MARK TIDD, MANUFACTURER

Books by

CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND

Mark Tidd in Egypt

Mark Tidd in Italy

Mark Tidd

Mark Tidd in the Backwoods

Mark Tidd in Business

Mark Tidd’s Citadel

Mark Tidd, Editor

Mark Tidd, Manufacturer

Catty Atkins, Bandmaster

Catty Atkins

Catty Atkins, Riverman

Catty Atkins, Sailorman

Catty Atkins, Financier

HARPER & BROTHERS

Established 1817

THE HAND CAME CLOSER AND CLOSER

MARK TIDD MANUFACTURER

BY

CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND

AUTHOR OF

“MARK TIDD” “MARK TIDD IN THE BACKWOODS”

“MARK TIDD’S CITADEL” “MARK TIDD, EDITOR” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

Mark Tidd, Manufacturer

Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers

Printed in the United States of America

ILLUSTRATIONS

[The Hand Came Closer and Closer]

[“If You’ll Look Where I’m Pointin’ You’ll See a Door. It Leads Outside”]

[“I’ll Bet He Thought the Whole Bunch of His Ribs Was Plumb Caved In”]

[“You Won’t Never Get Our Dam Till We Say So”]

MARK TIDD, MANUFACTURER

CHAPTER I

Binney Jenks, Tallow Martin, and I were sitting on Mark Tidd’s front porch, waiting for him to get through supper. Maybe you’ve got an idea that didn’t take any patience, but you want to change your mind pretty quick. Eating supper wasn’t any two-second job with Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. You can bet it wasn’t. He didn’t just grab a bite and run like us fellows do, but he sat down to the table with his stummick about six inches away from the edge of it, and kept on eating till he touched.

He knew we were waiting for him, but that didn’t make a bit of difference. If General Grant and the Emperor Napoleon were hanging around waiting for him to come out and play tag with them, he’d have eaten just as much and not a mite faster. When you weigh as much as he does I calc’late it takes more to keep you going, just like it takes more wood to run a big stove than it does a little one. It didn’t take him much more than an hour to get his stummick filled up this time, and out he waddled, looking kind of pleased and peaceful, with his hand resting gentle on his belt.

“Um!...” says he.

“Hope you didn’t hustle out before you got plenty,” says I.

He looked at me out of his little eyes that had to sort of peer over the tops of his dumpling cheeks. “Plunk,” says he, “if you d-d-do everythin’ in your l-life as thorough as I eat, folks is goin’ to admire you consid’able. I started in with vegetable soup at six o’clock, and I don’t recall neglectin’ a dish from that to apple pie. Two pieces of apple pie,” says he.

“It’s lucky,” says Binney, “that your pa’s rich. If he wasn’t he couldn’t afford to keep you. A poor fam’ly would have to drown you in a pail of water like folks does kittens they can’t figger to take care of.”

“Take a kind of big pail of water,” said Tallow. “Guess they’d need the village standpipe.”

“How’s your pa and ma?” says I.

“Oh,” says Mark, “Ma she’s b-b-busy, as usual. Just a-hustlin’ from git-up to go-to bed. Claims she’s p-plumb tired out, but the tireder she gets the harder she works. She just sent Dad out to put over the kittle while she cleared the table.”

“Did he do it?” says I.

Mark grinned. “When I l-looked through the kitchen door,” says he, “Dad he’d gone and set the dust-pan careful on the stove, and was settin’ in front of the stove, a-holdin’ the kittle in his lap and restin’ a volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall on top of it. You could ’a’ hollered fire and he wouldn’t budge.”

That was Mr. Tidd all over. He was one of these inventor folks, and that dreamy and absent-minded you wouldn’t believe it. Always a-thinking about something besides what he ought to be thinking about, and always getting into trouble with Mrs. Tidd—and forever reading the Decline and Fall. There’s eight volumes of it, and I’ll bet he can recite it word for word. Yes, sir, if Mrs. Tidd was to send him to the store for a pound of tea, as like as not he would come home bringin’ a knife-sharpener or a box of cough-drops or a sick dog. Mrs. Tidd always figgered on sendin’ him at least twice for anything—and then, ’most generally, she had to send one of us boys to git it, after all. And he was rich. Made so much money out of inventin’ a turbine engine that he’s got a bank full of it. But you’d never think it. Why, him and Mrs. Tidd lives just like they did when he didn’t have two dollars to his name. He dresses just the same, and she won’t even keep a hired girl. Fine folks, I can tell you, and us fellows think a heap of them.

“Well,” says Mark, “what’ll we d-do this evenin’?”

Before anybody could answer a man came through the gate and sort of shuffled up the walk toward the porch. He was nigh seven foot high and he wore enough whiskers to stop a mattress—the kind of whiskers that grow out every which way and waves around frantic when the wind blows. They made his head look as if it was about as big around as a bushel basket—but from there down you couldn’t hardly see him at all. He had a sort of look like a pumpkin lantern bein’ carried on the end of a long pole.

“Here’s Silas Doolittle Bugg,” says I.

We didn’t say anything till he got up to the steps. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to see us and stopped and reached for a handful of them whiskers. Sort of gathered together all he could in one grab and jerked ’em like he aimed to haul ’em out by the roots.

“Howdy!” says he.

“Howdy!” says we.

He kind of leaned over like he was breaking in two in the middle and pointed a finger nigh six inches long right in Mark’s face. “You’re the Tidd boy,” he says, in a voice like shooting off a giant firecracker. He didn’t speak; he exploded!

There wasn’t any use in Mark’s trying to deny it. Nobody would have believed him, so he says he was the Tidd boy.

“Pa home?” says Silas.

“Yes, sir,” says Mark.

“I come to see him,” says Silas, exploding it again. But then the queerest thing happened to his voice. It sort of faded away. It got littler and littler. “But,” he says, turning around on his heels, “I don’t calc’late I’ll wait. I guess I’ll be goin’. Somehow it don’t seem’s though I needed to see him to amount to anythin’. I guess maybe he druther not see me.... Say, young feller, how’s he feelin’ to-night? Savage or jest so-so?”

“I don’t call to m-m-mind a time when Dad was s-savage,” says Mark.

“You figger I better see him, then,” says Silas.

“I don’t f-figger he’ll harm you none.”

Silas gives out a big sigh that came all the way from his shoes. “I’m plumb scairt,” says he.

“I’ll call him,” says Mark.

“No. No. Whoa there, boy. Hold on a minnit. Lemme git ready first. Seems like I got to brace myself for this meetin’. Sure he’s feelin’ mild and gentle?”

“As a lamb,” says Mark.

“Wisht I could git a peek at him before I tackle him,” says Silas.

“Just walk around and look through the kitchen window,” says Mark.

Silas stood still a minute, and then he tip-toed around the house, and we saw him put his nose against the window and stand there, staring in. In a couple of jiffies he was back again.

“Looks stern and kind of war-like,” he says.

“Dad never bit nobody,” says Mark.

“You calc’late it’s safe for me to see him?”

“Course,” says Mark.

“Well,” says Silas, letting off another of those big sighs, “I guess it’s got to be did. Hain’t no way of puttin’ it off; but, gosh! how I dread it!”

Mark got up and went in to call his father. In a minute he was back with Mr. Tidd, who had his thumb in the Decline and Fall and was blinking peaceful and looking as gentle and serene as a ten-year-old rabbit-hound. When Silas saw him coming he was like to have taken to his heels, and he fidgeted and moved from one foot to the other and twisted his fingers like he was trying to braid them, and breathed hard. You would have thought he was going to run into a tribe of massacreeing Injuns.

Mr. Tidd stood on the top step and peered down at Silas with those mild eyes of his, and nodded, and says, “It’s Silas, hain’t it?”

“Yes,” says Silas, with all the explosion gone out of his voice. “How you feelin’, Mr. Tidd? Be you patient and long-sufferin’ to-night, or be you kind of riled about somethin’? ’Cause if you be I kin come back to-morrow.”

“I calc’late I feel perty peaceful, Silas. Wouldn’t you say I was feelin’ peaceful, Marcus Aurelius?”

“I’d call you so,” says Mark.

“You’ll need to be,” says Silas, “when I break it to you.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Tidd, kind of vague, “you got somethin’ to break to me?”

“You ought to know what,” says Silas.

Mr. Tidd waggled his head and opened his book and shut it again, and scratched his leg. “Calc’late somebody must be sick,” says he.

“’Tain’t that,” says Silas.

“I hain’t much good at guessin’, Silas.... Say, Silas, set a minute and listen to this here passage out of Gibbon. I was just a-readin’ it over. You’ll find it jam full of pleasure and profit.” He leaned against a post and opened up the book, but Silas spoke up, anxious-like, and says:

“I don’t calc’late I got any heart to listen to readin’, Mr. Tidd, and neither will you have when I git around to breakin’ it to you.”

“No?” says Mr. Tidd. “Well, then, Silas, admittin’ you got somethin’ to break, why don’t you up and break it?”

“Seems like I hain’t got the courage. I was hopin’ maybe you’d guess.”

“I’m willin’ to try,” says Mr. Tidd, in that gentle voice of his. “I’ll guess maybe the house is on fire.”

“What house?” says Silas, sort of taken by surprise.

“Why,” says Mr. Tidd, as mild as could be, “this house.”

Silas looked up at the roof and craned his neck to peer around to the side. “This house,” says he, all flabbergasted. “Say, if you think this house is on fire, why hain’t you doin’ somethin’ about it?”

“Well,” said Mr. Tidd, “what would you advise doin’?”

“Yellin’,” says Silas.

“I hain’t much on yellin’,” says Mr. Tidd.

“If my house was on fire I’d calc’late to make some racket,” says Silas.

“But I don’t know this house is on fire. I jest guessed it was.”

“Hain’t you goin’ to find out?”

“Why,” says Mr. Tidd, “if it’s on fire we’ll find out quick enough, won’t we?”

Maybe you think Mr. Tidd was joking with Silas Doolittle Bugg, but he wasn’t. That was his way. He’d have acted just that way if the house really was on fire, and probably he’d have stopped the fire company on the lawn to read to them out of the Decline and Fall if the roof was blazing.

“Well, I swan!” says Silas.

“Hain’t that what you wanted to break to me, Silas?” Mr. Tidd says.

“No,” says Silas; “it was somethin’ else.”

“Oh!” says Mr. Tidd. “Want me to guess ag’in?”

“’Twouldn’t do no good,” says Silas, drooping with discouragement. “You wouldn’t guess right.”

“Maybe so,” says Mr. Tidd.

“It’s about me,” says Silas.

“You?” says Mr. Tidd.

“Me and you.”

“Oh, you and me? I want to know!”

“Don’t you remember?” says Silas.

“I hain’t certain,” says Mr. Tidd, scratching his leg again. “Don’t seem to remember anythin’.”

“Money,” says Silas.

“Oh, money?” Mr. Tidd says, as vague as a cloud of fog.

“Lots of money,” says Silas.

“Do tell,” says Mr. Tidd.

“And my mill.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Tidd. “It’s your mill that’s on fire?”

“My mill hain’t afire. Nothin’s afire. You hain’t standin’ there tellin’ me you plumb clean forgot?”

“I hain’t forgot exactly, Silas, but it don’t seem like I remember clear. You might sort of give me a hint.”

“Promissory note,” says Silas.

“Promissory note, eh? What about it, Silas? Um!... I’ve heard of promissory notes. Gibbon he don’t mention ’em, but I’ve heard tell of ’em somewheres. Now where was it? Lemme see.... Promissory note....”

“I give you one.”

“Much obleeged,” says Mr. Tidd. “What’ll I do with it?”

“Say, you look here, Mr. Tidd. A promissory note means I promise to pay you money.”

“To be sure,” says Mr. Tidd. “It’s kind of you. But I don’t calc’late to need money.”

“That’s it,” says Silas. “You hain’t goin’ to git none.”

“No?” says Mr. Tidd. “Hain’t I?”

“Not a penny,” says Silas. “Not that I owe you.”

“Well.... Well....” said Mr. Tidd.

“You lent me money when I needed it to start up my mill,” said Silas.

