I don't know how Jehoshaphat P. got back to Wicksville, but he did get
back, because I saw him next noon--passed him so our elbows touched. I
couldn't help looking right in his eye and grinning. I expect it was
pretty impudent, but--well, it was a special case. If he'd known what I
was grinning about he'd probably have taken me apart and put me
together wrong--but he didn't know. All he knew was that he had a
chattel mortgage on the Bazar that was due Friday, and that there
wasn't any chance for us to pay it. One of the worst things a man can
do is to know facts that aren't so.
Skip scowled at me and says, "You won't have much grinnin' to do after
Friday, young feller."
"Um!" says I. "You can't tell about grins. They grow promiscuous like
Canada thistles. Never can tell where one'll spring up."
"What you goin' to do about that chattel mortgage? Goin' to turn over
the stock without a fuss, or have I got to fetch in the constables and
dep'ty-sheriffs and court officers? Eh?"
"Well," says I, "if we're goin' to git busted up we might as well have
all the trimmin's. Can't you call out the militia, too?"
"Who's boss of your store, anyhow? You or that fat boy?"
"I calc'late," says I, "that Mark Tidd's in command."
"Guess I'll see him, then. Maybe I can git him to let go peaceable."
"He'll be glad to see you," says I, with another grin.
Jehoshaphat turned around and made for the Bazar. Mark was waiting on a
couple of customers and there were three other folks in the store. That
was unusual, but I says to Skip:
"Things is perty dull with us. Only five customers in the store."
He grunted, but didn't say a word. Mark looked up and saw him, but his
expression never changed.
"Mr. Skip wants to see you when you get time," says I.
He nodded, and in a minute he came over. The woman he'd been waiting on
didn't go out, but hung around to listen, I guess. Folks in Wicksville
was right on hand when curiosity was being handed out.
"What can I d-do for you?" says Mark to Jehoshaphat.
"Chattel mortgage 's due Friday. What you goin' to do about it?"
Mark got on the dolefulest, mournfulest look I ever saw.
"Mr. Skip," says he, good and loud, so everybody could hear him, "can't
you give us a l-little time?"
"Not a day," says Skip, snapping his jaws shut.
"I know we owe the money," says Mark, "but we didn't git it of you. You
went out of your way to buy up that chattel mortgage. You did it just
so as to bust up this b-b-business." He didn't say it mean, but just
like he was almost ready to cry. Skip's eyes was blinking with
satisfaction.
"We can p-pay you part of it," says Mark. "Won't you give us time on
the rest?"
"Not a minute," says Skip.
"But, Mr. Skip, think about Mr. Smalley. He's hurt and in the hospital.
Think about Mrs. Smalley. This store is all they've got. Nobody knows
what'll h-happen to 'em if you don't give us time." He was saying this
loud so everybody in the store could hear.
Skip looked around uneasy and says: "There hain't no use hollerin'.
This is private talk."
"Maybe it is," says Mark, but he didn't lower his voice. "But what're
you g-goin' to do? Like as not the Smalleys would have to go to the
p-poor-farm or somethin'. You'll git your money, Mr. Skip, if you'll
let us have a little time."
"Not a minute," says Skip, beginning to get mad.
"Then," says Mark, "you want to hurt Mr. Smalley in the hospital, and
fix it so his wife hasn't got a cent to buy a meal? Do you want to do
that, Mr. Skip?"
"I hain't got nothin' to do with that. The money's due me and I need
it. If you hain't got it to pay I'm goin' to take the stock."
"You won't take part and wait f-for the rest?"
"No," says Skip.
"All right, then," says Mark. "Friday's the day, I expect. It's perty
hard on the Smalleys, though."
Well, sir, you should have seen the customers that were hanging around
with their mouths open. They were eying Skip like they thought he was
the meanest man alive, and I could hear them saying things to each
other under their breath. Skip was getting some fine advertising.
"What I want to know," says Skip, "is, will you turn over the stock
without a lot of officers and papers?"
"I don't b-believe we can," says Mark. "If you take this stock you got
to take it the way the law says.... Now good-by, Mr. Skip. This store
is ours till Friday, and if you so much as step a foot in it again till
you c-come with the sheriff somethin' will happen to you that'll make
you wish you'd fallen down a well."
At that he turned his back and went behind the counter. Skip sneaked a
look at the women and slunk out as fast as he could go.
When he was gone you should have heard those five women sail into him.
