Well, you could have knocked me down with a straw. I wouldn’t have
believed it, and I wouldn’t have believed it if somebody had told me
those big business men would all get up and come over and shake hands
with us four boys and say such things to us as they did. I was doggone
embarrassed, but not Mark. He _liked_ it. Not that he was ever
swell-headed, but he did love to be praised, and this time he was
getting a whole armful of it. Pretty soon they all settled down again,
and President James says, “Now what terms can we make with you? You’ve
got us down. What does it cost us?”
“We just want what is f-f-fair,” says Mark.
“Um!... Let’s see. Now suppose that you let us talk it over while you
step into the next room. We’ll call you back in a few minutes and make
an offer to you. How’s that?”
“Fine, sir,” says Mark, and out we went. We sat around there for twenty
minutes, and then President James opened the door and asked us to come
in again.
“We’ve talked it over,” said he, “and have decided to make you this
offer. If you will transfer to us your dam and the site of your mill,
and the Piggins land you hold under option, we will, in return, build
you a new mill below the dam, remove and set up your machinery,
reimburse you for loss of profits during the time the changes are being
made, and give you three thousand dollars in cash. How is that?”
“It’s all right,” said Mark, “except that we wouldn’t have any p-p-power
to run the mill.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” said President James to the fat man. “I said he was
sharp enough to see that. You said he wouldn’t notice.... We left that
out on purpose,” said he, “just to see.... You came up to expectations.
Well, on that point, we will furnish you power free for a period of ten
years, after that you are to pay for it at a reasonable rate.”
“We accept,” says Mark.
“Good. We will have the proper papers drawn—”
“And meantime,” says the fat director, “I want to see whether that Tidd
boy can eat as much as I can. I’m going to invite the lot of you to
dinner to watch the contest, and, believe me, friends, it is going to be
some spectacle. It starts as soon as we can get to the best place to eat
in town.”
Everybody got up and we went out, and that fat man bought us a dinner
that I sha’n’t ever forget, and I bet Mark won’t either. I didn’t know
there was such grub in the world, and I ate till I ’most exploded. But
Mark—well, you should have seen it. Him and that fat man had hardly
started when we commenced, and they kept on for an hour, with all the
rest of those directors laughing and urging them just as if it was a
baseball game. It ended up with the fat director laying back in his
chair, panting, and with Mark finishing up a thing they called a French
pastry and asking if he couldn’t have a couple more. Yes, sir, he beat
that man by three French pastries, and was declared to be the champion
eater of Michigan.
They were all mighty good to us, and we were kind of sorry to go home.
They took us to the theater, and wanted us to stay another day, but we
thought we’d better get back to work, so we left on the midnight train
and got to Wicksville the next morning.
We went right to the mill, and there was Silas Doolittle Bugg sitting on
the same log, looking sadder than he did when we saw him last. I don’t
know whether he had sat there right along, or whether he went home to
sleep and for meals. I never found out.
“Mornin’, Silas,” says Mark.
“Mornin’,” says Silas, mournful and glum.
“Mill hain’t runnin’ yet?”
“How could it? It hain’t n-never goin’ to run no more.”
“You’re right, Silas, it hain’t,” says Mark.
“I knowed it.”
“But,” says Mark, “there’s goin’ to be a new m-m-mill built right over
there, and it’ll be all p-p-paid for, and we’re to git three h-hunderd
d-dollars a month as a profit beginnin’ to-day and l-lastin’ till the
new mill starts, and we git f-free p-power for ten years, and we git
t-t-three thousand d-dollars in cash. That’s about all.”
“Don’t joke with a feller,” says Silas. “I’m too played out to joke.”
“It hain’t no joke,” says Mark. “I got the p-p-papers to prove it.”
Well, Silas Doolittle wouldn’t believe it till Mark showed him the
papers, and then took him to a lawyer that told him they were real, and
then you ought to have seen him. Happy? Why, you never saw anything like
it in your life! He ’most danced a jig. He couldn’t say anything for a
spell, and then he let out a sort of holler and ran down into the street
and started telling everybody he met. In about an hour everybody in
Wicksville knew it, and knew how Mark Tidd did it, and you’d better
believe that Mark Tidd was considerable of a big person in that town
then and there. Everybody wanted to talk to him and ask him about it.
But he didn’t grab all the glory. No, sir. He wasn’t that kind of a
fellow. He insisted us three fellows had as much to do with it as he
did, so we got some praise, too; but we knew, and everybody else knew,
that it was Mark Tidd and nobody else. I know I was suited to have it
that way.
That night when we parted to go to bed I says to Mark, “I guess this is
about the biggest thing you ever done, and I don’t see how you done it.”
“I do,” says he. “It was all h-havin’ fellers to help me that would
s-s-stick right to it till we got there. We done it b-because we played
fair and was right—and b-because we didn’t lay down on the job.”
“Maybe so,” says I, “but brains come into it somewhere, and you’re the
only one of us that seems like he’s got any.”
“Fiddlesticks!” says Mark.
THE END