“So I did,” says Mr. Tidd. “Seems like I remember somethin’ about it. You was goin’ to pay it back or somethin’. That was it, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the idee,” says Silas, “and that’s what I come to break to you. I was mighty nervous about comin’, but it had to be did. I jest can’t pay that money, Mr. Tidd. I’m plumb busted. The mill’s plumb busted. I can’t make no money out of her, and so I can’t pay you none. I come to tell you all you kin do is to take the mill.”

“I don’t want no mills,” said Mr. Tidd.

“You got to take it,” says Silas.

“I got to?”

“Sure as shootin’. It was your security, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” says Mr. Tidd. “Well, I swan to man!”

“So,” says Silas, “I come to tell you and to turn that there property over to you. It’s the best I kin do. I calc’late to be honest, but somehow I can’t figger to make money. I kin lose money. You hain’t no idee how skilful I be at losin’ money.... The mill’s yourn and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, hain’t that the beatin’est!” says Mr. Tidd. “Me ownin’ a mill! Whatever’ll I do with a mill, Silas?”

“I dunno. Run it, maybe. Sell it, maybe.”

Mark Tidd he got up slow, his eyes puckered and looking as bright as buttons. “Say, pa,” says he, “invite Mr. Bugg to set. I got an idee.”

“He’s always gettin’ idees,” said Mr. Tidd to Silas. “What’s the idee this time, Marcus Aurelius?”

“Why,” says Mark, “it l-looks like Mr. Bugg was busted!”

“I be,” says Silas.

“Because,” says Mark, “he hain’t a b-b-business man.”

“Right,” says Silas. “Right as could be. I kin work, but I can’t figger.”

“I kin f-f-figger,” says Mark. “Here’s my notion. Mr. Bugg owes you m-money he can’t pay. Well, there’s the mill, and mills is built to m-make money with. Money kin be made with this m-m-mill.”

“Maybe,” says Silas.

“Course it can,” says Mark. “Now, vacation’s here, and we hain’t got nothin’ to do. You take over Mr. Bugg’s mill, Dad, and the boys and me will run it. Git the idee? We’ll make money out of it and pay you back, and then, when we git her to goin’ and makin’ lots of money, we’ll turn her back to Silas ag’in. Kind of receivers, like they have when folks go bankrupt. How’s that, Dad?”

“Don’t see no harm in it,” said Mr. Tidd.

“How about you, Mr. Bugg?”

“Anythin’ suits me,” says Silas.

“You’ll keep on workin’,” says Mark, “and helpin’ to look after the manufacturin’. We’ll look after the b-business end, and help with the m-m-manufacturin’ end, too. Eh? How’s that?”

“First class,” says Silas.

“We’ll start in to-morrow,” says Mark. “You fellows be on hand. Whistle she b-blows at seven. We’ll git down and f-f-figger things out and then we’ll start to work. We hain’t never run a mill,” he says, all enthusiastic and worked up.

“No,” says I, “we hain’t, nor a circus, nor a airyplane, nor a merry-go-round.”

“But we kin,” says he.

That was Mark Tidd all over. We kin, he says, and that was what he meant. Folks did run mills and make money, and if they could, why, he could, too. He was that confident in himself that he made you confident in him, too. And another thing, when he started in on a job he’d stick to it. Nothing would discourage him, and if there was any way of pulling it off he would do it, and you could bet your last dollar on it.

“All right,” says he, “that’s s-s-settled. We’ll see you at s-s-seven, Mr. Bugg.”

“Well,” said Silas, slow and kind of groping around in his mind, “if this don’t beat all! It does beat all. Sufferin’ codfish! I swan to man!”

He turned around quick and began to shuffle off, muttering to himself and grabbing handfuls of his whiskers. The last we saw of him he had both his hands grabbed into them and he was pulling like all-git-out. Those whiskers must have been rooted in tight.

“Better git to bed,” says Mark. “To-morrow’s goin’ to be a b-b-busy day.”

CHAPTER II

We were all down at the mill before seven o’clock. It wasn’t much of a mill, but when I stood there looking at it, and figuring that I was going to help run it, why, it looked bigger than the Capitol at Washington, and pretty gorgeous, too. Somehow the feeling that you’re interested in a thing always makes it look bigger and better. I guess that’s why a boy always gets the notion that his dog is better than anybody else’s dog, no matter what kind of a dog it really is. I was downright proud of that mill, and I could tell by the way Mark Tidd stood and looked at it, with his head cocked on one side, that he was proud of it, too.

It was all painted red, and was right on the edge of the river, with a mill-race running underneath it. It didn’t run with an engine, but with water-power, and the power came from a dam that ran across the river. I didn’t think much about that dam just then, nor about water-power, but before we got through with things I did a heap of thinking about them, and so did Mark Tidd. Up till then a river didn’t mean anything to me but a thing to fish in or swim in, but before I was many months older I discovered that rivers weren’t invented just for kids to monkey with, nor yet to make a home for fish. They have business, just like anybody else, and they’re valuable just like any other business, getting more valuable the more business they can do.

We went into the mill. The floor was all littered up with sawdust, and chunks of wood, and machinery, and belts, and saws, and holes in the floor. It seemed like there was almost as much hole as there was floor, and you had to pick your way or down you’d go. I didn’t know much about machinery nor what the machines were for, but Mark, he’d hung around there some, and he knew. He was one of them kind that’s always finding out. Always asking questions and bothering folks for no reason but that he’s got an itch to know things and has to be scratching it constant. I’ll admit it pays sometimes. You never know when a mess of information is coming in handy.

“L-let’s see,” says Mark, “you got two back-knife lathes and three novelty lathes.”

“Yep,” says Silas Doolittle Bugg, exploding his voice like a blast of dynamite.

“And a planer, and a swing-off saw, and a circular-saw mill.”

“Yep,” says Silas. “What’s t-t-that thing?” says Mark, pointing off into a corner where a dusty, rusty, busted-up looking thing was setting.

“Dowel-machine,” says Silas. “Bought her to an auction. Never knowed jest why. Fetched her back and stuck her there, and she hain’t been moved since.”

“What’s dowels?” says I.

“Little pegs like,” says Silas.

“Um!...” says Mark. “What you been makin’ m-most?”

“Drumsticks,” exploded Silas, “and dumb-bells and tenpins and chair-rounds.”

“Which made the most money for you?”

“You hain’t askin’ it right,” said Silas. “What you want to say is which lost the most money for me?”

“All right,” says Mark. “Which?”

“I dunno,” says Silas, grabbing into his beard and yanking it off to one side.

“Let’s go into the office,” says Mark.

“Never calc’lated to have much office,” says Silas. “That there room was built for one, but seems like I never had no need for it. I jest wandered around.”

“Oh!” says Mark. “Who kept the books?”

“Books?” says Silas. “Oh yes, books. To be sure—books.”

“Yes, ledgers and journals and such like.”

“Never had one.”

“How ever did you manage to git along?”

“Hain’t I been a-tellin’ you I didn’t git along? I busted.”

“But how did you run without books?”

“Why,” says Silas, “if I owed a feller he sent me a bill, and if I had any money I paid him. If a feller owed me I calc’lated he’d pay me some day, if he was honest, and I kep’ sort of track of that on these here pieces of wood. Whenever I sold a man an order I put it down here, and if he didn’t pay after a while I guessed maybe he didn’t figger to pay, so I chucked the hunk of board over into the office room. There’s quite some boards in there.”

“Didn’t you send out invoices?”

“Invoices? Didn’t calc’late to. Used to set down and write a letter once in a while askin’ for money.”

“I’m s’prised,” says Mark, his voice not getting a bit sarcastic, but his eyes looking that way considerable—“I’m s’prised you went busted.”

“I hain’t,” says Silas. “I always went busted. Seems like goin’ busted was a habit of mine.”

“Have any cost system?”

“What’s one of them?” says Silas, looking around bewildered—like as if he expected one to come up and lick his hand. “Never seen one around here!”

“A cost system is the way you find out how much it costs you to manufacture—how much it c-c-costs to make a hundred d-drumsticks or a h-hundred dumb-bells and sich. Didn’t you know that?”

“Course not,” said Silas. “What’s the difference, anyhow?”

“How could you f-f-figger your sellin’ prices?”

“Mostly I took what was offered.”

“Um!...” says Mark, and for a minute he looked clean discouraged.

“What did your l-l-logs cost you?”

“I figgered to pay twelve dollars a thousand.”

“How much did it cost to h-h-handle ’em?”

“How should I know?”

Mark waggled his head like he didn’t feel very comfortable inside of it. “Course you don’t know what the l-labor cost on each article?”

“Now you look here, Mark Tidd, I hain’t no ’cyclopedy. How ever you think I was goin’ to know them things?”

“Know how many drumsticks you got out of a thousand f-foot of timber?”

“Never counted.”

“Near as I can g-gather,” says Mark, “the main thing you know about this b-b-business is that it’s busted.”

“Calc’late you’re right,” says Silas.

“Men work by the piece or by the d-day?”

“Some of both,” says Silas.

It looked pretty close to hopeless. I didn’t understand exactly what Mark was getting at all the time, but I sensed some of it, and it looked to me like we was grabbing holt of about as big a muddle as anybody ever saw.

“Could we start up this mill to-morrow?” Mark asked.

“Calc’late we could—if we could git the help and if nothin’ else didn’t prevent.”

“Have you got l-logs?”

Silas pointed out of the window to the log-yard, and anybody could see he did have logs, quite a consid’able stack of them.

“Paid for?” says Mark.

“Mostly,” says Silas.

“Why didn’t you turn ’em into m-m-money, then?”

“The faster I manufactured ’em the faster I went busted,” says Silas, “so I jest up and quit.”

“Who do you owe m-money to besides Pa?” Mark wanted to know.

“Not many. You see I kep’ usin’ the money I borrowed off him to pay other folks.”

“That’s a help, anyhow,” Mark says. “How many logs do you use a d-day?”

“Some days more, some days less.”

“Got any orders on h-hand? For drumsticks and dumb-bells and s-s-sich?”

“Not to speak of,” says Silas.

“That’s good, too,” says Mark. “It lets us take a f-f-fresh start. Who you been sellin’ to?”

Silas told him the names of several concerns, and Mark wrote them down in a little book.

“Now,” says he to Silas, “you stir around and get a crew here to start up to-morrow. We’re a-goin’ to manufacture, and we got to manufacture before I kin do any f-f-figgerin’. Maybe there’s experts could figger costs without startin’ to manufacture, but I’m dummed if I kin. We’ll run a week or so and then we’ll start to f-f-figger.”

“Jest as you say,” Silas roared, like a boiler was busting, and out he went, grabbing at his whiskers and hanging on like they were some kind of a balloon that carried him through the air. The rest of his long, lank body kind of trailed behind like the tail of a kite.

“Now,” says Mark, “l-let’s start in.”

“How?” says I.

“Gittin’ ready. I studied some bookkeepin’ in school this year, and I guess Clem Brush down to the bank will give me some p-pointers. I’ll git him to help buy a set of books. I want you fellers should hustle around here and sort things over, and make a list of everything in the m-m-mill. And while you’re doin’ it you might clean up some. Never seen sich a dirty mill. Looks like Silas never cleaned any sawdust out of here from the day he started to run. As full of sawdust as an ice-house. Two of you go at that—Plunk and Binney. Tallow, you go to the office and see if you can’t m-m-make it look more l-like an office and less like the place where a boiler exploded.... If you kin f-f-find a stock-room, take an inventory of it.”

Off he went down-town, and we set to work with shovels and brooms and paper and pencils. Looks like a fellow gits more ease and quiet and comfort out of a lead-pencil than he does out of a shovel. Binney was willing to do all the listing if I’d do all the cleaning; and I was willing to wear my brain out with inventory if he’d crack his back shoveling sawdust. When we saw neither of us was going to give in, we made the best of it and divided up. Tallow didn’t have anything to double up while he was working in the office; shovel up was his job, and we guyed him some.

I was cleaning up around the saw-carriage when I looked up and saw a man standing there, looking at me kind of surprised, like the sight of me actually at work was more ’n he could bear. I couldn’t see why he should feel that way, because I never seen him before, and, anyhow, I wasn’t any lazier ’n Tallow and Binney, though they hid it easier.

