Next morning you would have thought Mark had forgotten all about old-man
Fugle and his two hunderd and seventy-two dollars. He never mentioned
it, but just took his reports of what we had in stock and went out.
“Where you goin’?” says I.
“Sell some s-s-stuff,” says he.
“How?” says I.
“Telephone,” says he. “No time to waste. While I’m gone you see if the
railroad kin set a car in on our sidin’ right away. I want to ship a
c-car to-day.”
“Who to?” says I.
“How should I know?” says he, “I got to sell it yet.”
That was hustling for you, wasn’t it? Here he was planning to get a car
and have it loaded and ship it when he didn’t have a thing sold and
didn’t know whether he could sell a thing. But he was always a fellow to
take a chance when there was a fair show of its amounting to something.
I scooted over, and the man in the freight-shed told me he could set in
a car before noon. Then I hustled over to the telephone office to meet
Mark. He was just getting the man that owned the big mill in Bostwick on
the wire.
“Hello!” says he. “Hello! This is Mark Tidd, of Wicksville. I want to
speak to the b-b-boss.” He waited a minute, listening. “No, not him,” he
says. “The man that owns it. Mr. Rushmore.” In another minute he spoke
again. “Hello! Mr. Rushmore? Mornin’, Mr. Rushmore! This here is Mark
Tidd, of Wicksville. Remember me?”
I guess Mr. Rushmore remembered him, because Mark went right along
talking.
“I got them p-p-prices figgered out. We been manufacturin’ r-right
along, and we kin ship a car-load to-day. Eh? What’s that?... Oh, here’s
the list!” He read off the list of things we could ship and how many of
them, and then he give out the prices. “Yes,” says he, in a couple of
seconds, “it’s some b-boost in price, but it’s the b-best we kin do. We
couldn’t sell for a cent l-less and keep in b-business.” Another little
wait. “All right. T-thank you, sir. We’ll ship to-day.... How about a
c-c-contract? At those prices.”
Mr. Rushmore did some talking, and then Mark says:
“Much obleeged, sir. How about dowels? What’s the market price of
dowels? I calc’late we can furnish them at the market.”
Mr. Rushmore talked some more.
“All right, sir. The machinery is b-bein’ set. We can ship a good l-lot
in the next car.... Good-by.” He hung up the receiver and turned to me
with a grin. “There,” says he, “we’ve sold our car-load, and we g-g-got
a contract with him for all the chair stock we kin make. He’ll furnish
the turnin’ knives and patterns. And he’ll t-t-take as many dowels as we
kin cut.”
“Fine,” says I, “but what about old-man Fugle?”
“Got to raise money for him somehow,” says he. “F-first we got to
r-r-raise that money. I wisht it was done so’s I could give some
attention to Jason Barnes. I want to give him about t-two hunderd and
seventy-two d-d-dollars’ worth of attention. He’s got to be showed that
it hain’t a p-p-payin’ p-proposition to meddle with other folks’s
business.”
“You bet,” says I. “But how you goin’ to raise the money?”
“B-borrow it, if I kin.”
“Who of?”
“The b-bank.”
“Huh!” says I.
“Other b-business men borrow money of the b-bank,” says he, “so I don’t
see why I can’t do it, too.”
“Because they won’t let you,” says I.
“Never t-tell till you try,” says he. “Come on.”
So we went to the bank, and Mark asked to see Mr. Holmes, who was the
president. We went into his office, and Mr. Holmes looked up and smiled
and says:
“What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?”
“We want to b-borrow some m-money, Mr. Holmes,” says Mark.
Mr. Holmes shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.
“That enough?” says he. “What security?”
“This,” says Mark, serious as an owl, “is b-business. We wasn’t
calc’latin’ to borrow nothin’ to buy candy. Here’s how it is: You know
we’re r-runnin’ Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill for him, and we’re m-makin’
a go of it. Yes, sir. We’re gittin’ it down to a b-business basis, and
we calc’late to make money. If ’twasn’t for Silas Doolittle, we wouldn’t
have to b-borrow, but he forgits about seven times as much as he
remembers, and one of the things he forgot was that he owed old-man
Fugle two hunderd and seventy-two dollars and sixty-one cents.” Then he
went on and explained to Mr. Holmes how Mr. Wiggamore was tryin’ to get
our dam away from us, and what he had put Jason Barnes up to do, and all
that. “Old-man Fugle has give us till Tuesday. If we d-d-don’t p-pay up
then, he’ll sell to Jason,” says Mark.
