My father always went to Lawyer Sturgis when he needed any law, so we
figured he'd be likely to know about that chattel mortgage. Mark went
over to see him and found out that every word Jehoshaphat P. had said
was true. Father had needed money and borrowed five hundred dollars
from Hamilcar Wilkins, who didn't do anything but lend money. Somehow
Skip had found out about it and had bought the note. So there we were.
"Well," says Mark when he got back, "th-that's settled. Now all we got
to do is dig up that five hundred."
"Yes," says I, sarcastic-like, "that's all."
"We'll do it," says he. "I've noticed," says he, "that if you've got to
do a thing or b-b-bust you usually do it--or bust." He grinned all over
his fat face. "Now let's forget about the mortgage and start to makin'
money."
"Suits me," says I.
By this time we had our stock pretty well arranged. You wouldn't have
known the old store. Everything was in order and arranged so it could
be found. The most expensive things were at the front, the
five-and-ten-cent things were at the back. That was Mark's idea.
"Folks is after bargains," says he, "and they'll walk to get 'em. When
they come in they'll be after somethin' cheap. But we'll m-make 'em
walk past the other things. They can't h-help lookin' at 'em, and
chances are they'll see somethin' they need."
It was so, too. I can name three or four folks who came in to buy
something for a dime, but did buy something for a half a dollar or a
dollar just because they saw them on the way back. Things we calculated
folks would want we had set up conspicuous, with the price marked on
them plain--and it was generally a price that ended in odd cents. Mark
says folks are used to paying even money, and if you make it
ninety-eight cents or sixty-three cents, why, right off they think it's
a bargain.
But don't get to thinking business was good. It wasn't. It wasn't any
better Friday, though quite a few folks came in to ask what we were up
to next. This tickled Mark because he said it meant folks were watching
us and thinking about us and wondering what sort of scheme we were
going to work off on them. That, says he, is good advertising.
Wicksville is full of folks with curiosity. I'll bet I was asked
questions about our signs a dozen times, but wouldn't tell. Mark said
to keep them guessing till we were ready, which was Saturday about ten
o'clock. Then Mark put up in the window a big sign explaining about the
beauty contest. Lots of folks stopped to look at it, and grinned and
laughed, just like I thought they would. Once there was quite a little
crowd looking in. Along came Chet Weevil. Uncle Ike Bond was there, and
as soon as he saw Chet he commenced to yell at him.
"Ho, Chet!" says he, "here's somethin' 'll int'rest you. Han'somest-man
contest! You and them neckties of yourn 'll be enterin', eh? Got to
settle whether you or Chancy Miller is the beautifulest. Seems like I
can't sleep till I git the judgment of folks on that."
Chet was all primped up with a checked suit and yellow shoes and a
necktie that looked like it would burn your finger if you touched it.
He didn't grin--not Chet. He sort of drew himself up and looked at his
reflection in the window and felt of his tie to see if it was on
straight.
"Hum!" says he. "I don't lay no claim to beauty." Then he sort of put
his head on one side and looked at himself again.
"Course not," says Uncle Ike. "You're one of the modestest fellers in
town, but, Chet--it's a secret and don't whisper it to a soul--folks
have said to me as how they ree-garded you as a feller of strikin'
appearance. Honest, Chet."
"Hum!" says Chet again. "I aim to keep myself lookin' as good as I kin.
It's a feller's duty."
"To be sure. That's the way Chancy looks at it. I heard him sayin' no
later than yestiddy that he took consid'able pains with himself. He
says you was perty good-lookin', too. Yes, sir. Says he, if it wasn't
for him, you'd be about the best-lookin' feller in the county."
"Did, eh?" says Chet, mad-like. "Did, eh? Mind, I hain't claimin' to be
handsomer 'n anybody else, but this I do say, and this I'll stand by:
if I wasn't better-lookin' than Chancy Miller I'd buy me a mask or
raise whiskers, that's what I'd do. Why," says he, "Chancy's pants bags
at the knee."
"So they do," says Uncle Ike. "But Chancy alluded to your hair. Says
your hair was all right as _hair_, but, says he, as a ornament it would
be better if Chet was bald-headed."
"Hair!" says Chet. "Does that there gangle-legged, pig-eyed,
strawberry-topped imitation of a punkin' lantern go around makin'
personal remarks about me? Maybe my hair hain't curly, but, b' jing, it
looks like hair, and not like no throwed-away bed-springs."
Well, just then who should come in sight but Chancy Miller, his hat on
the back of his head so his frizzes would show, and a posy in his
buttonhole. Uncle Ike spied him.
"Just alludin' to you, Chancy," he says. "We was discussin' them
ringlets of yourn. Chet here declares as how they favor worn-out
bed-springs consid'able."
Chancy scowled at Chet and took off his hat like he thought it was hot.
That was a way of his. He was always looking for excuses to put his
hair on exhibition.
"Chet hadn't better do no talkin' about hair," says he. "If he was to
get his shaved off and then tie a handkerchief over his head so what
was left wouldn't show, he'd look a sight more like a human bein'."