The man wore one of them stovepipe hats, and he had a cane, and there was a sparklish stone in his necktie, and he had things over his shoes that were kind of gray and had buttons on ’em—spats, Mark said they were. I calc’late he had on brand-new pants, because the crease wasn’t wore out of them, and a kind of a perty vest, and one of them coats like the minister wears Sundays. He wasn’t big, and he wasn’t little. He wasn’t what you’d call terrible old—maybe forty—and he wasn’t fat or lean. Just one of them in-between sort of men. He wore a little stubby mustache that looked like he could take it off and use it for a tooth-brush if it was loose, and he had two eyes, one on each side of his nose. His nose wasn’t much to speak of, just a reg’lar nose—the kind you can blow, but not very loud. That reminds me: did you ever hear Uncle Ike Bond blow his nose? Well, lemme tell you you missed something. When Uncle Ike hauls out that red bandana of his and grabs a-hold of his nose with it and lets her go, you’d think the train was whistling for a crossing. Wow! I’ve seen him scare horses so they ’most jumped out of their harness. Why, when Uncle Ike drove the bus to somebody’s house he never got out to ring the bell—he just blowed his nose. Sometimes, if he was in a hurry, he blowed it when he was a block away, and the folks would be all out and ready, standing waiting for him when he got there. Once there was a motion before the selectmen to hire Uncle Ike to be the fire department, so’s they could use his nose for the fire whistle, but somehow it never went through.

This man here didn’t blow his nose at all. He just stood there looking at me a minute, and then he picked his way over, taking a lot of pains not to get any dust onto his pants; and when he got clost he says:

“Where is the proprietor?”

“Of what?” says I.

“This mill,” says he.

“Depends,” says I, “on who you mean by proprietor. I’m dummed if I know jest who is holdin’ down that job. There’s things in favor of sev’ral folks. Now there’s Silas Doolittle Bugg; some might claim he owns it. Then there’s Mr. Tidd; some might say he was the feller. Then there’s Mark Tidd; he comes in somewheres, but I’m blessed if I know just where.”

“Where are they?”

“Different places,” says I. “Was there anything I could do for you?”

“Answer questions so I’ll know what you’re talking about,” says he.

Well, that made me mad. From that minute I took a dislike to the man, and I never got over it. I guess I wouldn’t be letting go of any secret if I was to say that the longer I knew him the less I liked him.

“Mister,” says I, not smarty, but just firm and business-like, the way Mark says you should always be, “I’m one of the fellers that’s runnin’ this mill. If you got any business here you kin state it to me. If you hain’t got any business here, why, I’m sort of busy dustin’ off the furniture. Now, what kin I do for you?”

“I want to find the owner.”

“I’ve explained about the owner.”

“Who is in charge, then? Who is running this business?”

“Mark Tidd,” says I.

“Well, I got something out of you at last,” says he. “But it was like mining for it. Do you always keep what valuable information you have sunk as deep as this?”

“We make drumsticks and dumb-bells and tenpins and chair-rounds,” says I. “Do you want to buy any?”

“No,” says he.

“Be you a travelin’-man? What you got to sell?”

“I’m not a salesman,” says he.

“What be you, then?” says I.

“Nothing that would interest you, young man. Where will I find this Mr. Tidd?”

“Mark Tidd?”

“Yes,” says he.

“You’ll find him here,” says I, “pervidin’ you wait long enough. This is about the only place I know of where he’ll be. I calc’late to see him amblin’ in perty soon.”

“I’ll wait,” says he. “Where’s the office?”

“If you’d call it an office,” says I, “it’s through that door.”

He walked over and jerked open the door. One look inside give him a plentiful sufficiency. You couldn’t see for dust and cobwebs and chunks and dirt that Tallow was stirring around like he was one of these whirlwinds. The air was plumb full of rubbish. I bet Tallow was having a bully time. The man shut the door quick and backed off.

“Is that the office?” says he.

“Sich as it is,” said I.

“Where can I wait?” says he.

“Pick out a place yourself,” says I.

He walked around disgusted-like, looking for a place to sit down, but he didn’t seem to get suited. There wasn’t a place that would have agreed with them pants of his. He didn’t hanker to git dirt on ’em, and I wasn’t dusting off anything for him just then.

I was sorry for him if he was tired, because he didn’t have but two choices—to stand up or sit and git his new pants all grime. He stood.

In about half an hour in come Mark Tidd with his arms full of whopping-big books. He dumped them on the saw-carriage and stood and panted, looking around.

“How’s it c-c-comin’?” says he.

“Two in a hill,” says I. “Got a visitor.”

Mark looked at the man and then at me. “Who’s he?”

“Dunno,” says I, “and I hain’t got no ache to find out.”

“What’s he w-want?”

“To see you,” says I.

Mark walked over toward him and says, “Was you l-lookin’ for me, mister?”

“I’m waiting for Mr. Tidd. Mr. Mark Tidd, I believe was the name.”

“That’s me.”

“You! That boy told me Mark Tidd was in charge of this mill.”

“He’s f-f-famous for tellin’ the truth,” says Mark.

“But you’re nothing but a kid.”

“Uh-huh,” says Mark, sort of squinting his eyes like he does sometimes when somebody says something he doesn’t cotton to, “but I’m boss, just the same. What kin I d-d-do for you?”

“This is business,” says the man. “I want to do business with somebody who can do business.”

“You might t-try me,” says Mark, as calm and gentle as a kitten. “I’m the best in that line we got. If you got business to do with this m-m-mill, I calc’late you got to do it with me.”

“Huh!” says the man.

“I’m p-p-perty busy,” says Mark. “If you got somethin’ you want to say you better git to the p-p-p’int.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” said he; “I’ll get to the point. I represent the Middle-West Power Company. We own water-powers all over this state and other states. We have one below on this river and a couple above. You have a small power here that doesn’t amount to a great deal, but we’ll be willing to take it off your hands. Your dam is going to pieces and will need expensive repairs. I take it you own this dam and site?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll take it off your hands—at a figure.”

“What figure?”

“I’m not prepared to say exactly, but if you like we can go into the matter thoroughly and then I’ll make you an offer.”

“Don’t f-f-figger to sell,” says Mark. “We need this p-power to run our mill.”

“But we want to buy,” said the man.

“Uh-huh,” says Mark. “Well, if you want it bad, you kin have it. But you got to buy power and mill. Mill’s no good without p-p-power, is it? I’ll figger up what the whole thing is worth to me, complete as it stands, and let you know.”

“I’m not buying any mills, my friend. I guess you didn’t understand me. I represent the Middle-West Power Company.” He said it as a fellow might say he was the ambassador from England, or a special traveling-agent from the moon.

“I heard that,” says Mark.

“Then you must have heard that when we want to buy—we buy.”

Mark looked the man right in the eye for a minute and didn’t say a word; then he asked, “What did you say your name was, mister?”

The man handed him a card.

“Amassa P. Wiggamore,” says Mark. “Well, Mr. Amassa P. Wiggamore, maybe you never heard of me—like I’ve heard of your company—but I’ll give you some news about me free of charge. When I sell I s-s-sell, and when I don’t want to sell I don’t sell, Power Company or no Power Company. I calc’late you was m-m-makin’ some kind of a threat.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll sell you this outfit,” says Mark, “for f-f-fifteen thousand dollars. That’s my f-first offer and that’s my l-last offer. You got a chance to take it or leave it.”

Mr. Wiggamore laughed. “I’ll leave it,” said he. “Now look here, my young friend, we want this power and we’re going to have it. I’m willing to offer you a fair price, but if you don’t accept it now you’ll be mighty glad to accept a blame sight less before long.”

Mark looked him in the eye a minute again and then stepped over to one side. “If you’ll turn around, mister,” says he, “and l-l-look where I’m pointin’ you’ll see a door. It leads outside. Jest take your Power Company in your hand and hike through it.”

“IF YOU’LL LOOK WHERE I’M POINTIN’ YOU’LL SEE A DOOR. IT LEADS OUTSIDE”

“Young man—” says Mr. Wiggamore, very pompous and impressive.

“That way out,” says Mark, and walked away, leaving Mr. Wiggamore with his mouth all open and ready to speak—but with nobody to speak to. I guess he was an economical man, and not wasteful of words, because he shut his mouth again before any of them got out of it, and scowled a second, and then turned around quick and went out.

Mark came over to me and stopped. “Say, Plunk,” says he, “don’t it b-b-beat all? Every time we git into anythin’ trouble’s sure to t-t-turn up.”

“Yes,” says I, “and you’re glad of it.”

CHAPTER III

“First thing we got to think of,” says Mark, “is how we’re g-g-goin’ to git the money to p-pay off the men Saturday night.”

“How much’ll it be?” says I.

“Depends on how many men Silas Doolittle hires. Looks to me like f-five or six men ought to run this mill. That would mean about a hunderd dollars.”

“Huh!” says I. “Might as well make it a million. Where be we goin’ to look for a hunderd dollars?”

“Wisht I knew,” says Mark, “but we got to have it.”

“Then we better git a wiggle on us.”

“We’ll w-w-wiggle all right,” says he, “but we won’t start till we see somethin’ to wiggle about. Jest wigglin’ won’t git any money. Thing to do is to set and figger out some possible way, and then make it work.”

“Good!” says I. “You set and figger and we’ll go on cleanin’ up the mill. I notice every time there’s any hard work to do you got somethin’ you have to set down and think about.”

“Well,” says he, “if I got any help thinkin’ out of you I wouldn’t have to stick to it so constant. You’re a heap better cleaner, Plunk, than you be thinker. Somebody might pay you to clean, but the feller that paid you to think would be advertisin’ for a r-r-room in the l-lunatic-asylum.”

“Shucks!” says I, which was the best thing I could think of just at that minute. It wasn’t such a good remark either, when you come to think of it. I might have figgered out something a heap sharper and more cutting if I’d been given time, but I wasn’t. It’s funny what smart retorts you can think of two or three days after you need them. But Mark always managed to think of them right off. Seemed like he had a bundle of them on hand ready to shoot off whenever he wanted one.

Well, we went ahead cleaning up that mill, and, to give Mark what credit is due, he came around and gave us some hints how to lift some of the heavier things. By night we’d made quite some difference in the looks of things.

“Anyhow,” says Mark, “we got r-r-room to m-manufacture now, whether we ever git to m-manufacturin’ or not. I hope Silas Doolittle gits enough men.”

Along came Silas about four o’clock, looking sort of discouraged. He slumped down on the saw-carriage and lopped his head like he was a wilted poppy, and let out a groan.

“Stummick-ache?” says Tallow.

“Naw,” boomed Silas.

“What then?” says Mark.

“Them men,” says Silas.

“What about ’em?”

“They’ll come to work,” says Silas. “I seen all of them, but they got together and made up one of them unions or somethin’. Yes, sir, that’s what they done. Seems like they was afraid maybe they wouldn’t git paid. I argued with them and sassed them till my tongue was blistered, but ’twan’t no good. Best I could git out of ’em was that they’d work by the day and git paid every night. If they git paid the first night they’ll work the second day, if they git paid the second night they’ll work the third day, and so on. But no pay—no work.”

“Um!” says Mark. “How many of ’em?”

“Nine,” says Silas.

“What wages?”

“Mostly two dollars a day.”

“Some more?”

“A couple gits two and a quarter, and one, the sawyer, he gits two seventy-five.”

“Twenty dollars’ll do it. Now, Silas, if you was g-goin’ to raise twenty dollars to-morrow, how’d you go at it?”

“Me?” says Silas. “Me go at it? Woosh! How’d I go at whittlin’ out a locomotive engine with a penknife? Tell me that. Twenty dollars in a day! Say, young feller, there hain’t twenty dollars in Wicksville.”

“There’s enough m-money,” says Mark. “The t-trouble is to git it.”

“If that’s all that’s standin’ in our way,” says I, “just the trouble of gittin’ it, I don’t see no cause to worry.” I was a little sarcastic because it looked to me like we was busted before we started.

