It seems the ministers didn't hear how they were nominated in the
beauty contest till Sunday afternoon--at any rate, none of them said
anything about it. But Sunday afternoon they met and palavered and made
up their minds it wasn't dignified and that sort of thing for preachers
to get mixed up in such an affair. So that night they got up in their
pulpits and said so. I was a Baptist and heard Rev. Jenkins McCormick
state his views. I gathered he didn't withdraw because he thought
ministers wasn't handsomer than other men, or because he didn't view
himself as being as handsome as any other minister, but because, to his
way of thinking, beauty and Baptists hadn't ought to run together.
Rev. Whipit, of the Congregationalists, and Rev. Hannis, of the
Methodists, got off their views on the subject. The result was that
there were a few hundred votes that would have to be changed. And there
was where the trouble started.
The first thing Monday morning about a dozen women came down to the
Bazar to ask what they should do about it.
"Well," says Mark Tidd, "th-there's the votes. So long as the parsons
won't have 'em, somebody else'll have to. You can vote 'em for anybody
you w-w-want to."
Then there was a _racket_. The Methodists got off in a group and the
Congregationalists huddled together and the Baptists sheered off where
they could talk it over. And they talked! My goodness! You could have
heard the clatter on the other side of the river. Every married woman
insisted on having the votes of her church cast for her husband, and
the four old maids that were scattered through the three denominations
were all for Mr. Pilkins, the school principal--him being an old
bachelor. At last the noise got so bad and the women got so mad Mark
made up his mind he'd have to do something about it--and he wanted to
do something that would help out the Bazar while he was at it. He got
up on the counter, and that was quite a job, considering how much of
him 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 like
hens in the yard will stop fussing if you step out with a pan of feed
in 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 each
denomination, and put into 'em a slip of p-paper for each lady. Then
you draw. One slip will say 'Votes' on it--and that one wins in each
box. 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 Bible
drew lots. B-besides," says he, "there was Lot's wife. How came she by
her 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 the
most 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 with
it 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 got
it!" and this one belonged to Mrs. Peterkin--and she was a Methodist,
too. Somehow two winning slips had got into the Methodist box! The
Baptist box came out all right with Mrs. Jenks a winner; but there
wasn't any winning slip at all in the Congregational box! It was a
pretty situation, but Mark didn't appear flustered a bit--he just
looked solemn and interested, and when nobody was looking he winked at
me sly. For some reason or other he'd gone and fixed those boxes like
that on purpose!
Well, _mister_! Maybe there wasn't a squabble! Miss Snoover and Mrs.
Peterkin gripped their slips and glared at each other and screeched
that the votes were theirs and they'd drawn fair and square and
nobody'd ever get them away. All the other Methodist ladies joined in
because they saw a chance for another drawing, when maybe _they'd_ win.
The women that won wouldn't consent to another drawing, and the ones
that 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. He
didn't do anything but look sort of satisfied with the world--why, I
couldn't see. I wished I was a mile away, because you couldn't tell how
mad these women were going to get, nor what they'd do when they got
there.
"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 do
with 'em? Eh?"
Miss Snoover sort of choked and spluttered and got red in the face, and
says 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 was
an old maid, but it wasn't anybody's business, and she didn't need to
be if she didn't want to, and a lot better to be one than married like
some she knew--and she'd carry the matter into court and hire a lawyer
to 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 that
was pretty good. Most folks would have had to breathe a lot sooner. The
minute she was through she turned and ran out of the store, still
grabbing 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 good
to 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. The
more folks gets m-mad the more votes is cast. The more squabbles there
is the more money we make--and the more advertisin' we get. Don't you
calc'late this thing'll be talked of more'n a simple drawin' with no
row at all would have b-been?"
"I do," says I, and let it go at that. There didn't seem to be anything
to say.
Binney Jenks, who had been down to the express-office, came in just
then.
"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 the
ten-fifty train."
"F-flight," says Mark, with a sort of grunt. "More likely some kind of
attack. 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 plan
and beat him to it."
"You might telegraph Jehoshaphat P.," says I, sarcastic-like, "and ask
him 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 the
t-t-ten-cent store. Take a quarter, Plunk, and spend it judicious. Take
consid'able time to it, Plunk, and get friendly with the clerk. If you
get curious you might ask a question or so. Good way would be to make
b'lieve you thought the clerk was the boss. See? Then you could ask
about the boss. Maybe this clerk is one of these t-t-talkative,
loose-jawed fellers. Worth tryin', anyhow. Might drag a crumb of
information 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 go
instead of going himself. It showed he had some confidence in me and
thought I was sharp enough to do what he wanted.
I took a quarter and went across to the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. The
clerk was lazying around without much to do but look at himself in a
little hand-glass. He had one of those little pocket-combs and he was
busy with it, fixing his hair just _so_. It was kind of straw-colored
hair with a wiggle to it. He had a kind of strawberry complexion and
blue eyes and chubby cheeks. Sort of cunning, he was. I says to myself
he ought to be entered in our beauty contest.
I went along the counter, looking at things, but he didn't pay much
attention. He got through with his hair and then began bringing up his
mustache. It was a cute mustache. Yellow like his hair, it was, but you
couldn'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 I
was almost in front of him I dropped my quarter and had to go chasing
after 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 it
careful 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 just
sort of manager. More money in _that_ than ownin' the store--and no
risk."
"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 all
excited about what a man he is and he'll just naturally lay himself out
to 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 you
around." But I only grinned at him admiringly. "Say," I told him, "them
clothes 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 position
has 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 seem
disappointed 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 would
be enter the contest, and the way they'd vote for you would be a
caution."
"Boss wouldn't like it," says he.
"If somebody put up your name without your knowin' it he couldn't
object."
I could see him sort of thinking that idea over. It was one that
attracted him like a bald head attracts flies.
"I sure would like to git my name in," says he, "but the boss hain't
got any use for that Bazar. He's mad at the folks that run it and he
says he's goin' to put it out of business. He's a bad one, Jehoshaphat
P. 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 to
now? 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'll
never be able to pay off. He's goin' to see to it they _don't_ pay it
off. That's one reason he's in Detroit. Yes, sir. Take the wind plumb
out 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 wholesale
houses they better look out or the Bazar'll bust. See? Then the
wholesale houses'll demand their money. Besides that, the Bazar won't
be able to buy no more stock. Skip'll fix their credit, and no store
can git along without credit. See?"
Did I see? I should say I did see! This was almost worse than the
chattel mortgage.
"Another thing," says he, "the Bazar's got the local agency for
Wainright's sheet music. Must be a pretty good thing. Skip's going to
get that away from 'em. Hurt some, I calc'late. And he's goin' to take
away their agency for phonographs and records. Bet that'll hit 'em a
wallop. 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 sell
things that come to more?"
"Oh," says the clerk, "he's goin' to open a separate department and
sell every single thing the Bazar does--and cut prices. Guess this
beauty 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 my
boots, but I wouldn't let him see it.
"About that contest," says he, "I'd like to get my name in. But I
wouldn't like Skip to know I went in myself. He'd have to think
somebody else did it without me knowing."
"Sure," says I.
He looked all around to make sure nobody was looking, and then handed
me half a dollar.
"Here," says he in a whisper. "Buy me a necktie with this, and have my
name 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 to
spend 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 we
lost these agencies and had our credit cut off we might as well close
our doors. Here was Mark's chance to show if he was as great a man as
folks thought he was.