“Hum!” says he. “L-lucky we got that money in the bank. Send it to-morrow.”
“Course,” says I. “But it licks us.”
He stuck out his jaw and his eyes got sort of hard and sparkly.
“D-does, eh?” says he. “Well, Mr. Plunk, we hain’t licked yet. I felt in my bones bad luck was comin’—and here it is. But we’re a-goin’ to stick to it, you can bet. Skip hasn’t put us out of b-business yet.”
There you were. That very day he’d said something like this would dump our apple-cart for us—and now that it had happened he was as much for keeping on as ever. Looked like he didn’t know when he was licked. But that was Mark Tidd all over. He wouldn’t let on he had the worst of it till the sheriff had come and closed up the Bazar. And then, maybe, there’d be something else he’d think up to try as a last resort.
Next morning we sent mother the ninety-six dollars in the bank with four dollars besides. It left us with only enough money in the till to make change with.
Mark looked at it and scowled.
“Got to m-make it grow,” says he, “and grow quick.”
“All right,” says I; “but how?”
“I’m goin’ b-back to whittle,” says he. “In an hour we’ll start somethin’ goin’.”