Mark he looked at me kind of squintin’, but didn’t say a word. Pretty soon he says to Silas: “We got to-night and till the whistle blows to-morrow n-n-night.... And only twenty dollars to raise.”

“That’s all,” says I. “Might’s well be twenty million.”

That sort of riled Mark and he turned around and says to me, “I’ll b-bet you I git that twenty before f-f-four o’clock to-morrow.”

“What’ll you bet?” says I.

He figgered a minute. “If I win,” says he, “you take your baby s-s-sister’s doll and carriage and wheel it around town for an hour Saturday n-night singin’ ‘Bye, Baby Buntin’’ to it. If you win, I walk around town an hour Saturday night with a card on my b-b-back sayin’ whatever you want to p-print on it.”

I might have known better, but I was sort of riled, and before I got time to do any thinking I up and told him it was a bet. And right there I begun to get sorry. If there’s one thing in the world Mark Tidd hates it’s to be made ridiculous. He just can’t bear to have folks poke fun at him. I ought to have known he had some kind of an idea or he wouldn’t have made a bet like that. Anyhow, I’d let myself in for it, and there wasn’t any getting out.

“I’ll start thinkin’ up what to print on that card,” says I.

He just grinned and turned to Silas Doolittle. “You tell those m-men,” he says, “that they kin have their money as s-soon as the whistle blows to-morrow night.”

“Have you got it?” I says, suspicious in a minute.

“No,” says he.

“Know where you kin git it?”

“No,” says he.

“Then,” says I to Silas, “I wouldn’t go makin’ any positive promises to nobody.”

Mark went off to the room he was going to use for an office, and sat down on a wabbly chair that was in it. I could see him through the door. He sat there pinching his fat cheek like he always does when he has something to puzzle out. He didn’t whittle. If he had started in to whittle I’d have felt more cheerful, for when he starts to figger and whittle, then you can make up your mind he’s having a hard time. Whittling with him is a sort of last resort. He don’t do it unless everything else fails. Pretty soon he came out and says to Silas:

“There’s a cart and horse b-b’longin’ to this mill, hain’t there?”

“Yes,” says Silas.

“Better have it here at s-seven in the m-mornin’,” says he. “You kin drive a horse, Tallow?”

“Yes,” says Tallow, “I calc’late to be consid’able of a driver.”

“I’ll take a chance on your d-d-drivin’,” says he. “It’s your loadin’ ability that’s worryin’ me—but you’ll have Binney to help you. Wouldn’t be fair to set Plunk on the job helpin’ me win a bet ag’in’ him.”

“What’s the idee?” says I.

“Never you mind,” he says. Then he motioned Silas to a window and pointed out. “How many cords you figger’s in that pile of slabs and strips?”

“Hain’t no idee. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was more.”

“What you been accustomed to d-d-doin’ with your slabs?”

“Nothin’,” says Silas. “Gen’ally when the spring flood comes they git washed down the river. Good thing. Sort of cleans up the place.”

“Uh-huh,” says Mark, and out he goes. It was half past four then, but before five he was back with Jim Root, that runs the wood-and-coal yard. I saw him and Jim looking at the slab-pile and went down to see what it was about.

“How much you figger’s there?” Jim says.

“Nigh twenty-five cord,” says Mark.

“Maybe so. Don’t look to me like more’n fifteen.”

“What’s wood fetchin’?” says Mark.

“I’m gittin’ two’n’ a half. Split I’m gittin’ three.”

“That there’s good s-s-sound wood,” says Mark. “Best of the log. Beech and birch and m-maple.”

“So I see,” says Jim.

“What’s it worth to you s-s-split, sawed, and delivered in your yard?”

“Hum!... Slabs hain’t so good as chunks.”

“Better for the kitchen stove,” says Mark.

“I might give you a dollar a cord.”

“And I might split her and saw her and p-peddle it for two dollars. That would be cuttin’ your price f-fifty cents to a dollar. Eh? I calc’late f-folks would rather have slabs off of me for that than chunk wood from you for two and a half and three.”

“You couldn’t work it,” says Jim.

“I got a horse and cart, and I got a buzz-saw up there, and two fellers with nothin’ much else to do. And we figger on havin’ quite consid’able quantity of slabs right along. Be kind of disturbin’ to the wood-market if I was to p-peddle ’em.”

“Might be,” says Jim. “I’ll give you a dollar’n’ a quarter.”

“Sorry I give you the t-t-trouble of walkin’ down here for nothin’,” says Mark, and he turned away and came toward the mill.

“Hey, there!” yelled Jim. “Don’t be in sich a doggone rush. What you askin’?”

Mark came back. “You guess there’s f-f-fifteen cord there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m figgerin’ there’s more. Now, Mr. Root, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call it f-f-fifteen cord and let you have the lot for two dollars, sawed and split and delivered in your yard—but there’s a condition. Cash in advance to-morrow m-m-mornin’. That’ll give you a p-p-profit of fifty cents to a dollar a cord, which is perty good, hain’t it? And I’ll contract to d-deliver all the slabs we cut at the price so’s you’ll have control of all our wood. It’ll keep me off the market.”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” says Jim. “I’ll give you twenty-five for that pile delivered like you say—cash in advance.”

“Nope,” says Mark, “thirty or n-nothin’.”

“Nothin’, then,” says Jim.

“All right,” says Mark. “Good-by.” He walked off again, and so did Jim Root, but before Jim got to the road he turned and came back, and he was pulling a wallet out of his back pocket.

“Hey!” says he, “here’s your thirty!”

“Much obliged,” says Mark, and he turned around and winked at me. “You want to be down-town Saturday night, Mr. Root. Plunk here is goin’ to t-t-try to amuse the folks for an hour or so. I figger he’ll be all-fired funny to watch.”

“When it comes to a dicker,” says Jim, “I take off my hat to you.... You’ll start to deliverin’ to-morrow?”

“First thing,” says Mark.

We went up-stairs, and I can tell you I felt pretty foolish. I could see me traipsing around town Saturday night, with the band playing in the square, with my sister’s doll and cab, and I could come pretty close to seeing every kid in town tagging after me, making a bunch of remarks that wouldn’t do me no good to hear. I could have kicked myself in the stummick if I could have reached it with my toe. But it all did some good, I expect. It learned me a lesson, and that was not to go making bets with Mark Tidd. I might have knowed he had something ready to shoot off, and he wasn’t the kind of feller to take any chances on being made a fool of in public.

“I don’t calc’late,” says he, after a while, “that you got to worry your b-b-brain makin’ up somethin’ smart to put on that card, Plunk.”

“Looks that way,” I says, as short as I could.

Mark went over to Silas Doolittle, who was still sitting on the saw-carriage, and showed the roll of bills to him. “You can t-t-tell your men we’ll pay off prompt to-morrow night,” he says.

“But how about day after to-morrow?” says I.

“We got t-ten dollars toward that, hain’t we?”

“Looks so,” says I.

“And we’ll git the rest,” says he.

“I hain’t makin’ any bets,” says I, and he grinned.

“How’d you git that money?” says Silas Doolittle.

“Slabs,” says Mark.

“What slabs?”

“Down in the yard. The ones you been l-l-lettin’ the flood carry off.”

“You got money for ’em?”

“You bet you!” says Mark.

“Well, I swan!” says Silas. “If that hain’t the beat of anythin’.”

“I read somewheres,” says Mark, “that it’s the concern that makes money out of what other concerns wastes that gits ahead. Maybe, Mr. Bugg, you’d ’a’ made more money with this mill if you’d ’a’ watched out for the little things. Why, I know a mill that burns its sawdust and slabs for fuel, not havin’ water-power, but they don’t waste their ashes. No, sir. Them wood ashes is good for fertilizer, and they sell every spoonful of ’em for a quarter or more a bushel. Paid the engineer’s wages with ashes. That’s how to git ahead in the manufacturin’ b-b-business.”

“I swan!” says Silas again, and sat there waggling his head and looking at Mark like Mark was some kind of a five-legged elephant with pink ears. “I swan!” he says, after a minute, and then he got up and walked out, still waggling his head like a dog with a bee in its ear.

“Anyhow,” says I, “we hain’t got any more slabs to sell.”

“Correct,” says Mark. “Guess I’ll look over Silas’s bookkeepin’.”

He went over to the pile of board ends that Silas had used to figger on, and began studying ’em careful.

“I wisht,” says he, “that Silas was able to make head or tail to these. I’ll bet there’s quite consid’able money owin’ to this mill.”

“What you goin’ to do about it?” says I.

“I’m goin’ to set down all the n-n-names I kin find here, and the amounts, and try to collect ’em all. Them that’s paid won’t pay ag’in, but them that hain’t paid will mostly be willin’ to, I expect.... Silas Doolittle was what you might call a slap-up man of business.”

CHAPTER IV

“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.

CHAPTER V

Things sort of pottered along a day or two after we got back. Mostly Mark Tidd was spoiling a lot of paper with figures. I guess he figured in his sleep. He was so full of machine hours and board feet and labor costs and handling costs and such like that he hadn’t room in him for anything else but grub. You couldn’t fill him so full of anything but what he would still have room enough to stow away enough stuff to eat to astonish a hippopotamus.

When he wasn’t figuring he was asking questions, and every time he asked a question he had to figure some more; and then one day he got acquainted with a thing called “overhead expenses.” Well, you never saw such a muss as that kicked up. He said overhead meant the salaries of the superintendents and office force, and insurance, and taxes, and all that; and he said it made him do all his figures over again and add to his costs. I says to the other fellows that if Mark kept on raising his costs the folks that wanted to buy would have to take a balloon to get up to them. But Mark says there was no use selling unless you could sell at a profit. That sounded sensible even to me.

But Silas Doolittle didn’t understand it at all. I guess he figured that any money he got at all was profit. It didn’t matter what a thing cost, when he got real money for it, why, he was that much ahead. But he didn’t try to interfere, which was lucky for him. If anybody goes to interfering with Mark Tidd when Mark thinks he’s doing what he ought to do, then that person wants to go out and get an insurance policy against having something disagreeable and unexpected happen to him.

I asked Mark if he figured lead-pencils and paper in his overhead, because he was using up enough of them to support a couple of good-sized families. He said he was, and he said he was figuring me in as overhead, too. Not that I got a salary, but he let on it was a detriment to the business just to have me hanging around. I don’t think he really meant it, though you can’t ever tell. Maybe I was a detriment, but I was doing the best I knew how.

Saturday morning Mark he come over to me and says, “To-night’s the n-night, Plunk.”

“What night?” says I, because I had forgotten.

“Doll-cab and l-l-lullaby.”

I can’t write lullaby the way he stuttered it, and if I could I wouldn’t. It would waste almost as much paper as he did with his figuring. He put more than seven hunderd “l’s” into it.

“Huh!” says I, not much pleased about it, and who would be, I’d like to know?

“Say, Plunk,” says Mark, “I t-t-tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you off this time. It’ll teach you not to bet. Bettin’s a m-m-mighty bad habit for a young f-f-feller like you.”

“An old man like you,” says I, sarcastic as vinegar, “is all right, though.”

“Sure,” says he, with a grin, “but I’ll let you off.”

“Would you ’a’ done what you agreed to if you lost the bet?”

“Yes,” says he.

“Then,” says I, “so will I. When I say I’ll do a thing, I’ll do it.”

He looked at me for a minute and then he just sort of touched me on the shoulder and says: “I might ’a’ knowed you’d say that. I’ve b-b-been in enough things with you to know you wasn’t a q-q-quitter. When I see you hikin’ around with that doll-cab to-night, hanged if I won’t be proud I know you.”

Yes, sir, he said that to me, and he said it like he meant it. Somehow after that I didn’t care who laughed at me when I was making an idiot of myself. I felt good. And right there I made up my mind to one thing: It’s a heap better to look like an idiot on account of keeping your word than it would be to look like a college perfessor by breaking it.