“So that’s how it is,” says Mr. Holmes, and he looked sober and
business-like. “You admit you are on the verge of bankruptcy, and come
to borrow a large sum of money. Do you think it would be right for me to
lend it to you? What if you failed to pay it back?”
“We won’t,” says Mark. “I know we kin m-m-make that mill pay, but if we
fall down on it, I’ll p-pay it myself. Yes, sir. I’ll guarantee you git
your money.”
“And I believe you would keep your word,” says Mr. Holmes. “I know
something about you, young man, and I’d like to help you out, but,
really, I don’t see how I can. You’re not of age, you know, and the law
won’t let you assume a debt.”
“L-look here,” says Mark, “lemme tell you how we’re gettin’ along. This
mornin’ I got a contract for all we can manufacture, and another
contract for dowels that we’re goin’ to m-make. We got the machinery.
Here’s the p-prices Silas Doolittle was sellin’ for, and here’s the
prices I’ve f-f-figgered out was right, and we’re goin’ to git them on
the new c-c-contract. Jest l-look ’em over.”
Mr. Holmes looked them over and got sort of interested and asked a lot
of questions. Then he says: “This is a good job you’ve done, young man.
Nobody could have done better. I wish I could find some way to help
you—but I don’t see how I can do it.”
“We’re shippin’ a car-load of stuff to-day—to Mr. Rushmore, of Bostwick.
It’ll come to about six hunderd dollars. But he won’t pay for thirty
days. We got to have the m-money before that. Now why can’t we give you
the invoice and b-bill of lading as security, and pay interest to you
till Mr. Rushmore sends his check? Then you would have s-s-security and
there wouldn’t be any chance of your losin’. You kin call Mr. Rushmore
on the ’phone and find out if what I say is all right.”
“By Jove!” says Mr. Holmes, “I think I could do that! I won’t bother to
call Rushmore. Your word is good here, Mark Tidd. You’ve made a
reputation for keeping your word and for telling the truth, and it’s
worth money to you. Some day you’ll realize that more than you do
to-day. Do you know that a banker is more particular about a man’s
truthfulness and honesty than he is about his security? Yes, sir. I’d
rather lend money to a man who hadn’t security, but who had always been
honest and fair, than to a man who could give me government bonds as
security, but had a reputation for being crooked. Your word is good, and
so is young Smalley’s here, and Jenks’s and Martin’s. You four birds
flock in a bush mostly, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, just stick to the way you’re going and keep on building up a
reputation for keeping your word and making a success of things, and
some day you will get a big money return on it.... I’m glad we found a
way to help you out. As soon as you make shipment, and have your bill of
lading and invoice, bring them here and I’ll have your money for you.”
He shook hands with us both and we went out. I was feeling pretty good,
I can tell you, and I guess Mark was, too, by the way his eyes twinkled
over his fat cheeks. It was a nice thing to have a man like Mr. Holmes
say about you, even better than getting the money we needed. But Mark
didn’t say a word about it, so I didn’t.
We went back to the mill, and we four boys and Silas started in to load
that car. Believe me, we worked. I never hustled so in my life, and we
didn’t even stop for lunch. We wanted to have that car loaded for the
three-o’clock freight, and we did it. Mark rushed in and made out the
bill of lading and the invoice, and along came the engine and grabbed
the car, and off she went. Then Mark rushed to the bank with the papers,
and Mr. Holmes gave him the money. When he came back he told us Mr.
Holmes said we could get money that way whenever we needed it bad. It
was a nice thing to know.
We could hardly wait for the whistle to blow and to get our suppers.
Then we went out in a crowd to old-man Fugle’s farm, which was about
five miles up the river. We rode in Tallow Martin’s father’s surrey
behind their old horse, and he was considerable of a horse, I can tell
you. If a volcano was to shoot off right under that horse’s feet he
might wiggle his ear and sort of look like he wondered if something
unusual was going on. Mind, I don’t guarantee he would pay any attention
to it, but he might. And fast! Whew! You never saw such speed! Why, I’ve
known old Willie—Willie was his name—to start from the corner of Main
Street at nine o’clock in the morning, and get to his barn, a quarter of
a mile away, by noon! He could do it if he set his mind to it.
