“Yes.”
“I drove out to see Sheridan Mogford, who owns the store Skip is in. I f-found out Skip didn’t have a lease. He just rents it by the month. If he had a lease we couldn’t do anything. A lease is a kind of a written agreement that says how long a man can rent a p-piece of property at so much a month. If Skip had a lease for a year he could keep on s-stayin’ in that store a year and we c-couldn’t interfere with him. But he didn’t have. He said he didn’t want to get tied up to any lease till he found out how business was. So he just rents by the m-month.”
“All right,” says I, “but what of it?”
“Why, I w-went out to see Mr. Mogford and I talked to him and told him how Skip had acted to us—and I got him to make out a lease of Skip’s store to Mr. Sturgis, here. Only, really, it was to us. Mr. Sturgis has his name there in our place like. He’s our—what-d’you-call-it?”
“Attorney-in-fact,” says Mr. Sturgis. “In simpler language—your agent.”
“Hum!” says I. “Pretty mixed up for me.”
Mark grunted. “Why,” says he, “when we got that lease we were entitled to move into the store. But we’d have to give Skip a m-month’s notice. We could force him out—and there isn’t another store in Wicksville f-for him to go to. See?”
“Let’s do it,” says I. “That’ll fix everything.”
Mark shook his head. “That wouldn’t f-fix anythin’,” says he. “What’d happen? We’d have Skip out of b-business, but we’d still owe him f-five hundred dollars on that chattel mortgage. And we’d be stuck for the rent of two stores, because we’d have to pay rent where the Bazar is now and for Skip’s store, too. Be worse off’n ever.”
“Then what good is your old lease, anyhow?”