All the week that man Amassa P. Wiggamore had been hanging around town. As I said, he was the first man we saw when we got off the train from Bostwick. He didn’t come near us, though, but he spent a heap of time talking to folks, and Mark said he saw him coming out of the bank two or three times. Then we heard a rumor that the Power Company had bought up a lot of land up above town a few miles—farms that bordered on the river along the bluffs—and that it was planning to have a big storage reservoir there four or five miles long and a couple of miles wide, a regular lake. It was going to store water there during the spring freshets and the rainy season and then let it run down the river when the dry months come along and the river wasn’t anything but a trickle. It was to give an even flow of water the whole year around so he would have it to turn his turbine water-wheels and manufacture electricity.

“Um!” says Mark. “Looks to me like he was figurin’ on that l-l-lake comin’ about to us. L-looks like he was plannin’ to have his big dam right where our dam is.”

“How kin he?” says I.

“He can’t,” says Mark, and his jaw set so you would have thought he was biting something. “He can’t unless he pays our price for this mill.”

“If he can’t git this place, where else kin he build his dam?”

“I don’t know,” says Mark, “b-b-but I’m goin’ to f-f-find out.”

I didn’t feel very comfortable in my mind the rest of that day, thinking about what was going to happen to me at night, but all the same I was going to go through with it, and I says to myself that if any kid got too fresh when I was parading, I’d have something to say to him the next time I caught him. I hain’t much for fighting, but, all the same, I hain’t the kind to put up with more than I can stand. A good-natured fellow ought to fight about once a year just to show folks he hain’t too good-natured.

That night I waited till half past seven, and then I sneaked sister’s baby-cab and down-town I went. The band was just coming out of the Firemen’s Hall and forming a circle in the square when I got there. Mark and Tallow and Binney were sitting on the railing of the town pump, waiting, and I trundled past them without so much as looking. I pretended I didn’t see them at all, and pushed the cab right around the band. For a while nobody noticed me because the band was trying to get up steam. That’s the kind of a band we have.

Our band is what you could call home made. The cornet-player had some lessons, so they made him leader, but the rest of the fellows just bought horns and went out back of the barn where nobody could heave things at them, and learned. My! when they was learning but Wicksville was an unhealthy place early in the morning and at night. Everywhere you turned there was a fellow sitting with his eyes shut and his cheeks puffed out, trying to make a noise on a barytone or an alto or a trombone. Mostly for the first week they couldn’t make any noise at all, except now and then by accident, and that noise would be the worst kind of a blatt you ever heard. It got so bad, after a while, that the Town Board give orders nobody should practise on a horn in the corporate limits before five in the morning and after nine at night.

After a while most of them got so they could make different kinds of noises, but I dunno’s any of ’em ever got so’s they could tell ahead of time just what kind of a noise was coming out. The fellow with the big bass horn could go umph-ha, umph-ha, umph-ha over and over, but mostly it was the same umph-ha. He didn’t seem able to make different kinds. So, no matter what tune they was playing, he would go umph-haing along regardless. The altos had a kind of an easy time because there were four of them, and they sort of picked over their tunes. Each fellow found a note he could play and stuck to it, so that between them they got most of the notes in. Of that crowd—the altos—Deputy-Sheriff Whoppleham was about the best. He was tall and skinny, with a hooked beak and an Adam’s apple bigger than a Northern Spy. When he tooted his Adam’s apple woggled up and down like an elevator. He went at his horn like he planned to eat it. First he would lean his head ’way back and then tilt it sideways and shut one eye. Then he’d let her go. After every note he’d shut the eye he had open and open the eye he had shut. Sort of kept time that way, I guess.

The man that played the barytone was all messed up with whiskers, and it was a wonder how he ever piled his horn through them to find his mouth. He kept time with his right leg, working it like a horse with the spring-halts. But the leader he was the cream of the performance. He would woggle his horn up and down two or three times, and then make a special big woggle as a signal for the time to start. Then he would start keeping time for everybody by lifting first one foot, and then the other, like an elephant. Before a time was over he’d tramped up most of the space inside the band, and he felt pretty cheap if he didn’t get through the piece at least a minute ahead of everybody else. Then he’d look at them sort of superior and sarcastic and ask why in tunket they couldn’t keep the right time, with him beating it so plain.

Well, as I say, the band was trying to start in on a tune. They usually had to make three or four jumps at it before they decided just what they was going to do, and then maybe three or four of ’em would find they was playing the “Maiden’s Prayer” when the rest of them was playing “Star-spangled Banner.” Not that it made much difference that I could see. They all sounded alike, and there wasn’t one time that could scare a horse less than any other tune.

Pretty soon they got under way and was mowing the music down like anything, and folks sort of lost interest. Then a kid spied me, and he showed me to another kid, and he showed me to some more, and they pointed me out to everybody, and the trombone-player got his eye on me and sort of strangled and let out a strip of noise that sounded like a cow bellering to be milked. In about two minutes everybody saw me, but I never looked to right nor left, but went right along wheeling my doll-cab and singing a lullaby.

A crowd began to follow me around and make remarks, and perty soon old Mrs. Coots, that’s always messing in wherever anybody’s sick, came and stood right in front of me.

“Plunk Smalley,” says she, “what ails you? Be you out of your head?”

“No, ma’am,” says I, and tried to get past.

“He is,” says she to the crowd, “but a-course he don’t know it. Most likely he’s had some sort of a knock on the head, or maybe he’s comin’ down with gallopin’ typhoid. Here, you Plunk, lemme feel of your head.”

“I hain’t needin’ no medicine,” says I, for I seen her feeling in her reticule. Mostly she carried the meanest part of a drug-store in there, and just ached to give it to somebody. She was never so happy as when she was shoving some kind of medicine into a person that was worse to take than it was to have whatever disease was the matter with you.

I tried to dodge her, but she caught hold of me. I tried to jerk away, but she yells for somebody to help her, and about a dozen sprung forward to give a hand, well knowing that nothing was wrong with me, but having a mean desire to get in on a joke.

“Pore leetle feller!” she says to me. “Jest feel of his forehead. Like fire, that’s what it is. I’ll bet his temper’choor is more ’n a hunderd and fifty. We got to git him in bed quick, with some ice on his stummick, or maybe he’ll be passin’ away right on our hands.”

“Stummick!” says I. “Nothin’ the matter with my stummick.”

“It don’t matter,” says she. “I was readin’ in a book that you ought to pack folks in ice when they got fever. And it’s my experience that when a boy is sick it’s all due to his stummick; so we’ll just pack your stummick, Plunk. ’Twon’t be pleasant, but it’s for your good.”

I’ve noticed that most things that’s for your good is doggone unpleasant.

By this time there was a big crowd around, calling out things and laughing fit to split, and I’ll bet the band was mad as anything because nobody was paying any attention to them. Bands likes to have folks listen and admire them, I’ve took note. Maybe I could have broke away and run for it, but I’d made a promise and I was going to stick it out, so I looked up at Mrs. Coots and begun to sing a lullaby to my doll.

“Jest listen!” says she. “Hain’t it pitiful? Maybe it hain’t no disease,” says she, “but that he’s gone out of his head permanent. Come to think of it, I been afraid somethin’ like that would happen to him. He hain’t never acted quite right. I’ll bet he’s been crazy right along, only we hain’t took particular note. Crazy folks is sly,” says she. “How long you been wantin’ to parade around with a doll and sing to it, Plunk?”

“I never wanted to,” says I, “but I got to.”

“See that?” she says to everybody. “He can’t help it. I ’spect he realizes he hain’t sane and tries to act sane, but can’t manage it. Hain’t it a shame, and him so young! Jest think of him bein’ shut up in an asylum from his age. Maybe he’ll live to be ninety like Clem Adams’s second wife’s cousin, that thought she was a cook-stove and used to go around tryin’ to fry onions in a pan on her head.”

“Lemme go,” says I, “’fore I git violent.”

“Violent!” says she, as satisfied as a purring cat. “I calc’late he’ll be dangerous. I’ll bet right now he’s figgerin’ on doin’ somebody a damage.”

“I be,” says I.

Just then Mark Tidd came through the crowd, looking as grave as a pelican, only fatter. “Mrs. Coots,” says he, “l-lemme try to manage the poor f-f-feller. He knows me well,” says he, “and I guess I kin g-git him away ’fore he hurts anybody. You got to humor sich cases,” says he.

“He might maul you,” says she.

“I hain’t afraid,” says he; “jest leggo and give me a t-t-try.”

So she let go, and Mark takes me by the arm and says: “Plunk, this is Mark Tidd. D’you know me?”

“You bet I know you,” says I.

“There,” says he to Mrs. Coots; “he knows me.”

“He’s lookin’ at you perty mean,” says she.

“I calc’late he feels some het up,” says Mark. “Now, Plunk,” he says, “I know how you f-f-feel. You feel like that baby ought to hear the b-band and git some cool air, don’t you? Well, you’re right. Yes, sir. But hain’t you scairt that maybe she’ll catch c-c-cold?”

“Somebody’ll catch somethin’,” says I.

“I t-t-tell you what,” says he, “if I was you I’d git that baby indoors and put her to b-b-bed. She’ll be gettin’ mumps or somethin’ if you drag her around in the night air. You jest take a walk with me and we’ll put her to bed. Hain’t that best?”

“Somebody’s goin’ to be put to bed,” says I, “but it won’t be with mumps.”

He sort of chuckled. “Plunk,” says he, in a whisper, “we got to git out of here. That man Wiggamore’s just gone off up the street with Jason Barnes that owns the land next above our m-m-mill, and we got to f-f-find out what they’re talkin’ about, if we kin.” Then he says, out loud, “Now come along like a s-s-sensible father,” says he. “Come on.”

I started along with him, and the crowd hooted and laughed, but Mrs. Coots was as serious as ever and tagged along with us.

“I got to see him shut up,” she says. “Runnin’ at large he’s a danger to the community.”

“Scoot!” says Mark, and he give me a little shove.

You can believe I scooted. If you ever tried to run pushing a doll-cart in front of you, you know what a time I had. The thing kept wabbling and trying to go off sideways. Seemed like it was alive. But I made good time. I don’t reckon Mrs. Coots could have caught me if she was riding on a race-horse.

I made tracks for the Baptist church, and jumped into a dark corner and stood still. Pretty soon Mark came lumbering past and I called to him. He stopped.

“She’s give up the c-c-chase,” says he; “and now l-let’s git after Wiggamore. He’s got quite a start.”

“I’m willin’,” says I. “But I’m goin’ to git even with Mrs. Coots or bust.”

CHAPTER VI

Mark and I scooted along, keeping mostly to back streets until we were where nobody was likely to see us; then we turned toward the river and went down to Mr. Barnes’s house. His place sat on top of a bluff, but down on the river level he owned quite a strip of flat ground that he used for a garden when the flood didn’t come and clean it out. We sort of nosed around, and pretty soon we run across Wiggamore and Jason Barnes sitting on a bench out on the edge of the bluff. There was a clump of lilac-bushes just back of them, and we got back of the clump. We could hear good.

“The dam,” says Wiggamore, “will go across right there,” and he pointed down at our dam. “Our engineers figure to make it about eighty feet high. The water won’t come over the top, but will be released as we want it through a tunnel under the dam. So, from here back will be a lake. Fine thing for the town.”

“Fine,” says Jason. “I dunno’s I got any especial use for a lake, but I kin see how folks might. Have boats on it, and sich. As for me, I wouldn’t git in no boat. Not any kind of a boat. I’m one of these dry-land fellers, I am. As long, I says to myself, as you stay on dry land and it don’t rain too hard, you hain’t ever goin’ to git drownded.”

“You’re right,” said Mr. Wiggamore. “But what I wanted to see you about was this: We want to buy that dam site down there. It belongs to a man named Bugg.”

“Silas Doolittle Bugg,” says Jason.

“But he doesn’t seem to have much to do with it. As nearly as I can make out, he has turned it over to a boy by the name of Tidd.”

“Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd,” says Jason.

“A fat boy,” says Wiggamore, “and an impertinent one. I talked with him a few minutes, and it was all I could do to keep my hands off him.”

“Better let him alone. Better let him alone,” says Jason. “Folks mostly don’t interfere with him.”

“He said he wouldn’t sell the dam for less than fifteen thousand dollars—and that included the mill.”