Sometimes, though, he didn’t go in for speed and it would take him all
day. Tallow was pretty proud of him and sort of spread over us other
kids because we didn’t have any horses.
We got out to old-man Fugle’s after quite some time, but it was a fine
ride. On the way out Mark said we should pretend we was a
prairie-schooner crossing the plains, and that there was wild Injuns and
buffalo and such like scattered all around kind of promiscuous. The way
Mark Tidd could spot Injuns and game was a caution. Us other fellows
kept a sharp lookout, but for every Injun we saw and peppered he saw a
dozen. Why, doggone it! if he didn’t drag one out from under the seat
and scalp him right there! He said the critter had hid there to betray
us to his tribe.
It’s all right to play such games in daylight in town, but when it gets
to be pretty dark, and you’re ’way off in the woods and not a soul
anywheres in sight—well, I’d just as soon play something else. Before we
got to old-man Fugle’s I was really seeing Injuns and what not, and the
cold chills was a-chasing themselves up and down my spine like they had
got up a game of tag. I, for one, was all-fired glad when Fugle’s light
came into view. We drove up to the gate and about a thousand dogs came
boiling out of the yard at us. Old-man Fugle kept more dogs than he did
sheep. Judging from some of the mutton that comes from his place, he
makes a mistake sometimes and ketches a dog instead of a sheep.
Well, the old man came busting out of his house, dragging a shot-gun,
and bellows out to know who is there, and we tell him, meantime keeping
our legs tucked up out of reach of his dogs.
“What you want this time of night?” says he.
“We want to g-g-give you some m-money,” says Mark.
“Come and give it, then,” says he
“Call off them dogs,” says Mark.
“They won’t harm you,” says Fugle.
“You b-bet they won’t,” says Mark, “not so l-long as I set up here out
of reach. If you calc’late to git this money, either come after it or
shet up them wolves.”
“How much you got?”
“All of it.”
“Huh!... I’m a-comin’.” He came over and kicked about eleven dogs out of
the way and stretched up his hand. “Gimme it,” says he.
“Gimme a receipt first,” says Mark.
“Hain’t got no receipt,” says old-man Fugle.
“Then you b-better git one if you want this money. We hain’t payin’ out
no cash without havin’ s-s-somethin’ to show for it.”
Well, old-man Fugle grumbled and complained quite a lot, and says we was
trying to cheat him, though I don’t see how he figgered it, and says he
was going to have the law on us, or anyhow get our folks to lick us for
being sassy; but finally he went back in the house and brought back a
piece of paper he must have been saving up for eighteen or twenty years,
with some scratches on it that he said was writing. Mark lit a match and
read it over careful, and said it was all right, and handed over the
money. Old-man Fugle counted it eleven times, and every time he made it
come out different. Sometimes he got six dollars too much, and sometimes
he got thirty cents too little. He kicked up enough fuss to have started
a riot with. But after a while he let on he was satisfied, and told us
to git out of there and quit disturbing him and let him go to sleep, and
we was a measly passel of boys that was coming to a bad end, anyhow.
That’s the thanks we got out of that old coot for paying him a lot of
money.
On the way back Mark says let’s play Injun some more, but I put my foot
down and says I wouldn’t. I had enough Injuns for that night and wanted
to play something peaceful and soothing.
“All right,” says he. “Let’s play we’re a band of fugitives a-fleein’
from the wrath of a wicked knight that’s burned our castle and wants to
put us in a dungeon and hack us to pieces with an ax, a finger to a
time, till our f-faithful retainers raises a m-million dollars to pay
our ransom.”
That was his idee of a peaceful and soothing game! Well, we didn’t play
that, neither, nor anything else. I curled up on my half of the seat and
went to sleep. Binney was on the seat with me, and he went to sleep,
too, but Mark and Tallow kept awake and drove. Next morning Tallow told
me Mark was showing him how to drive all the way, which made Tallow kind
of mad, because he thought he was a better driver than the man in the
circus that drives the chariot in the race. He said Mark was inventing
new ways to drive, and trying to think up some new kind of a thing to
get old Willie to go faster. He wanted to have Tallow hitch old Willie
with his nose to the surrey and his tail pointing toward home. It was
his idee that Willie could go faster backing up than going ahead.