“’Tain’t the reason for the c-c-contest that counts,” he says, “it’s that it is a contest. The whole idee of the thing is that nobody likes to have anybody else b-b-beat them at anything.”
“That’s so,” says I. “Seems like I’d be sorrier to have Jehoshaphat P. Skip beat us than I would be to lose the Bazar.”
“Um!” says Mark. “Neither of these things is l-l-likely to happen.”
And then we sneaked back home.
CHAPTER XV
In spite of all we could do, business fell off. It was just as I had argued from the very beginning—there wasn’t enough trade in Wicksville for two stores like ours and Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s. Even if we got half or more than half, it wouldn’t keep us running. Of course I know as well as anybody else that Mark Tidd’s schemes had made folks buy more than they usually did, and for a couple of weeks we sold more than my father generally sold in that much time, but pretty soon everybody was stocked up with the sort of stuff we had and things were about as bad as ever.
The week after the rumpus at Old Mose Miller’s things started out pretty fair, but along about Wednesday it got dull, and from then on there weren’t enough customers to pay to keep the doors open. It seemed like we just couldn’t draw them in, and I expect it was as bad at Skip’s. In fact, I know it was, for we kept watch on him pretty close. If things kept on like they were going, neither one of the stores could last. Skip would put us out of business, but he would put himself out of business doing it. I said so to Mark and he told me to keep thinking about it if I got any particular satisfaction out of it, which I didn’t.
Saturday came along, and though we advertised and trimmed our windows and fixed up special-bargain-tables, it didn’t do a bit of good. And right there, that very morning, along comes Jehoshaphat P. with an announcement that with every dollar’s purchase he would give a ticket to the moving-picture show that had started up in the opera-house.
Mark Tidd was so mad at himself he could have taken a bite out of his own ear if he could have got hold of it.
“Sh-should have thought of that myself,” he says, and went sulking to the back of the store and wouldn’t have anything to do with anybody for a couple of hours. There he sat, scowling and whittling—and we kept away from him as far as we could. I know just how bad he felt.