"Well," says Uncle Ike, "I see there's a sight of rivalry amongst you
two on this here beauty question. But it's goin' to be decided, Chancy;
it's goin' to be decided. Read this sign, Chancy, and be happy."
Chancy he read the sign and then took off his hat again and smoothed
back his hair. He looked at Chet sort of speculating and Chet looked at
him. Then both of them stuck up their noses simultaneous.
"Who's been spoke of so far?" Chancy asked.
"Nobody but you and Chet," says Uncle Ike.
"I thought," says Chancy, "it was goin' to be a _contest_. Not," says
he, "that I got any idee I'm what you'd call handsome"--he stopped to
take a squint at himself in the window--"but--but compared to Chet,"
says he, "I'm one of these here Greek statues alongside of a
packin'-box."
"You be, eh?" yelled Chet. "You think you be? Well, Chancy Miller, all
I got to say is this: if my mother'd 'a' had any idee I was goin' to
look like you she wouldn't of tried to raise me. She'd drownded me when
I was a day old. Why," says Chet, getting madder and madder, "the only
resemblance between you and a good-lookin' feller is that you got two
arms and legs. It 'u'd take six college professors with microscopes a
year to pick out a point to you that don't class as homely. Handsome!
Oh, my!"
At that Chancy started to move toward Chet and Chet started to move
toward Chancy, but they didn't go far. They weren't the sort of fellows
to get themselves mussed up in a fight. Nobody offered to stop them, so
they stopped themselves, about six feet apart, and took it out in
scowling.
"We'll let the votes of the people decide," says Chet, as grand as an
emperor.
"Huh!" says Chancy. "You'll have to git a stiddy job now and spend your
wages in the Bazar, or you won't git a vote."
Just then along came Mrs. Bloom and Mrs. Peterson, and they stopped to
see what was going on. First they read the sign and then they listened.
Uncle Ike grinned to himself and says:
"We men has figgered the contest is narrowed down to Chet and Chancy.
'Tain't likely anybody will enter agin 'em, is it, Mis' Bloom?"
Mrs. Bloom sniffed. "I thought this was goin' to be a contest for the
handsomest _man_," says she. "If 'tis, neither of them whipper-snappers
is eligible. Let 'em wait till they git their growth. For a handsome
man gimme somebody that's old enough to wash his own face without his
mother's helpin' him. The best-lookin' time in a man's life is when
he's about forty-three."
"Forty-seven, to be exact," says Mrs. Peterson, her eyes snapping.
"Forty-three," says Mrs. Bloom. "Forty-three is Peter Bloom's age, and
I ought to know. When I was young I could 'a' had the pick of the young
fellers in this town, but I took Peter, and hain't never regretted it.
I guess you folks hain't seen Peter in his new Sunday suit, or you
wouldn't be talkin' about these--these gangleshanks."
Mrs. Peterson blinked and swallowed hard and opened her mouth a couple
of times before she could speak.
"If you was to stand Peter Bloom alongside of Jason Peterson," says
she, in a voice that sounded like somebody tearing a piece of tin, "I
guess you'd change your mind. Maybe Peter was fair-lookin' once," says
she, "but Jason's been eatin' _good_ cookin' for twenty-two year--and
that tells."
Uncle Ike winked to himself and says, sober-like, "It looks, fellers,
as if Chet and Chancy wasn't goin' to have the field to themselves."
"No, they hain't," says Mrs. Bloom, "and I'm goin' right in now to
spend a dollar--a dollar--and vote ten votes for Peter. There." She
jerked her head and turned on her heel and marched into the store.
"Gimme that pair of scissors I was lookin' at the other day," says she,
"and a paper of pins, and six spools of forty white thread, and if that
don't make up a dollar just say so."
"It c-c-comes to a dollar and six cents," says Mark.
"Then gimme somethin' for four cents to make up the other ten," says
she. "And gimme them votes so's I can cast 'em for Peter Bloom."
Mrs. Peterson came in right after, and _she_ spent a dollar and thirty
cents, casting _her_ votes for Jason Peterson.
Mark looked at me and his eyes twinkled.
"What d'you think of the s-s-scheme now?" he asked in a whisper.
"It begins to look," says I, "like there might be somethin' to it."
It began to look like it still more as the day went on. Chet Weevil met
me as I was coming back from dinner.
"Plunk," says he, "kin you keep a secret?"
"Like throwin' it down a well," says I.
"What d'you think of Chancy's chances?" says he.
"Well," says I, hardly able to keep my face straight, "I hain't much of
a judge, but that curly hair of his--"
"Huh!" he growled. "Hair hain't goin' to count. Got any bang-up
neckties? The kind folks can't help seein'?"
"We got some," says I, "that you could flag a train with on a dark
night."
"How much?" says he.
"Forty-nine cents apiece."
He reached down into his pocket and pulled out two dollar bills. "This
here," says he, "is secret between you and me. I want four of them
ties--and you needn't mind the change. Vote them twenty votes for me
like somebody else did it--and if Chancy goes votin' for himself, just
you lemme know, and I'll beat him or--or bust a gallus."
From that on I was more cheerful. Things began getting exciting and,
somehow, I almost forgot about Jehoshaphat P. Skip and his chattel
mortgage.