By Saturday our beauty contest was getting pretty warm. Folks had
talked about it and argued about it till they really got to believe
there was some importance to the thing. There were quarrels over
husbands, and Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller had to be separated every
time they met. Those two young men took it pretty serious. Chet said if
Chancy was to win he'd pick up and leave Wicksville for ever, and
Chancy said if Chet was to win he'd go off and live in a cabin in the
woods where he never would see another human being, he'd be that
ashamed.
Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Bloom didn't speak to each other any more, but
put in all their spare time fussing around town trying to scrape up
votes for their husbands. There were a lot of others just as bad.
But when Wicksville heard how Old Mose Miller had a thousand votes and
didn't know who he was going to cast them for, there was excitement.
You can bet there was. Early Saturday morning Chancy came sneaking into
the store to find out about it.
"Mark," says he, "is it a fact that Old Mose has got a thousand votes?"
"Yes," says Mark. "He's got 'em, all r-right."
"Sort of an uncle of mine--Old Mose is," says Chancy, and he grinned
satisfied-like. "Blood's thicker 'n water. Guess I'll go out to see
him."
"I would," says Mark. "If I was you I wouldn't l-lose any time."
Chancy was no sooner gone than Chet came in with the same question.
"Huh!" says he when Mark told him the rumor was so. "Thousand votes.
That'll about win this contest, won't it?"
"Come p-pretty close," says Mark.
"Then," says Chet, "I got to have 'em. _Got_ to! I'm goin' out to see
the old skeezicks. I'm goin' this minnit."
"Good idee," says Mark. "But Old Mose is Chancy's uncle. Know th-that?
Blood's thicker 'n water."
"No sich thing," says Chet. "There hain't no sich hate as that between
relatives. Chancy's father and Old Mose had a row over their father's
will. Been hatin' each other twenty-odd years. Chancy 'll never count
them votes, you listen to me."
Well, sir, I looked toward the door, and who should be coming in but
Old Mose himself. Right behind him was Chancy. Chet he took one look
and made for the old fellow and grabbed him by the arm.
"Why, Mr. Miller," says he, grabbing for the old man's hand to shake
it, "I dun'no' when I've been so tickled to see anybody. How be you,
anyhow? Hope you're feelin' spry as a two-year-old."
Old Mose scowled at him.
"Do, eh? Do you, now? Huh! Who be _you_, anyhow? What call you got to
be mixin' up with my health? Glad to see me, be you? Well, young
feller, 'tain't mutual. Not none. Leggo that hand. Leggo."
"But, Mr. Miller, I am glad to see you. You and my father is old
friends. He often speaks of you. Honest he does. You hain't forgot
Henry Weevil, have you?"
"No, nor I hain't likely to, the shiftless old coot! Henry Weevil's
son, be you? Reckon you take after him, too. Necktie looks like it.
Henry had about gumption enough to spend his last quarter for a red rag
to tie around his neck."
Just then Chancy came springing forward and made a grab at Chet.
"You quit pesterin' and disturbin' this old gentleman," says he. "He's
my uncle, he is, and I hain't goin' to stand by to see no town loafer
molestin' him. You git."
Old Mose took one look at Chancy--and it was considerable of a look,
too.
"Uncle!" he snorted. "Uncle, is it? Don't let it git out. I hain't
proud of it. Don't go claimin' no relationship with me, you young
flapdoodle. I'd rather be catched stealin' sheep than to have folks
remember I was your uncle. Git out. Git away from me 'fore I up and
bust the toe of my boot on you."
Well, Chancy drew back a little, quite a little. He got clear out of
range. Chet grinned at him provoking. But Chancy was a persistent sort
of fellow; he tried Old Mose again.
"I don't see what for you hold anythin' agin me, uncle, I never done a
thing to you."
"Don't you dast call me uncle," says Old Mose, and he takes a step
forward, belligerent-like.
Chet put in his oar. "That's right, Mr. Miller. I'd hate to own he was
a relative of mine--him and his curly hair."
Old Mose turned his head slow so he could look at Chet, and says:
"One more peep out of you and I'll take you acrost my knee and fix you
like your ma ought to fix you often. I calc'late you figger you're
growed up past spankin's. Huh! You yaller-haired slinkum!"
Things looked pretty discouraging for Chet and Chancy when in came Mrs.
Bloom, all out of breath. Right at her heels was Mrs. Peterson, panting
like all-git-out. Up they rushed to Old Mose.
"Why, Mr. Miller," says Mrs. Bloom, almost putting her arm around him,
"I just heard you was in town. My! I'm that glad to see you! You're
a-goin' to come and take dinner with us, hain't you?"
Old Mose blinked. He didn't know what to make of it, and before he
decided what was going on Mrs. Peterson wedged herself in and got him
by the other arm.
"Mr. Miller's comin' to _our_ house to dinner," says she. "We're
a-goin' to have chicken and biscuits in gravy and punkin-pie. You're
a-comin' to our house, hain't you?"
Old Mose waggled his head and scowled, and waggled his head some more,
and opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again. He had to try
three times before he could get out a word.
"Hey!" he yelled, "you lemme be. You git away from me. What's the
matter with these here wimmin? Say! Dinner! Naw, I hain't goin' to
dinner with nobody. Me set and listen to female gabble! Whoo! You leggo
my arms. Hear me? Has this whole consarned town up and went crazy? Eh?
Or what?"
Well, right on top of all that three young women came pushing in and
rushing up to Old Mose. I knew what they were after--it was votes for
School-Principal Pilkins.
"Why, Mr. Miller," they says all at once, "as soon as we heard you was
in town we come right down to see you. How be you? My! it seems nice to
see you again!"
