Business was pretty fair the rest of the day. We didn’t close until half past ten, and we were good and tired, I can tell you. Our beauty contest was getting along fine. Nobody forgot to ask for votes when they bought a dime’s worth, and the big talk of the day was about Old Miller and his thousand votes. I don’t suppose there was anybody in that contest who didn’t hope to pry those votes away from Old Mose, and everybody was looking for a hint about how to go at it. Mark Tidd was the chief hinter. He told every one the same thing.
“If I was you,” says he to everybody that asked his advice, “I’d w-w-wait till sometime when Mose was likely to be alone. Sometime like Sunday afternoon. Then I’d go out to his place like I was j-just makin’ him a call. ’Twouldn’t do any harm to talk about cats. Just mention cats casual-like. It’ll s’prise you how it’ll strike him. Then you might edge along and m-mention that you got a kitten. Tell him you hate to spare that kitten, but, seein’ who he is and what a high regard you got for him, you’ll fetch it out for him. Don’t mention votes yet. See if you can’t git him to m-mention ’em himself. Yes, sir, if I was you I’d go out about half past two; he’ll be through dinner then and feelin’ perty good.”
That’s the answer Mark had for everybody. Cats! We found out a couple of months ago how Old Mose hates cats—hates ’em and is afraid of ’em. He’d rather pet a rattlesnake than a cat.
That night as we were walking home Mark says:
“Guess we b-better meet about two o’clock and slide out to Old Mose’s. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was somethin’ there to see that ’u’d be worth watchin’.”
We wouldn’t be surprised, either, and you can bet we agreed to meet him.
Sunday morning everybody in Wicksville went to church and the young folks stayed to Sunday-school. I hurried through my dinner and was at Mark’s house before he was through. He didn’t hurry his dinner. Not much! Anybody that finds Mark Tidd slighting a meal wants to report it, for it’ll be one of the wonders of the world. No, he wasn’t through yet and Mrs. Tidd made me come in and eat a piece of apple-pie. Mark was just finishing up his second piece and was looking covetous-like at the third, but his mother put her foot down and wouldn’t let him have it. So he finished off with an apple and a banana and a bit of rice-pudding left from yesterday and then said he guessed he’d put half a dozen cookies in his pocket to eat on the way.
By that time Tallow and Binney came along and we started out the river road to Old Mose’s.
We began going cautious before we got in sight of the farm, because we didn’t want Mose to see us and we didn’t want anybody from Wicksville to know we had put up a joke on them—that would be bad for business. So we turned off the road and dodged closer, all the time keeping out of sight behind shocks of corn in the field that was next to Old Mose’s farm-yard. We crept up behind a clump of lilac-bushes and then craned our necks to see where we could find a good place to hide and watch what went on.
Old Mose was out on his porch, playing his phonograph. He had one of those talking-records going—we could hear it plain as could be.