“If he says so,” Jason let on, “why, I guess that’s what he means. You want to inquire around some about that boy. He’s smarter ’n greased lightnin’.”

“I’ll smart him,” says Wiggamore. “I want your help.”

“Um!... I’ve lived a peaceful life, Mr. Wiggamore, and I hain’t hankerin’ to mix in with Mark Tidd.”

“I’m talking business. You can understand that I’ve got to have that dam. It is the only place where we can build a dam for this reservoir, but I’m not going to pay him any ridiculous price for it. We might go a thousand or so, but that’s all. I’ve looked up this man Bugg, and he’s pretty close to bankrupt.”

“So folks says. It’s my nature to mind my own business and not mix into other folks’s affairs.”

“Unless there’s money in it,” says Wiggamore.

“That,” says Jason, “might put another light onto it.”

“I’m willing to pay you for your services. Now what I want you to do is to nose around and see if you can find where Bugg owes any money. Then buy up the debts as cheaply as you can. I’ll furnish the money.”

“What do you want of sich debts? Silas hain’t much on payin’ debts. ’Tain’t as though he made a habit of payin’ up. Mostly he forgits ’em.”

“I’ll see that he remembers. As soon as we own those debts, we’ll throw him into bankruptcy and bid in the property for a trifle.”

“Um!... Like I says a minute back, I hain’t for proddin’ in other folks’s business.”

“When I pay you it becomes your business, doesn’t it?”

“To be sure. To be sure. Makes all the difference in the world. I was just sayin’ the other day that money always makes a difference. Yes, sir. If you got money you’re different than what you be if you hain’t. If you want money you’re different than what you be if you don’t want it. On the other hand, if there wasn’t no money not much of anythin’ would make any difference, eh? I’m a sensible man, Mr. Wiggamore, and I calc’late not to let no day end without I’ve added some to what I got in the savin’s-bank. My view of money is this: It’s somethin’ to git all of that you kin, and to let go of as little of as you got to. If you got a dollar, why, you got a dollar; if you up and spend it, what you got then? Nothin’ but vain regrets, says I.”

“Right,” says Mr. Wiggamore. “I see you are a wise man, and I like to do business with wise men. I’m sure I shall find much work for you, for I need men who think the way you do.”

“Much obleeged,” says Jason, purring like a tabby-cat laying in a sunbeam. You could ’most see him hump up his back to be scratched. “The only thing I don’t take to about this here is that Mark Tidd is in it. But I calc’late you and me is equal to one fat boy. Now maybe I got some suggestions like. You kin bet that there Tidd boy will make money out of that mill if he’s let be. He’s got the knack of it. If he’s let be, mark you! Was you willin’ to see him let be, or would it be worth a man’s while to sort of kind of mix in once in a while?”

“For instance?”

“Things happens in mills,” says Jason, confidential-like. “Somethin’ might get wedged into the water-wheel. There’s ways of messin’ up machinery so’s it won’t run.”

“I see you’re going to be a valuable man for me.”

“Um!... Wa-al, suppose we was to bind the bargain, then.”

“Eh? Bind the bargain?”

“I was wonderin’ how I was goin’ to be able to put any money in that savin’s-account of mine to-morrer.”

“Oh! And how much will bind the bargain?”

“Suppose we was to say five dollars.”

Wiggamore grunted and handed over a bill. I felt Mark pinch me, and he whispered:

“Workin’ cheap, hain’t he? I hain’t much afraid of a f-f-feller that’ll sell his d-decency for f-five dollars. Now if he’d ’a’ stuck Wiggamore for a hunderd I’d been some worried. About all Jason’s goin’ to be is a nuisance—that and sorry.”

“I’d admire to make him sorry,” says I.

“Jest be p-patient. Jason’s goin’ to wisht he never see or heard of Wiggamore and his f-f-five-dollar bills. I’m goin’ to do some hard thinkin’ about Jason.” Then he says: “Come on. I calc’late we’ve heard about all there is to hear.”

“Wonder if Silas Doolittle really owes anybody money?”

“Most likely. He wouldn’t know, though. We got to go diggin’ into him for d-d-debts like you dig in a mine. Maybe we’ll scoop some up, and maybe we’ll just have to wait till they t-turn up.” He stopped and banged his leg. “No, we won’t have to w-wait. We’ll sort of nip Mr. Wiggamore’s scheme in the bud.”

“How?” says I.

“Advertise,” says he.

“I dunno’s I understand.”

“L-let’s git under a light where I kin see,” says he, “and I’ll git up somethin’ to p-put in the paper.”

So we sneaked off like a couple of Injuns and sat down under a street light, and Mark got out some paper and a pencil and went to writing. This is what he wrote:

WARNING.—Wicksville folks is warned to look out for a slick scrouger that is going to go around trying to buy debts. He’s going to try to buy them cheap, but the folks that sell will be sorry. Especially folks that are owed by Silas Doolittle Bugg. If anybody comes to pay you less for a debt than is owed you, don’t take the money. Fetch your bill right to Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill and give it to Mark Tidd. Silas is getting in shape to pay every honest debt. If Silas owes you money, see Mark Tidd about it right off. But be ready to prove that he owes you. Take warning and don’t sell your debts. There’s a mighty mean trick being done.

“There,” says he, when he got the writing finished. “I guess that will set ’em to t-t-thinkin’. I don’t b’lieve anybody will sell Jason a debt till he sees me first. What you think?”

“If I know Wicksville,” says I, “there’ll be consid’able talk goin’ around when that advertisement comes out in the Trumpet.”

“You bet,” says Mark.

“Let’s git home to bed,” says I. “Between one thing and another to-night I’m ’most done out.”

“Mrs. Coots’ll be layin’ for you with a plaster to p-p-put on your stummick,” says he.

“Before you kin put a plaster on a stummick,” says I, “you got to catch your stummick. Mine’s goin’ to be movin’ around rapid.”

We mogged along home. When we got to the corner where I turn off we stopped a minute, and I says to Mark:

“If anybody sends in debts against Silas Doolittle, what you goin’ to do about it?”

“Do?” says he, surprised-like. “Why, pay ’em, of course!”

“What with?” says I.

“Money,” says he.

“Money,” says I, “is like stummicks—you got to catch both of ’em before you kin use ’em.”

“When you got to have a thing,” says he, “you m-mostly git it.”

That was Mark Tidd all over. If a thing had to be done, or if there was something that he had to have, why, there was an end of it. He didn’t waste time fussing about how hard it was to do, or thinking maybe he couldn’t get it. No, sirree. He just went ahead and tried to get it, and while he was trying he kept right on believing he was going to come out right. He was the kind of a fellow that digs in. I guess maybe that’s one of the main reasons why he manages to do things other folks don’t do. It hain’t always that he’s smarter, though, goodness knows, he is smarter. But he won’t let on that he’s beat till he is beat, and then he won’t let on. It’s hard work and being determined that gets things for him. He’s that stubborn you wouldn’t believe. “I got to do it,” says he, and then he does it. Somebody else would say: “I ought to do it, but I dunno how in tunket I’m going to manage it. Looks like it was impossible.” Well, while that other fellow was worrying and feeling sorry for himself, Mark would have the thing half done.

“How’s your cost system gittin’ on?” says I.

“Fine,” says he. “About Monday we kin b-begin to hustle for b-business. I kin come p-perty clost to tellin’ what it costs to make everythin’ on our list.”

“Was Silas’s prices too low?”

“Low!” says he. “He lost more money on every article he sold than what he was p-paid for it. If he sold a thing for a dollar, like as not he l-lost a dollar and ten cents. I’ve been gettin’ what information I could f-from other mills about their prices. Why, Silas has been undersellin’ everybody scandalous. This hain’t a very big mill, but I’ll say right out in m-meetin’ that if Silas had sold all he made this l-last year at the p-prices I’m goin’ to ask, he could ’a’ paid himself a salary of maybe a hunderd dollars a m-month, and showed a profit besides of two and m-maybe three thousand d-dollars.”

“But he didn’t,” says I.

“He come clost to losin’ that m-much.”

“It’ll take a year to pay his debts—what he owes your father and the rest.”

“We don’t have to worry about F-father. He’ll wait. I’m goin’ to have that d-d-dowel-machinery set up next week, and I calc’late we kin git orders for a l-lot. The way I f-figger, that machinery alone ought to make a profit of eight-ten dollars a day.”

“Mark,” says I, “I been kind of thinkin’ about this Power Company and their dam. It’ll be a good thing for the town and the state.”

“To be sure,” says Mark.

“Somehow it don’t seem just right for a dinky little mill like this to be preventin’ a big public improvement like that, that’s goin’ to cost ’most a million dollars.”

“’Tain’t right,” says Mark, “but it hain’t the m-mill’s fault. It’s Wiggamore’s fault. Is it f-fair for Silas to lose all he’s got to benefit the p-public?”

“Don’t seem so,” says I.

“If there’s g-goin’ to be sich a heap of benefit from takin’ our dam, them thet gits the b-benefit ought to be willin’ to p-pay for it. That’s fair, hain’t it?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Because a thing’s big,” says he, “is no sign it’s got a right to gouge somethin’ else because it’s l-l-little.”

“No.”

“Well, I won’t be f-found standin’ in the way of their Power Company the minute it wants to be fair and d-d-decent. But so long as it tries to smouge Silas I’ll fight. Yes, sir, I’ll fight.”

“Guess you’re right,” says I.

“And,” says he, “one piece of f-f-fightin’ I’m goin’ to do concerns Jason Barnes. He’s a sneakin’ old foozle, and he’s goin’ to wish he never heard of Wiggamore or a dam or Silas before he’s more ’n twenty year older ’n what he is.”

“What do you want for the mill, anyhow? How much you figger Wiggamore ought to pay?”

“What it’s worth,” says he, “and not a cent m-more or a cent l-less.”

“That sounds fair, anyhow,” says I.

“It’s what we’ll git,” says he.

“I’ve heard tell these big companies was hard to beat.”

“Then,” says he, “that jest m-means that m-much more hard work. Because,” says he, “we’re a-goin’ to b-beat ’em.”

“Good night,” says I.

CHAPTER VII

“The t-trouble,” says Mark, next morning, “is that we got to wait for our m-money a month after we ship.”

“How?” says I.

“Why, we put the stuff on cars and s-s-send it. Whoever buys it has got a month to pay for it.”

“So,” says I, “even if we have the best kind of luck, which hain’t likely, it’ll be a month before any money comes in—and maybe more, because everybody won’t pay up prompt.”

“Yes,” says he.

“So,” says I, “we’ve got a month, anyhow, and we’ve got to pay the men, and pay our bills and everythin’, and no money comin’ in.”

“That’s the f-f-fix,” says he.

“And we hain’t got an order,” says I.

“I just sent out my f-figgers to some of our customers.”

“They’ll be mad,” says I, “because they been used to buyin’ at Silas Doolittle’s prices, and now you’ve gone and raised ’em.”

“You bet I have,” says he.

“What if you don’t git any orders?”

“Then we’re b-busted,” says he.

“Huh!” says I.

“We’ll git orders,” he says, “b-because my prices are fair. I’ll bet they’re l-lower than some. So far’s I kin see,” he says, “’tain’t any worse to go b-busted sellin’ for enough than for too little. One way we’re sure to b-bust. The other way we got a chance.”

“If we kin git orders,” says I, “and if we kin find money to carry us through the next month.”

“That’s the idee,” says he, and you could tell he was a mite worried by the way he took a hold of his cheek and pinched it and jerked at it. He always did that when he was worried, but I never got really scairt till he began to whittle. When Mark Tidd whittled, then things was perty sick.

“That notice of yours comes out in the paper this afternoon,” says I. “The one about Silas’s debts.”

“Uh-huh,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “what if half the town comes traipsin’ in with bills against him? What then?”

“We’ll have to f-f-figger to pay ’em somehow,” says he.

All the time I saw him looking at two or three of our turners who didn’t seem to be very busy. Anyhow, they had time to stand off from their lathes and talk about taxes, and William Jennings Bryan, and rabbit-dogs, and fishing, and how mean Clem Roberts’s wife was to him. Mark kind of frowned and squinted up his little eyes and fidgeted around.

