“What we got to do,” says Mark, next morning, “is to get a l-little
money ahead so we won’t have to be b-bustin’ ourselves every day to
p-pay the men. If we only had two-three hunderd d-dollars it ’u’d give
us time to start in to run this mill.”
“If I had it,” says I, “I’d lend it to us.”
“There must be some m-m-money owin’ to Silas,” says Mark. “Let’s ask
him.”
Silas Doolittle Bugg was just sort of roaming around, keeping an eye on
things and waggling his head. He didn’t seem to be bossing anything, but
just strolling around to see the sights. He’d stop and look at the men
in the log-yard a minute, and scratch his head and waggle it as much as
to say, “Well, if that hain’t the beatinest thing I ever see!” like he
was astonished ’most to death, you know, when he had been seeing that
selfsame sight almost every day of his life. Then he would mogg into the
mill and stand alongside the saw for a spell and talk to himself and act
as if a saw cutting through a log was a miracle right out of the Bible.
I never saw a man that could get up so much surprise over something that
didn’t surprise him a bit. He was always surprised. I’ll bet it
surprised him when he woke up in the morning.
Mark and I went over to him, and Mark says:
“Mr. Bugg, see if you can’t think of somebody that owes you some
money—somebody you’ve sold things to.”
“Wa-al,” says Silas, “I calc’late I’ve sold a heap of folks a heap of
things. Some more and some less. Mostly they been in the habit of
payin’. Some has, and I figger there’s some that hain’t, but for the
life of me I can’t make out which is which.”
Mark jerked a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at Silas.
“I’ve copied off of those p-pieces of wood in the office,” says he,
“about all I could make out to read. How much of this is paid and how
much is owed?”
“When a man paid I mostly looked for his chunk of wood and fired it out
of the window,” says Silas.
“Then all of these haven’t p-paid?”
“I wouldn’t go so far’s to say that. I hain’t what you might call a good
hand at firin’ things out of windows. There was times when I aimed at
the window and never come near it. Them blocks that didn’t go out
must’a’ fell back on the floor. And then there was times when I was too
busy to go lookin’ for anybody’s piece of wood and jest let her slide.
No, I don’t calc’late you kin tell much by them blocks.”
“Looks that way,” says Mark. “Who was the last firm you shipped
chair-spindles to?”
“Lemme see, now, was that Gorman and Peters, or was it the Family Chair
Company? Dummed if I know. Maybe it wasn’t neither. But I shipped a mess
away jest a few days before I shut down.”
“Git paid for ’em?”
“There was money comin’ in every leetle while. How d’you expect a feller
to remember who it come from? Seems like maybe that there lot wa’n’t
paid for, though. Seems like.”
“Um!” says Mark. “Say, Silas, where’s there another mill around here
that makes things like we do here?”
“Over to Sunfield; and then there’s some over to Bostwick where them
chair-factories is.”
Mark walked off, and I followed him. He hunted up Tallow and Binney and
give them their orders for the day. They was to check up every foot of
timber that come into the mill, and to keep track of just how many
spindles, or whatever it was, that every man made, and all that. “It’s
for the c-c-cost system,” says Mark. “We got to have f-facts, and have
’em exact.”
“While we’re doin’ that,” says Tallow, “what be you goin’ to do?”
“I’m goin’ to Bostwick,” says Mark, “to git two things—information and
m-m-money.”
“Hope you have luck,” says Binney.
“Calc’late to,” Mark says, in that funny way of his; it’s a determined
way. When he speaks like that you know he has made up his mind to do
what he’s set out to do or bust. “Come on, Plunk,” says he to me;
“you’re goin’ along.”
We went down to the depot, and Mark yelled for old Lish Peasley, the
freight-man. “Mr. Peasley,” says he, “who did the last shipment from
Bugg’s mill go to?”
“Bugg,” snapped Lish, and scowled at Mark like he was figgering on
taking a nip out of him. “Think all I got to do is keep track of who
that old foozle ships stuff to?”