My! the things they said about him! In another hour Wicksville would
know just what had been said and just what those five women thought
about it. Mark winked at me solemn. When the folks were gone he says:
"P-public opinion, Plunk. Ever hear of it?"
"Yes," says I.
"I'm s-sickin' it on Jehoshaphat. He'll be a popular feller in
Wicksville. Won't he be popular, though!"
"What's the idea?" says I. "Why didn't you pay him his money and kick
him out?"
"Because," says he, "I want to make folks love him. I want to fix it so
f-f-folks will go out of their way to buy from him. Do you think this
fight's over when the mortgage is paid? No, siree. We have got to get
the business of this town and keep it away from Skip. When I'm through
with Jehoshaphat Wicksville's goin' to think he's about the meanest man
that ever pinched a p-penny."
"What next?" says I.
"A l-little advertisin'," says he.
That afternoon he painted a lot of signs, big and little. Some were for
the wagon, and Binney and Tallow were to drive it around town, banging
on the drum. Others were for our windows and others were to tack up on
fences. The one in our window says:
Jehoshaphat P. Skip holds a chattel mortgage on this stock. He
bought it just to bust this business. He won't give us time. Friday
he's going to seize the Bazar. Everybody come. At two o'clock. Come
to see Jehoshaphat P. Skip foreclose his mortgage.
That was one sign, others were like it, but every one said something
different and something that wasn't calculated to make folks fond of
Skip. All day Wednesday and all day Thursday we kept them going,
inviting folks to be on hand to see the end of the Bazar.
"How do you know it'll be at two o'clock?" says I.
Mark grinned. "I saw the sheriff," says he, "and f-fixed it up."
Wouldn't that beat you? He'd thought of everything.
Friday came along just as the calendar said it would, but it seemed to
us it took quite a while to do it. When you've got a surprise in your
pocket all ready to spring, it always takes the right minute a long
time to get there. In the mean time we went along just as if nothing
was going to happen, and we didn't let on to a soul what we had in
pickle for Jehoshaphat. We just kept advertising the foreclosure at two
o'clock Friday afternoon like it was some sort of bargain sale. It was
a novelty, all right. Folks don't usually brag about being busted, so
folks took quite an interest, and we were certain to have a good crowd
on hand. I guess they figured something out of the ordinary would
happen. That was on account of Mark Tidd and his reputation.
Lots of folks stopped in to tell us how sorry they were and to tell us
their opinion of Jehoshaphat P. Sympathy doesn't cost a cent, so you
can always get more of it than you need. But it did show that Mark had
fixed things so Skip wouldn't be the best-loved man in our county,
which was something, anyhow.
Friday morning seemed like it could have held all the seven days of the
week. We took lunch in the Bazar. At a quarter to two Mark had us put a
big sign in each window that said:
ALL READY FOR THE FORECLOSURE
EVERYBODY WELCOME
There was a good crowd there--probably fifty or sixty people--when Skip
and the officer came in. The officer went over to Mark and says:
"I've come to take charge of this stock, young feller."
"But," says Mark, "d-don't you have to give folks a chance to pay up
before you seize the store?"
"Yes," says the officer, "but I understood there wasn't any chance of
that."
"Um!" says Mark, and he scrambled up on top of the counter. "Folks,"
says he, as calm and cool as a chunk of ice, "here's Jehoshaphat P.
Skip and the officer to put us out of business. They've got a chattel
mortgage for f-five hundred dollars, and if we can't pay it the Bazar
is b-busted. You know about Mr. Smalley. You've all been friends of his
for years. What d'you think of a man who'll take away everything Mr.
Smalley's got, just out of m-meanness?"
"Here," says the officer, "none of that, now. Git off'n that counter
and keep quiet."
Mark looked down at him and says:
"I've talked this thing over with my lawyer, and I know what I can do
and what I c-can't. I can keep possession of this store till twelve
o'clock to-night if I want to. So, if you want to have your
f-foreclosure to-day just hold your horses till I get through talkin'."
The officer scowled a bit and then grinned and said to go ahead with
the celebration.
"Mr. Smalley didn't borrow this f-five hundred dollars from Mr. Skip.
But what does Mr. Skip do? He sneaks around and finds out about it, and
b-buys up the mortgage so he can use it to put the Bazar out of
business. He knew there wasn't room for his store and this one in
Wicksville, so he started in to git rid of us. He's been m-mean and
underhanded from the start. He tried to get our credit cut off with the
wholesale houses, and whatever he could d-do to hurt us he's gone ahead
and done it."