“Makes me mad,” says he. “Here we’re payin’ them men for a day’s work, and what do we git? We git just as much work as they feel like doin’. I’ll bet them old coots wastes a quarter of a day, and don’t kill themselves the rest of the time. We ought to be gittin’ about twice as much done as we do—and that would lower costs a heap.”

“What you goin’ to do about it?” says I.

“I been thinkin’,” says he.

“Better think some more,” says I; “it’s easy.”

“I’m a-goin’ to, and I’m a-goin’ to do it n-now. You tell Tallow and Binney to come up to the office and we’ll have a council of war.”

I got the fellows and we all went into the office that Mark had got fixed up pretty slick with an old table and some kitchen chairs. It looked real business-like with bookkeeping books and such like scattered around.

“Well,” says he, “who’s got any n-n-notion of how to make them grocery-store p-politicans work harder?”

“Pay ’em more,” says I.

“That won’t do it,” says he. “I’d be willin’ to p-pay more if they’d earn it. But they don’t earn fair what they git. They got an idee we’re just kids and they kin do about the way they w-want to.”

“Tell ’em,” says Binney, “that we won’t pay ’em only for what they do.”

Mark looked at him a minute. “Say, Binney,” says he, “I guess you’re promoted. That’s a notion. I knew there was somethin’. Piece-work is what they call it. Pay ’em so much for every article they make. So much for a hunderd chair-s-s-spindles, so much for d-drumsticks, so much for d-d-dumb-bells and tenpins.”

“They’ll quit,” says Tallow.

“Maybe,” says Mark, “but we got to do somethin’. Let’s give it a try.”

We waited till noon and the men was all sitting around eating their lunches. Mark and us went up to them, and Mark says:

“Beginnin’ to-morrow, we’re a-goin’ to put this mill on a piece-work basis.”

“Eh?” says old Charlie Cobb.

“Piece-work. I got the rates f-f-figgered out. I know how much a turner ought to do in a day, and I based my rates on that. Any man that works l-like he ought to will make what he’s m-makin’ to-day, and more, and a f-f-feller that really wants to dig in can make a heap more. I don’t care if every one of you makes ten dollars a day.”

“We won’t work no piece-work,” says Charlie.

“Why?”

“It’s jest gougin’ us. We’ll have to dum’ near kill ourselves, and then we won’t make wages.”

“Look here,” says Mark, “you’re turnin’ spindles, Charlie. How many d’you f-f-figger you kin turn in a day without b-bustin’? You’re a first-class turner.”

Charlie thought a minute and then told him. Maybe he bragged a little, because Charlie liked to tell folks what a dickens of a man he was.

“Bet you can’t do it,” says Mark.

“I kin do it every day for a year hand-runnin’ and not sweat a hair,” says Charlie.

“How about you other f-f-fellers?” says Mark.

“Calc’late we kin equal anythin’ Charlie can do,” said Jake Marks. “Charlie hain’t no wizard.”

“Then,” says Mark, “you ought to be p-plumb tickled with my piece-work schedule, for it don’t require no sich amount as Charlie says to earn what you’re earnin’ now. I figgered consid’able lower. So you kin git a day’s work done in maybe an hour less, and git the same money for it, or you kin keep right on to work and make a dollar and maybe more than you be.”

“I won’t do it,” says Charlie.

“Why?”

“I jest don’t like the idee.”

“All right, Charlie,” says Mark. “I’m s-s-sorry, because I wanted you to keep on workin’ here. When you git your lunch et come up to the office for your p-pay.”

“Eh? What? What’s that? Firin’ me?”

“No. You’re quittin’.” He turned to the other men as if nothing had happened, and told them how much he planned to pay for what they was making on piece-work rates. “You kin see,” says he, “that I aim to be f-f-fair. And more ’n that, I’m goin’ to t-tack on a bonus. Every man that t-turns out a full day’s work every day will git an extry d-d-dollar Saturday n-night.”

They did a little talking among themselves, and then Jake got up and says, “The boys says they’ll try it a week, anyhow.”

“Good!” says Mark. “Sorry Charlie don’t feel that way. I’m goin’ to the office now, Charlie. Come along and g-g-git your money.”

Charlie he sort of hemmed and hawed, and then he said he guessed maybe he was a mite hasty, and he figgered to stay on with the rest.

“Suit yourself,” says Mark, as independent as a hog on ice. “Whatever you say.”

Well, next day they went on piece-work, and it was a surprise to me. Maybe it wasn’t to Mark, but I was plumb took off my feet when Tallow and Binney turned in their report at night. They was doin’ the checkin’ up. We had the biggest day we’d ever had. Mark said he was gettin’ all of ten per cent. more for his money than he ever did before. The surprising thing about it was that it kept right up, and even got bigger. Mark said the men sort of felt they was working for themselves, and that it was up to them to stay busy because they wasn’t cheating anybody but their own selves when they loafed.

That night Mark’s notice came out in the paper, and next day about half a dozen folks come in with little bills, and Mark paid them right up. We was getting all ready to slap ourselves on the back and say that we had been afraid of something that there wasn’t any danger in, when, late in the afternoon, who should come stomping into the office but old-man Fugle from up the river.

“I seen your piece in the paper,” says he, “so I says to myself, I’ll drive in and find out what there is to it, because I’d about giv’ up what Silas owed me and was calc’latin’ to take it out of his hide one of these days. Not that I could git the worth of my money by lickin’ Silas, but it would make me sort of easier in my mind.”

“What does Silas owe you?” says Mark.

“More ’n I wisht he did,” says old-man Fugle. “Be you goin’ to pay it?”

“How much did you say?”

“More’n his ganglin’ carcass is worth for corned beef,” says old-man Fugle. “Dunno why I ever trusted the coot. Might ’a’ knowed he wa’n’t man enough to run a mill. I says to my old woman the day after I done it that I calc’lated I’d up and made Silas a Christmas present, but there wasn’t no good wishes goin’ along with it.”

“What does he owe you for?”

“’Cause I was fool enough to trust him,” says old-man Fugle. “Next time I’ll know better. I don’t see what for you put that piece in the paper and got me ’way in here and then don’t do anything about it.”

“If you’ll t-t-tell me what Silas owes you for, and how much he owes you, we kin g-g-git down to b-business,” says Mark.

“Hain’t I been tellin’ you right along? Hain’t I been dingin’ it into your ears? Say! How many times I got to holler it at you? Be you deef?”

“You m-might tell me once more, in dollars and cents,” says Mark.

“I’ll tell you. You bet I’ll tell you. If it wasn’t so much I wouldn’t give a hoot, ’cause I could lick him and git satisfaction enough to make up, but I’d have to lick him more’n seventy times.”

“At how much a l-lick?” says Mark.

“Eh?” says old-man Fugle.

“How much does Silas owe you?”

“Hain’t I been tellin’ you? Confound it! where’s your ears?”

Mark pushed a sheet of paper at him. “Please write the amount d-down there,” he says.

Old-man Fugle scowled at the paper and waggled his whiskers and took a bite out of the pencil. Then he got over the paper so close his nose touched it, and he wrapped his fingers around the pencil so he didn’t know whether he was writing with it or with his finger-nail, and made some marks. I could see the paper better than the other fellows, and when I saw what he had put down I felt like yelling “Fire!” and running for home. The figures was two hunderd and seventy-two dollars and sixty-one cents!

He shoved the paper over to Mark, and Mark looked at it and turned kind of pink and sniffed and looked at me. I guess the wind was took out of his sails for once.

“What’s—what’s this for?” says he.

“For you to pay,” says old-man Fugle.

“What did you s-s-sell Silas?” says Mark.

“Logs,” says old-man Fugle.

“Call Silas Doolittle,” says Mark to me, and off I hustled. I was back in a second, dragging Silas after me.

“Silas,” says Mark, “do you owe Mr. Fugle for logs?”

“Why,” says Silas, kind of vague and walleyed, “I wouldn’t say. Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Seems like I bought some logs off of him, and then again seems like I didn’t. What’s he got to say about it?”

“He claims you owe him n-n-nearly three hunderd d-dollars.”

“Does, eh? Well, I swan to man! Who’d ’a’ thought it? Well, well!”

“Do you owe it?”

“Fugle says so,” Silas says, “and I calc’late if he says so I do. Now I wonder how it come I never paid that?”

“You never had no money,” says old-man Fugle. “Be you goin’ to pay it now?”

“Ask him,” says Silas, pointing to Mark. “He knows.”

“We are,” says Mark, “but we haven’t the m-m-money to-night. We weren’t expectin’ a b-bill of this size.”

“I’ve come for my pay and I want it.”

“You’ll have to give us a l-l-little time.”

“That’s about all I been givin’ for a spell back. Can’t figger to buy no groceries with time.”

“We will pay this,” says Mark, “just as s-s-soon as we kin. You won’t l-lose a cent. How much t-time will you be willing to give us?”

“Fifteen minutes,” says old-man Fugle.

“What’s your hurry now? A few days won’t make any difference.”

“Won’t, eh? How d’you know? Guess maybe I know my own business.”

“Will you give us a week?”

“No.”

“Give us till next Wednesday?”

“No.”

“Well, how much will you g-g-give us?”

“I’ll give you exactly till Tuesday noon,” says old-man Fugle. “If I hain’t got the money then, why, I got a offer for this debt, cash money. A feller offers to buy it off of me.”

“For how much?”

“Two hunderd dollars.”

“You’d lose more than seventy-two d-d-dollars.”

“Better ’n losin’ the whole shebang,” says old-man Fugle.

“Tuesday noon’s the best you will d-do?”

“You bet you.”

“All right, then. You come Tuesday n-n-noon and your money will be here. Don’t sell to Jason Barnes on any account. You read what I said in the p-p-paper?”

“That’s why I come here.”

“All right, then. Tuesday noon you get p-p-paid in full.”

“I’ll wait,” says old-man Fugle, and out he stamped.

When he was gone we looked at one another sort of quiet, and then we all looked at Silas Doolittle, who was stepping from one foot to the other like he was standing on something hot. But Mark never said a word to him. When he spoke it was mostly to himself.

“Tuesday noon,” says he. “Two hunderd and seventy-two d-d-dollars and sixty-one cents!... I guess we got to git a h-h-hustle on.”

Somehow I was looking at it about like Mark was. We sure did need to get a hustle on, but I was guessing that the place we would hustle would be out of that mill for good and all, and that Mr. Wiggamore would come hustling into it. It looked to me like our dam was his.

CHAPTER VIII

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.

CHAPTER IX

“Now old-man Fugle’s off our m-m-minds,” says Mark Tidd, next morning, “and things is goin’ p-perty good here, we got time to give to Jason Barnes.”

“Fine!” says I, and Tallow and Binney agreed with me as enthusiastic as could be.

“What’s the scheme?” says Tallow.

“Dunno yet. Got to git one up. Anyhow, I don’t want to do much till Silas Doolittle gits that d-dowel-machinery to goin’. If he was left alone he wouldn’t finish up on it till a year from Christmas.”

“Yes,” says I, “and what about that other turned stock that’s pilin’ up in the warehouse? Them drumsticks and tenpins. And perty soon we’ll have a stack of bowls, too. Hadn’t we better git to sellin’ them?”

“I been workin’ on ’em,” says Mark. “Got a lot of l-letters out now. Ought to hear somethin’ right away. If I don’t we’ll have to git out and h-hustle.”

Well, he stood over Silas Doolittle like a hungry cat watching a mouse-hole until Silas got finished up with the dowel-machinery and it was running. When the little pegs began to come through Mark was satisfied.

“Now for Jason,” says he.

“Jason’s one of them spirit fellers,” says I.

“How’s that?” says Binney.

“Believes spooks comes monkeyin’ around a feller,” says I. “Goes to them mediums and gits to talk to his grandfather’s aunt’s sister’s poodle-dog that died the year of Valley Forge,” says I. “And he hears rappin’s on the wall, and pencils writes on slates when nobody is around, and sich cunnin’ things.”

“What’s a medium?” says Tallow.