“I know you’re m-m-mighty busy,” says Mark, as sober as a judge, “and I
know what a heap of awful important things you got to be thinkin’ about
all the t-t-time, but folks says you got a wonderful m-m-memory. I was
thinkin’ maybe you’d recall about this.”
“Huh!” says Lish. “Folks beginnin’ to appreciate what a job I got, eh?
Beginnin’ to see that old Lish is some pumpkins when it comes to
rememberin’. ’Bout time! Huh!... Now lemme see. Sile he made a less-car
shipment along about a week ago, somewheres near. Remember who it went
to? You kin bet I do? Ever hear tell of me forgettin’ anythin’ havin’ to
do with this here perfession of mine? I calc’late you didn’t.”
“I certainly never d-d-did,” says Mark.
“Hain’t many freight-handlers to touch me,” says Lish. “’Cause why?
’Cause I made a study of it. That’s why. Some fellers treats it like a
job. I hain’t never viewed it so. Perfession’s what I call it. Like
bein’ a lawyer or a minister or sich. Made a study of it.”
“Wonderful,” says Mark, and he said it so sincere and natural-like that
I almost believed he felt that way about it myself. He didn’t even wink
at me when he said it. No, sir, you can bet he didn’t. When Mark Tidd
was doing a thing, he did it thorough. I knew he was taffying Lish, and
he knew I knew it, but would he wink at me? Not much. He was pretendin’
he did admire Lish, that’s what he was doin’, and he pretended it so
hard that he did admire him while it was going on.
“Who did you say that s-s-shipment went to?” Mark says, in a minute.
“Family Chair Company, of course. Over to Bostwick. How many times have
I got to tell you, eh? Got to stand here a-yellin’ it at you all the
mornin’?”
“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and out we went.
We didn’t have to wait long for the train to Bostwick, and it was just
an hour’s ride, so we got there quite a while before noon. Bostwick was
considerable of a place, with lots of factories and about fifty-six
times as many stores and houses as Wicksville. I was bothered a little
thinking maybe we might get lost, but then I says to myself:
“So long as you’re with Mark Tidd you’re all right. You might get lost,
Plunk Smalley, but there hain’t any chance of mislayin’ Mark. Might as
well try to lose the Goddess of Liberty.” So I went along with him and
kept my mouth shut, which is a wise thing to do in a heap of cases.
Mark he prances up to a policeman and says, “Mister, where be we
g-g-goin’ to find the Family Chair Company?”
The policeman looked at Mark and grinned, and then he says, “They don’t
make that kind of furniture, son.”
“What kind?” says Mark.
“Iron,” says the policeman.
“Hain’t l-l-lookin’ for iron furniture.”
“You hain’t? Now I made sure you was. Lookin’ at you, I jest naturally
says to myself, here’s a feller lookin’ for a chair he kin set in
without smashin’ it flat. That’s what I says. And, says I, no wooden
chair made’ll hold him more’n a second. No, if you’re lookin’ for
furniture to set in yourself, young feller, better go somewheres else.”
He didn’t say it mean and disagreeable, but jolly and good-natured, and
Mark didn’t get mad like he generally does when somebody twits him about
being fat. He grinned back and says:
“’Tain’t for me, mister. I hain’t usin’ furniture no m-m-more. I busted
up so much the f-f-folks makes me set on the floor. There’s a dent in
the f-floor where I gen’ally set, but Dad’s propped it up from
underneath with a four-by-four.... Where’d you say that factory was?”
“Hop on this street-car,” says the policeman, “and git off when it gits
to the end of the line. You’ll see a whoppin’-big factory to your left.”
“Yes,” says Mark.
“Well, that hain’t it,” says the policeman, and grins again. “It’s the
whoppin’-big one to your _right_.”
“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and we went out and got on the car that was
stopping. It took us maybe twenty minutes to get to the end of the line,
and there we got off and looked around. Say, I never saw a factory the
size of that one. It was big enough to hold the whole town of
Wicksville, with some of the outlying districts thrown in.