"Come right down to see me, did you?" Old Mose was about as mad as he
could get by this time. "Well, now you've saw me. Here I be from boots
to bald spot. I'm well. But I'm gettin' worse. I'm gettin' worse quick.
In a minnit I'm goin' to git vi'lent." He backed off and got around the
end of the counter where nobody could reach him. "Keep off'n me, the
whole dod-gasted passel of you. I hain't no idee of the cause of these
goin's-on, and I hain't no hankerin' to find out. But I hereby issues a
warnin' to all and sundry--keep off'n me! I'm a-goin' to git into my
buggy and make for home. I'm a-goin' to git out of this townful of
lunatics. When I come ag'in I'm a-goin' to fetch my dawg. He's the
meanest dawg in the county. And I'm a-goin' to sic him on to the first
man, woman, or child that comes gabblin' and flitterin' around me. Take
warnin'. Now git out of my way, for I'm a-comin'."
At that he began waving his arms and started pell-mell for the door.
The folks opened up a way for him and he scooted through like the way
was greased. Just a second he stopped in the door to shake his fist.
Then he made a jump into his buggy, whipped up his horse, and went
tearing for home.
Mark Tidd had stood watching the whole thing as solemn as an
undertaker's sign. Not even a little twinkle in his eye! When Mose was
gone he says:
"Don't seem like Old Mose was in g-good humor to-day."
"He's a rip-roarin', cross-grained, pig-headed, rat-minded old coot,"
says Mrs. Peterson, "but I'm a-goin' to git them votes of his'n yet."
"Think you be, do you?" snapped Mrs. Bloom. "Well, Mis' Peterson,
you'll have to git up earlier in the mornin' than you do on wash-days
if you beat _me_. So there."
"P-prob'bly," says Mark, "it would be b-better to see Old Mose out at
his house of an evenin'. Maybe he'd be more reasonable."
"We'll see him of an evenin', all right, and we'll see him of a
mornin'," says one of the young women that were after votes for
Pilkins. "And we hain't after his votes for ourselves, neither," she
says with a sarcastic look at Chet and Chancy.
"Ladies," says Mark, breaking right in on them, "have you seen the new
p-patent hooks and eyes we just got in from New York? Finest thing of
the kind ever was in Wicksville. Lemme sh-show you how they work."
He set in and described those hooks and eyes and told what they would
do, and showed how they did it. "And," says he, "we give votes with
th-these just like with anythin' else. How many cards, Mis' Peterson?"
"Gimme a quarter's worth," says she. "Sich things always come in handy."
Mrs. Bloom, she bought a quarter's worth, and each of those young women
bought a card for a dime. That was eighty cents sold that wouldn't have
been sold but for Mark taking advantage of things. But he was the sort
that took advantage. Maybe there wouldn't be much in it every time, but
add up a dozen or so times and it was quite a bit. He was business from
front to back.
"Mark," says I, when the folks were all gone, "I'm beginnin' to b'lieve
maybe we'll pull through and pay off Skip's mortgage."
"Hum!" says Mark. "You be, eh? Remember we got to raise five hundred
d-dollars and pay expenses and keep sendin' money to your f-folks.
'Tain't so easy as it looks. Comes perty clost to bein' impossible,
_I'd_ say."
"Not gittin' discouraged?" I says, frightened-like.
"No," says he, "but I h-hain't gittin' over-confident, neither. Maybe
we'll pull through if somethin' don't hit us an extra wallop. But we'll
keep a-tryin'."
"You bet," says I. "How do we stand now?"
"There's ninety-six d-dollars in the bank," says he, "that we can
figger on for the mortgage."
"Fine," says I; "'most a fifth of it."
"But we've had l-luck. There was sellin' that phonograph. Twenty
dollars clear. Don't happen every day."
"But our daily sales are keeping up pretty well."
"If we d-depend on our daily sales to pull us through," says he,
"Jehoshaphat P. Skip 'll be foreclosin' his mortgage. We g-got to keep
a-thinkin' up schemes. We got to crowd the business and keep crowdin'
it. Then, if somethin' we d-don't foresee now don't happen, we got a
chance. But if somethin' does happen--" He stopped and shrugged his fat
shoulders as much as to say that would be the end of the Bazar.
But I was feeling pretty good. Ninety-six dollars in the bank! That
seemed like a lot; and we had put it there ourselves. It seemed to me
we were coming along fine.
That night I got a telegram from mother. It says:
Father must have operation. Cost hundred dollars. Can you send money?
I just sat down limp in a chair with all the stiffening gone out of my
backbone. There was the extra wallop Mark Tidd was afraid of. I ran
right over to his house and showed him the telegram.
"Hum!" says he. "L-lucky we got that money in the bank. Send it
to-morrow."
"Course," says I. "But it licks us."
He stuck out his jaw and his eyes got sort of hard and sparkly.
"D-does, eh?" says he. "Well, Mr. Plunk, we hain't licked yet. I felt
in my bones bad luck was comin'--and here it is. But we're a-goin' to
stick to it, you can bet. Skip hasn't put us out of b-business yet."
There you were. That very day he'd said something like this would dump
our apple-cart for us--and now that it had happened he was as much for
keeping on as ever. Looked like he didn't know when he was licked. But
that was Mark Tidd all over. He wouldn't let on he had the worst of it
till the sheriff had come and closed up the Bazar. And then, maybe,
there'd be something else he'd think up to try as a last resort.
Next morning we sent mother the ninety-six dollars in the bank with
four dollars besides. It left us with only enough money in the till to
make change with.
Mark looked at it and scowled.
"Got to m-make it grow," says he, "and grow quick."
"All right," says I; "but how?"
"I'm goin' b-back to whittle," says he. "In an hour we'll start
somethin' goin'."