Skip stood and scowled and wabbled his nose back and forth, but he
didn't say a word.
Mark went on: "We had to m-make money for Mr. Smalley in the hospital,
and we had to keep the business running. That took all we could make.
So if we paid this chattel mortgage up we'd have to get the money some
other way.
"Well, folks, it happened that Mr. Skip didn't know how long he'd last
here, so he didn't t-take a lease of the store he's in. We found that
out. Then, folks, we went and got a lease of it ourselves. We could 'a'
kicked Skip out of it, but we didn't want to do that. We wanted to
p-pay off the mortgage."
He stopped and looked down at Skip and grinned. Folks all looked at
Skip, too. He was white, he was so mad, and if all the folks hadn't
been there I don't know what he'd have done, but he didn't dare wiggle.
Mark started in again.
"We wanted Skip to pay himself the f-five hundred dollars. That's what
we wanted. Right there, folks, he paid part of it. We made him p-pay
two hundred dollars to stay in his store. He didn't know he was payin'
it to us, but he was." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bundle
of bills. "There's the very identical money he paid us. Two hundred
d-dollars of it.... There, Mr. Skip, is t-two hundred dollars on
account. It's from you to yourself." And Mark tossed the money down to
the officer. I thought Skip would choke.
"But that wasn't enough," says Mark. "There was three hundred
dollars more. It seemed like we couldn't raise that much, but this
week we arranged to have Mr. Skip p-pay that to himself, too. We did
it this way: over in Sunfield was a man named Hoffer who had a
f-f-five-and-ten-cent store. He wanted to sell cheap. We knew about
it and we fixed it so Skip heard about it, too. He started over to
buy. We started the same day--and we beat him there. But we didn't
have any m-m-money to buy with. That's where Skip came in handy
again. We went to Mr. Hoffer and got him to give us an option on his
stock at nine hundred d-dollars. Then we went to a lawyer to handle
it for us. Skip came to see the lawyer, not knowin' we had anything
to do with it, and the lawyer sold him the stock we had bought at
nine hundred dollars for twelve hundred and twenty-five
dollars--givin' us a p-p-profit of three hundred d-dollars and
payin' our lawyer for his services. Perty kind of Skip, wasn't it?
Eh, Mr. Skip? And, Mr. Skip, there's the three hundred dollars. The
same b-bills you gave us. That squares us, Mr. Skip. You've p-paid
yourself what we owed you and we're much obliged. 'Tain't every man
would be so kind." Here he tossed over the three hundred.
You should have seen Skip. He couldn't say a word. I don't believe he
could think. He just stood and trembled, he was so furious, and waggled
his nose, and his Adam's apple went up and down like an elevator in a
busy building. And the folks yelled. It wasn't a cheer; it was a laugh.
They hollered. Men and women threw back their heads and laughed like
I've never seen folks laugh before. And the things they said to Skip! I
wouldn't have had folks poke fun at me like that for seven times five
hundred dollars. Mark held up his hand.
"I advertised this f-foreclosure," he said, with a grin, "so all
Wicksville would know what kind of a man Skip is. I wanted Wicksville
to appreciate how generous he is. I hope after this f-folks won't
bother to trade here at the Bazar. We don't deserve it, for all we do
is give an honest bargain for every cent you spend here. Go to Skip....
And now, Mr. Skip, you've got your money. I calc'late you and the
officer hain't got anythin' more to d-do here, and I'll bet you've got
business somewheres else. So good afternoon, Mr. Skip; and, Mr. Skip,
you might carry off the thought that competition in business is all
right, but that folks that tries to squeeze and won't play f-fair is
apt to git into a pinch themselves.... Good afternoon, Mr. Skip."
Skip and the officer started for the door, with folks jostling them and
making funny remarks and laughing at them fit to bust. I'll bet he was
glad to get to the door, and the way he shot out into the street and
dodged toward his own place was enough to make you laugh if you had a
sore tooth.
Then folks crowded around Mark, and he stood and let them admire him,
and enjoyed it to beat everything. Mr. Bloom got up on a chair and says:
"Fellow-townsmen, that there man Skip hain't the sort of citizen we
want here. There's some way to git rid of him. You know what that is."
"You bet," says Chet Weevil, "just keep away from his store."