“Come on,” says Mark.
“What we goin’ to do, now we’re here?” says I.
“Hanged if I know,” says he, “but we’re goin’ to do somethin’.”
We went to the office entrance, and there was a boy with a uniform on,
and brass buttons, setting behind a desk and looking as important as a
banty rooster.
“What do you kids want?” says he, proud and haughty. “If you hain’t got
business here, don’t be hangin’ around. We don’t want any kids loafin’
here.”
“We come to see the m-m-monkeys,” says Mark, solemn and gentle.
“Monkeys?” says the boy, and set up a laugh that was enough to make a
saint mad. “There hain’t no monkeys. Think this is a circus? This is a
chair-factory.”
“Oh!” says Mark. “Chair-factory, eh? Well, I see how I come to m-m-make
the m-mistake. It was lookin’ at you. I seen you all tricked up in that
monkey suit and how much you l-looked like a monkey, and of course I
f-figgered it was a monkey-show inside. When you come to speak I was
sure of it, ’cause you talked jest like I imagine a trained monkey would
talk—if its trainer had forgot to teach it manners.”
The kid opened his mouth and panted once; then he shut his mouth
careful, like he was afraid something would escape out of it, and he
turned pink and red and let out a cough, and wiggled in his chair.
Seemed like nothing occurred to him to say just at that minute. Mark did
the saying.
“We’re here on business,” says Mark, “and we want to see the man that
owns this factory. We want to see him _quick_.”
“He don’t want to hire any boys.”
“He will,” says Mark, short and sharp. “He’ll want to hire one to
t-t-take your job if you don’t git a move on you.”
Just then a tall gentleman came along the hall and looked at Mark, and
sort of grinned when he heard what Mark said. He stopped and says, “What
seems to be the main difficulty here?”
“We came to see the m-m-man that owns this factory—on m-mighty important
business—and this kid spoke a piece he didn’t seem to know very well,”
says Mark.
The man coughed into his hand and says: “I own the mill, young man.
What’s your important business?”
“Money,” says Mark.
“That’s always important,” says the man.
“You bet,” says Mark. “So we come to git some. You owe us f-f-for ’most
a car of chair-s-spindles shipped a week ago, and if you had any idea
how much we need that money I’ll bet you’d send it by telegraph. Honest,
I dunno’s _anybody_ ever needed money as bad as we need that.”
“Who are you, anyhow?”
“I’m Mark Tidd and this is Plunk Smalley. We’re from Wicksville and
we’re runnin’ Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill. He got it all messed up and
we s-s-stepped in to straighten him out.”
“Silas Bugg, eh?” says the man. “And you stepped in to straighten him
out? Mill experts, are you?”
“We hain’t much of any experts,” says Mark, “but when it comes to
business, anythin’ would be an improvement over Silas. We calc’late to
pull him through.”
“How much do we owe you?”
“Silas don’t know and we don’t know.”
“Then how do you expect I can pay you? It’s customary to send an
invoice.”
“Not with Silas it hain’t. Silas never got introduced to an invoice. But
we got the amount of stuff that was s-s-shipped, and we figgered you
knew how much you was payin’ for it. ’Most gen’ally men that’s been able
to git to own a factory like this know what they’re payin’ for a thing
before they buy it.”
“Hum!” says the man, and he looked at Mark kind of interested. “You got
some powers of observation, haven’t you?”
“That’s common s-s-sense,” says Mark.
“A good many folks don’t have common sense.... But you’re right this
time. We had a contract with Silas Bugg. I’ll look it up. When did you
ship those spindles?”
Mark told him.
“Your money isn’t due, then,” says the man. “We have thirty days to pay,
and almost two weeks of it are left.”
“Um!” says Mark. “Git a discount for thirty days?”
“Two per cent.,” says the man, trying to look severe and sober, but with
a twinkle in his eyes.
“Business is business,” says Mark; “if we ask for s-somethin’ we hain’t
entitled to we’re willin’ to pay for it. If you git two per cent, for
thirty days, you ought to get three, anyhow, for f-f-fourteen.”
