pretty smart man, hain't he?"
"You bet he is--smarter 'n a weasel."
"Don't b'lieve he could put the Bazar out of business, though," I says,shaking my head.
"You don't know Skip," says he. "Why, kid, what d'you s'pose he's up tonow? Eh?"
"Hain't the slightest idea," says I, as if I didn't care much.
"He's got 'em pretty near busted now. Bought a chattel mortgage they'llnever be able to pay off. He's goin' to see to it they _don't_ pay itoff. That's one reason he's in Detroit. Yes, sir. Take the wind plumbout of their sails, I tell you."
"Huh!" says I. "Easier said than done."
"He's goin' to the wholesale houses," says the clerk in a whisper.
"What of it?"
"The Bazar owes money," says he. "He's goin' to tell the wholesalehouses they better look out or the Bazar'll bust. See? Then thewholesale houses'll demand their money. Besides that, the Bazar won'tbe able to buy no more stock. Skip'll fix their credit, and no storecan git along without credit. See?"
Did I see? I should say I did see! This was almost worse than thechattel mortgage.
"Another thing," says he, "the Bazar's got the local agency forWainright's sheet music. Must be a pretty good thing. Skip's going toget that away from 'em. Hurt some, I calc'late. And he's goin' to takeaway their agency for phonographs and records. Bet that'll hit 'em awallop. Eh? Skip says he'll take away every one of their agencies."
"But," says I, "this is a five-and-ten-cent store. How can he sellthings that come to more?"
"Oh," says the clerk, "he's goin' to open a separate department andsell every single thing the Bazar does--and cut prices. Guess thisbeauty contest won't get much for the Bazar folks against lower prices."
That was the way I looked at it, and my heart went 'way down into myboots, but I wouldn't let him see it.
"About that contest," says he, "I'd like to get my name in. But Iwouldn't like Skip to know I went in myself. He'd have to thinksomebody else did it without me knowing."
"Sure," says I.
He looked all around to make sure nobody was looking, and then handedme half a dollar.
"Here," says he in a whisper. "Buy me a necktie with this, and have myname entered. Will you? Eh?"
"Course," says I; "glad to do it for you."
I hurried right out of the store and across the street, not waiting tospend my quarter at all. I had to see Mark Tidd, and see him _quick_.Something had to be done. Something had to be done in a minute. If welost these agencies and had our credit cut off we might as well closeour doors. Here was Mark's chance to show if he was as great a man asfolks thought he was.
Mark Tidd in Business Page 8