"That's the ticket," says Mr. Bloom. "Now, folks, see what you can do.
It won't take long."
"Jest you watch us," says Mr. Hoover. "We'll 'tend to Skip."
Mark stood up again. "Now, folks," he says, "the place is ready for
business again. You'll find us behind the counters, and we'll be there
six days a week, ready to g-g-give you your money's worth and a little
more every time."
The crowd hung around a spell, gabbling and talking and buying a few
things, but they finally left and we four were alone.
"Mark," says I, "I'm goin' to write mother now. Whatever else there is
to do can wait. And when her letter comes back I'm goin' to give it to
you. She'll say in it the things that I hain't got any idea of how to
say right."
"There don't need to anybody say anything," says he, but all the same I
knew he'd be pretty disappointed if nobody did, and I knew he'd want
mother's letter to keep always. There was Mark's little weakness. He
could do big things and fine things and he was honest and the sort of
fellow you could downright admire--but he did like to be admired. I
don't know as I blame him. I'd like to be admired myself if I could
find some way of making folks do it.
CONCLUSION
That's about all there is to it. Skip stuck it out two weeks, then he
moved over to Sunfield into Mr. Hoffer's store where he couldn't bother
us any more. And that was the last of him.
The business was a little slack at first, but it began to pick up in a
day or two, and just before the Saturday when the announcement of the
result of the beauty contest was to be made there was quite a rush.
Mark Tidd had stirred it up with advertising. The last time we put up
the names before the final count the contestants stood:
Mr. Pilkins, 967 votes.
Mr. Bloom, 958 votes.
Chet Weevil, 947 votes.
Chancy Miller, 941 votes.
Of course there were others, but these men were at the top and nobody
was near them.
Well, sir, on Saturday morning in came young Mr. Hopkins, whose father
owns the bank, and bought a phonograph just like Old Mose Miller's, and
a lot of records. It gave him eleven hundred votes.
"You can v-vote 'em for yourself," says Mark, with a grin, "and elect
yourself the handsomest m-man in town."
Mr. Hopkins, who was a bully fellow, grinned back. "What'll I do with
'em?" says he.
Mark's eyes twinkled. "It wouldn't be f-f-fair for me to suggest
anything," says he, "but if those votes were mine I'll bet I'd have
some f-f-fun with 'em."
Mr. Hopkins thought a few minutes and then began writing a name on
every ballot. It took him quite a while. I couldn't see who it was, but
all of a sudden Mark started to grin and I knew there was a joke on
somebody.
"Who is it?" says I.
"Peabody," says Mark. "Jupiter Peabody."
"Don't know him," says I. I didn't, either. I'd never heard of such a
man. "Who is he?"
"Oh, he's been living here a long time," says Mr. Hopkins. "Maybe you
never happened to meet him, though."
I racked my brains, but for the life of me I couldn't catch on to who
he was.
At half past two the list was to go up, and there was a crowd on hand.
Everybody was anxious, especially Chet and Chancy and some of the
women. The men mostly pretended it was a joke, anyhow, and they didn't
care how it came out--but they did care, all the same.
Prompt on the minute Mark stepped into the window and pasted up the
list. For a minute the folks were quiet; then there was a hubbub.
Everybody was astonished. Here, at the last minute, somebody had come
in and beaten everybody.
"Peabody," says a man, "who's Jupiter Peabody? I know Sam Peabody, but
he hain't got no relatives named Jupiter that I know of."
"Me, neither," says Mr. Bloom. "Anyhow he's handsomer'n I be. I'd like
to git a look at him."
Chet and Chancy both looked like they wanted to cry.
"Who is it?" says Chet.
"Never heard of him," says Chancy, "but I'll bet he's homelier'n you
be."
"Anyhow," says Chet, "he probably hain't got curly hair."
It looked for a minute like there might be a scrimmage, but just then
an old man came along, driving a dump-cart filled with pumpkins.
"There," says Mr. Bloom, "is Sam Peabody. Let's ask him if he knows
this Jupiter."
So they stopped the old fellow, and Mr. Bloom says:
"Got any relatives livin' here?"
"No," says Mr. Peabody, "nary relative."
"Any other Peabodys hereabouts that you know of?"
The old man shook his head slow and allowed he didn't know of any.
"Well," says Mr. Bloom, "this here is a mystery, all right. Here's a
Jupiter Peabody that's won the handsomest-man contest, and nobody knows
him."