“If I pay now you’ll give me an extra one per cent, discount?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come into the office and we’ll look up Bugg’s contract. How is it you
haven’t a copy?”
“Most likely Silas Doolittle used his c-copy to kindle a f-f-fire with,”
says Mark.
The man, whose name turned out to be Mr. Rushmore, took us into his
office and told us to sit down, and pressed a button. In come a girl and
he told her to bring the Silas Bugg contract. She came back in a minute
and put it on his desk. Mr. Rushmore read it through and sort of
frowned. Then he figured a little.
“According to this,” he says, “we owe you three hundred and sixteen
dollars.”
“With the discount off?” says Mark.
“Yes; I figured that.”
“More ’n I hoped,” says Mark. “That’ll t-take care of the pay-roll for
quite a spell.”
“This last shipment completed your contract,” says Mr. Rushmore. “Do you
want to make a new contract with me on the same terms?”
“I m-may,” says Mark, “but not to-day.”
“Why not to-day?”
“Because,” says Mark, “Silas Doolittle never knew what it cost him to
manufacture, and he was always l-losin’ money. It don’t take much work
to guess he was sellin’ for too little. We’re workin’ out the costs of
everything, to get it exact, and until we know we hain’t makin’ a
contract.”
“By Jove!” says the man. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” says Mark.
“Who is running that mill?”
“Us four boys.”
“No man to boss you?”
“Only man around the p-premises is Silas Doolittle.”
“And you stepped in to untangle things, eh? Well, young man, I shouldn’t
be surprised if you did it. Where did you get your ideas of business?”
“Hain’t got many, but we got to have somethin’ to go by. Common sense
tells a f-f-feller he can’t make money sellin’ for less’n cost.”
“That’s a great truth,” says Mr. Rushmore.
“How about our m-m-money?” says Mark.
“I’ll have a check for you at once. When you get around to it, let me
know. We need quite a lot of spindles and will need them all this year.”
“Glad to supply ’em,” says Mark, “but not till we got our costs.”
“I’ll take a chance if you will,” says Mr. Rushmore, and I saw a twinkle
come into his eye again. “I’ll raise the figures in this contract five
per cent. That ought to make you come out right.”
Mark studied a minute. “No,” says he; “that wouldn’t be business for
either of us. We m-m-might not be gettin’ enough, or you m-might be
p-payin’ too much. The only way is to be f-f-fair to both parties. We
want you satisfied as well as us.”
“Son,” says Mr. Rushmore, “you’ll get along. That’s a business principle
that will bring success. The satisfied customer is the valuable
customer. Stick to it.”
“I’m goin’ to,” says Mark.
Mr. Rushmore had a check made out and gave it to us. “What are you going
to do the rest of the day?” says he.
“We’re goin’ to go around some of these turnin’-mills in Bostwick and
see how they work, and t-t-talk to some of the bosses and git what
information we can. I got a n-notion Silas’s way of doin’ things might
be improved some.”
“Maybe you’re right,” says Mr. Rushmore. “We do quite a bit of our own
turning. Glad to have you go through the plant.”
“Make any dowels?” says Mark, and I wondered what he asked that for.
“About a hundred millions a year.”
“Um!... Any money in ’em?”
“We think so.”
“Make all you n-need?”
“We have to buy a great many.”
“Maybe,” says Mark, “we kin do some b-business in dowels, too. We got a
dowel-machine that Silas bought because he thought it was pretty, or
s-somethin’. Never set it up.”
“When you’re ready, let me know,” says Mr. Rushmore, and he sent for a
man to show us through the factory. It was mighty interesting and we
found out a lot of things that was valuable to know. After dinner we
went to a couple of small turning-mills, about the size of ours, and we
got to know quite a lot that was worth money to us. At five o’clock we
took the train back to Wicksville, and the first man we saw when we got
off the train was Amassa P. Wiggamore, the man that tried to buy our
dam.