Skip scowled at me and says, “You won’t have much grinnin’ to do after Friday, young feller.”
“Um!” says I. “You can’t tell about grins. They grow promiscuous like Canada thistles. Never can tell where one’ll spring up.”
“What you goin’ to do about that chattel mortgage? Goin’ to turn over the stock without a fuss, or have I got to fetch in the constables and dep’ty-sheriffs and court officers? Eh?”
“Well,” says I, “if we’re goin’ to git busted up we might as well have all the trimmin’s. Can’t you call out the militia, too?”
“Who’s boss of your store, anyhow? You or that fat boy?”
“I calc’late,” says I, “that Mark Tidd’s in command.”
“Guess I’ll see him, then. Maybe I can git him to let go peaceable.”
“He’ll be glad to see you,” says I, with another grin.
Jehoshaphat turned around and made for the Bazar. Mark was waiting on a couple of customers and there were three other folks in the store. That was unusual, but I says to Skip:
“Things is perty dull with us. Only five customers in the store.”