“Why,” says I, “you know what a medium is! Anybody knows. I wouldn’t let on I didn’t know what one was. Folks would think I didn’t know much.”

“Oh,” says he, “is that so? Well, if you’re so doggone wise, what is a medium? Jest tell me that. Jest say right out what one is, and what it does, and what wages it gits for doin’ it, if it’s so easy.”

“Well,” says I, “when you have roast beef, how do you like it?”

“Cooked,” says Binney.

“Well done or rare or what?” says I.

“Medium,” says Tallow.

“There,” says I. “You see.”

“I don’t see nothin’,” says he. “What’s roast beef got to do with spirits?”

“It hain’t the meat,” says I, “but the word. You said ‘medium,’ didn’t you? Well, that’s what we was talkin’ about.”

“Huh!” says he, and sort of scowled. “Medium. That means half-cooked, don’t it? It means the meat hain’t raw and hain’t done. Kind of red-like,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “that’s what a medium is, hain’t it?”

“What? Red?”

“Some of ’em is red,” says I. “There’s Injun spirits. Most mediums I ever heard of is on speakin’ terms with a Injun spirit named Laughin’ Water.”

“What kind of a way is it to call ‘red’ ‘medium’? How would I look sayin’ the Brownses’ house was medium when I meant it was red? Folks would think I was crazy.”

“It don’t mean red, exactly,” says I.

“Well, then, what does it mean?”

“It sort of means ‘not quite.’ See? Not quite raw and not quite cooked.”

“Middlin’?” says Tallow.

“Why, yes,” says I, “that’s about it! Standin’ in the middle.”

“Middle of what?” says Binney.

“Middle of a crowd of spirits, of course,” says I.

“Well, why in tunket couldn’t you have said so right off without so much palaver?”

“I had to explain it to you gradual,” says I, “or you wouldn’t ever have catched the idea.”

“Did Jason ever see one of them spirits?” says Tallow.

“Claims he’s seen dozens,” says I.

“Was he scairt?”

“Accordin’ to his tell he got consid’able chummy with ’em,” says I. “He was braggin’ up to the grocery how they come and pulled his ears and stuck their fingers down his back and called him by his first name.”

“If I was a spirit,” says Binney, “I’ll bet I could git more fun than pullin’ Jason’s ears.”

“Well,” says Mark Tidd, “what you f-f-fellers say if we all turn spirits and do quite a heap more ’n jest p-pull his ears? I’ll bet Jason hain’t so brash as he lets on with spirits kickin’ around. I’ll b-bet if he was to meet up with a crowd of ’em unexpected-like, he’d have a conniption fit and fall in the m-middle of it.”

“We kin try him and see,” says I. “How’ll we work it?”

“I’ll f-figger it out,” says Mark, “and to-night we’ll give Jason a t-treat.”

“Treat him medium,” says Tallow.

“Won’t be n-nothin’ medium about this,” says Mark. “It’ll be done brown.”

“We’ll dress up in sheets,” says Binney.

“We won’t, n-neither,” says Mark. “Sheets has gone out of style for ghosts. It’s what you can’t see but kin feel and hear that scares you m-most. Jest lemme alone awhile and I’ll git up a scheme for Jason.”

Well, we let him alone, because there wasn’t anything else to do. When he was getting up a scheme it wasn’t any use to ask him questions or pester him. He never would tell you a word till he made up his mind to, and the more you bothered him the longer it would be before you found out. When he was good and ready you’d get to know.

Mark told us to meet him right after supper, which we did. He had a fish-pole in his hand all covered with black, and a package in his other hand that he didn’t mention.

“Thought we was goin’ after Jason,” says I. “Why didn’t you say you was goin’ bullhead-fishin’?”

“The b-bullhead we’re after,” says he, “has got two laigs and he answers to the name of Barnes.”

“All right,” says I, “but why the fish-pole?”

“You’ll see,” says he.

“Why’s it all wrapped in black?”

“So’s he won’t see,” says Mark, and that is all we could get out of him.

We mogged along slow, waiting for it to get real good and dark, and then we headed straight for Jason’s house. Mostly in the evening you could find him setting on a bench overlooking the river, having a enjoyable time smoking his pipe and swatting mosquitoes. He always sat there, because if he went down to the grocery with the other loafers somebody might borrow a pipeful of tobacco off of him, and it seemed like Jason just couldn’t bear to part with nothing for nothing. He was that close-fisted he made the barber spread a paper around his chair when he got a hair-cut, so he could save the hair that was cut off. Yes, sir. And once he took two plank to the mill to be planed, and fetched along a bag to carry home the shavings. Said they was too good kindling to waste.

We got to his house and sneaked around back, but Jason wasn’t there. We hid in the lilac-bushes and waited maybe twenty minutes. Perty soon the back door opened and out come Jason on tiptoes, acting like an Injun that was creeping up on a helpless settlement of white folks. He took so much pains to act stealthy that anybody could tell he was up to something. When he went past where we were hiding we saw he had an ax in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He mogged right along past us and begun to scramble down the bank toward our mill.

“Huh!” says Mark. “Wonder what the old coot’s up to?”

“Hain’t no idee,” says I, “but he’s headin’ toward the mill.”

“Shouldn’t be s’prised,” says Mark, “if it was a l-l-lucky thing we happened around jest when we did. Wait a m-minute and we’ll foller in Jason’s footsteps.”

We waited, and in a minute Mark got up and started right after Jason. When we got to the edge of the bank we could see a dark blob that moved along through our log-yard, and we knew it was him, so down we went, taking all the pains we knew how not to make any sound.

When we got to the bottom Jason was out of sight, but we knew he was there somewheres, and Mark said he wasn’t up to any good. I could have told that myself, because nobody goes sneaking onto other folks’s property at night with an ax and a crowbar to do him a favor. Not that I’ve heard of, anyhow.

We went across the race and up to the mill, but we didn’t see Jason or hear a sound.

“L-listen!” says Mark.

We all stood as still as could be and listened. Before long we heard a sort of scraping sound over to our right. It sounded like it was pretty close, but kind of muffled.

“Plunk,” says Mark, “you crawl over that way and s-see what you kin s-see.”

So I got down on all-fours and crept along till I got to the gate that let the water through to the mill-wheel. It was shut, because we always shut it at night. I hadn’t seen or heard anything yet. I kept on till I was right on the edge of the pit where the water-wheel was and craned my neck over. I couldn’t see anything for a spell, but sure as shooting I could hear somebody moving around, and in a second a match flared up and I could see Jason sticking out his neck and looking at the wheel. There was a little water down there that seeped through the gate—not much, but a little. It came around his ankles. Now I could hear him breathing hard and kind of muttering to himself.

“Dum’ hard way to earn money,” says he, soft and low. “But it’s good money and don’t take long. Hope it don’t fetch on the rheumatiz, sloshin’ around in this water.” Then, after a while he says, sort of shaky, “I never see sich a dark hole.” He lighted another match and looked around. Then he picked up his ax and crowbar from where he had rested them against the wall and got nearer to the water-wheel.

I didn’t wait for anything else, but went hustling back to Mark.

“He’s down in the wheel-pit,” says I, “and he’s got his ax and crowbar. Now whatever you calc’late he’s doin’ there?”

Mark was looking pretty mad. “He’s doin’ a little chore for that man Wiggamore,” says he. “He’s goin’ to see to it the m-m-mill don’t run too good. What would h-happen, Plunk, if our water-wheel was to be smashed?”

“Why,” says I, “we’d be smashed, too!”

“You bet,” says he. “Well,” he says, in a minute, “I dunno ’s I ever heard of a more d-d-disagreeable place to meet a ghost than down in a wheel-pit.”

With that he undid the package in his hand and showed it to us. It was a rubber glove, kind of whitish-yellow color, and it was stuffed full of something.

“Feel,” says Mark.

I took it in my hand and dropped it in a second. You never took hold of anything so cold and clammy-feeling and so dead. That’s how it felt—dead.

“What’s the idee?” says I, sort of shivering.

“That,” says Mark, “is the g-g-ghost.”

“Ginger!” says I.

He took that hand and fastened it to the end of his fish-pole, and then motioned for us to come along. We all got over to the edge of the pit without making a sound, and stuck our heads over. Sure enough, there we could see Jason—just barely see him in the pitch dark, and we could hear him mumbling to himself, pretty nervous and uneasy.

“Wisht it was light,” says he. “This hain’t no sort of a place for a man to be at night. Nobody knows what’s prowlin’ around. And a feller can’t do no sort of a workman-like job when he can’t see. But I calc’late I kin put that wheel out of business, jest the same. Anyhow, I kin smash off most of the buckets.”

He lighted another match and reached for his ax. Just then Mark let out a sound that ’most made me jump into the pit. It was the dolefulest, sufferingest, miserablest moan you ever heard. The hair around the back of my neck curled right up tight, and I hain’t ever been able to git the kink quite out of it. Scairt! Whew! Say, I’ve been scairt a couple of times, but I hain’t never seen anything that was a patch on what I felt then. I was just going to scramble up and scoot when Mark grabbed me.

“Set still,” he whispered. “That was me.”

“Oh!” says I. “Well, don’t do it ag’in, or you won’t have me in the audience. I calc’late I heard about all I kin digest.”

“You’ll hear worse,” says he.

We listened. Jason wasn’t making a sound. Jest standing still and letting his knees rattle together, I calc’late. Perty soon he spoke.

“Who’s that?” he says, faint-like.

Mark he let out another one of them moans, but this was a better one than the first. It fair made your blood curdle up into hunks.

“Ooo-oo!” says Jason, just like that.

Mark stuck out his fish-pole slow and cautious with that clammy hand on the end of it, and then, all of a sudden, there was a thin little ray of light that shot out and touched that hand so’s you could see it plain, but you couldn’t see anything else. It jest looked like a hand a-floating in the air, sort of pale and fleshy and horrible—and it moved straight toward Jason. Mark he let loose another moan.

“Jason Barnes!” says Mark, in a hollow, awful kind of voice. “Jason Barnes!”

Now the hand was close to Jason and he was a-crowding away from it. His eyes was sticking out of his head about a foot and his mouth was open wide enough to stick that hand right into it. All he could see was that hand and the ghost light that come with it. The light was an electric flash of Mark’s. The hand came closer and closer and touched Jason right on the cheek. Well, sir, you never heard such a screech as he let out.

“Go away!” says he. “Don’t touch me! What be you ha’ntin’ me fer? I hain’t never done nothin’ to you. Ooo-oo!”

“Kneel, Jason Barnes!” says Mark, and down plopped Jason right in that chilly water. “Kneel and confess.”

And all that time that clammy hand was a-fumbling over Jason’s face. If I’d been him I calc’late I’d have keeled over and give up the ghost right there, but maybe, being one of them spirit fellers, Jason was sort of familiar with ghosts and wasn’t as scairt as I would have been. But he was scairt enough. Come to think it over, I don’t see how a body could get much more scairt than he was.

“Jason Barnes,” says Mark again, “what—are—you—doing—there?”

“Oh, Spirit, whoever you be,” says Jason, his teeth clattering like clappers, “I hain’t doin’ nothin’. I was walkin’ in my sleep. I hain’t a-doin’ nothin’.”

“Jason Barnes—confess,” says the voice.

“I—Oh, Mr. Ghost—I come to bust the water-wheel.”

“Why?”

“’Tain’t my fault. I didn’t know any ghosts was int’rested in this mill.... I was hired.”

“Who hired you?”

“Feller named Wiggamore.”

“This is my mill.... This is my water-wheel,” says the voice.

“I didn’t know.... Honest, I didn’t know. Oh, lemme git out, Mr. Spirit! I won’t never come ag’in. I won’t never disturb your property no more.”

“How—much—were—you—paid?” says the voice.

“Ten dollars,” says Jason.

“Put—it—in—my—hand,” says the voice.

Jason he reached in his pocket and laid a bill in the hand on the end of the fish-pole, and the hand pulled it back to Mark, who put it in his pocket. Then the hand went back again.

“I’ve—been—watching—you,” said the voice.

“I hain’t done nothin’.... I didn’t know. Oh, lemme go! I won’t never do nothin’ like this again.”