"What?" says the old fellow. "What's that? Won the handsomest-man
contest? Got most votes for bein' the handsomest man in Wicksville?
Ho!" He threw back his head and roared. "Handsomest man! Whee! Think of
that, now." He sat a minute laughing like all-git-out; then he reached
out with his whip and touched his mule. "Giddap, Jupiter!" says he.
"Giddap!"
It was a minute before folks caught on--and then you should have heard
the laugh. Jupiter, Jupiter Peabody--a mule. And he'd been elected the
handsomest man in Wicksville. Everybody, including even Chet and
Chancy, roared so hard they almost choked, and they pounded each other
on the back and danced up and down and shrieked. It was the funniest
joke that ever happened in Wicksville.
Maybe if a real man had won the losers would have been mad, but nobody
won but a mule! And everybody saw the joke. I guess it was about the
best way the thing could have come out.
So that was the end of the beauty contest.
In another two weeks father came home, a little lame, but so he would
be all right in no time, and mother came with him. I'll never forget
the way she took Mark Tidd by the hand, nor what she said to him. It
made him blink his eyes, I can tell you.
"Mark," she says, "it's a fine thing to have brains that you can scheme
with, and it's fine to be brave, and it's fine to be able to stick to
things to the very end, but when you add to that a heart that's willing
to do things for other folks, and that is happiest when it's helping
somebody that needs help, you've got about the finest kind of a man
there is. And that's the kind of man you're going to be, Mark. I'm glad
my son is your friend."
I felt the same way about it myself.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Books for Boys by a Master of Fiction
The Mark Tidd Stories
By CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND
MARK TIDD
An ingenious fat boy and his three friends meet danger and excitement
in solving the mystery of the strange footprint in their secret cave.
MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS
Mark and his three friends take Smalley's Bazaar and make a success of
it, in spite of unfair competition from the villain of the story.
MARK TIDD, EDITOR
The resourceful fat boy runs a country newspaper. As editor, foreman of
the press room, circulation manager and business manager, he makes the
Wicksville Trumpet a paying proposition.
MARK TIDD, MANUFACTURER
The boys take over an old mill fallen into disrepair and soon have it
showing a profit. How Mark outwits the unscrupulous representative of a
big power company makes an irresistibly funny book.
MARK TIDD IN THE BACKWOODS
Mark turns detective and foils a scheme to defraud his pal's uncle--an
exciting story of mystery and fun.
MARK TIDD'S CITADEL
The boys run into mystery in a closed-up summer hotel where they rescue
a kidnapped Samurai boy from his pursuers.
MARK TIDD IN ITALY
Here is fun and action aplenty and a story that will hold Mark's old
friends and make many new ones.
GROSSET & DUNLAP : Publishers : NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOOKS FOR BOYS
Thrilling best-seller tales of mystery and adventure
THE SPOTLIGHT BOOKS
STOCKY OF LONE TREE RANCH Chas. H. Snow
CRIMSON ICE C. Fitzsimmons
70,000 WITNESSES C. Fitzsimmons
DEATH ON THE DIAMOND C. Fitzsimmons
FLASH GORDON Alex Raymond
TAILSPIN TOMMY Mark Stevens
SMILEY ADAMS R.J. Burrough
HAWK OF THE WILDERNESS W. L. Chester
THE PONY EXPRESS Henry James Forman
THE IRON HORSE Edwin C. Hill
THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW TIE Laurence Dwight Smith
THE LONE RANGER BOOKS
by Fran Striker
THE LONE RANGER
THE LONE RANGER AND THE MYSTERY RANCH
THE LONE RANGER AND THE GOLD ROBBERY
THE LONE RANGER AND THE OUTLAW STRONGHOLD
THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO
THE G-MEN BOOKS
THE G-MEN SMASH THE "PROFESSOR'S" GANG William Engle
THE G-MEN IN JEOPARDY Laurence D. Smith
THE G-MEN TRAP THE SPY RING Laurence D. Smith
THE JIMMIE DRURY BOOKS
by David O'Hara
JIMMIE DRURY: CANDID CAMERA DETECTIVE
JIMMIE DRURY: WHAT THE DARK ROOM REVEALED
JIMMIE DRURY: CAUGHT BY THE CAMERA
GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK
End of Project Gutenberg's Mark Tidd in Business, by Clarence B. Kelland