“I hain’t so s-sure,” says Mark. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.... You be d-down to the store at seven o’clock,” says he, and waddled off home.
Now, wouldn’t anybody think it was his store? Wouldn’t they? It looked to me like he was trying to be the whole thing, but you can bet I didn’t feel that way before we were through with it. I was all-fired glad Mark Tidd was around with his schemes and his plans and his way of running everything in general.
CHAPTER II
I thought I’d steal a march on Mark Tidd next morning, and got to the Bazar at half past six instead of seven. I figured he’d come mogging along in half an hour and I’d have some pretty smart things to say. But when I got there I found the door open, and inside was Mark with his coat off and dust on his nose and dust on his hands, digging around among the stock to see what was there.
“There’s enough st-stuff here for three bazars,” he says to me like he judged it was my fault.
“All the more to sell,” says I.
“There’s truck here you couldn’t t-t-trade to Injuns for pelts,” says he, and then he grinned, “but maybe we can sell ’em to white folks for m-money.”
“When does the new store open?”
“Monday.”
“And this is Wednesday.” I expect I said it sort of downhearted, for Mark wrinkled his nose like he does when he doesn’t like anything, and says: