Friday morning seemed like it could have held all the seven days of the week. We took lunch in the Bazar. At a quarter to two Mark had us put a big sign in each window that said:
ALL READY FOR THE FORECLOSURE
EVERYBODY WELCOME
There was a good crowd there—probably fifty or sixty people—when Skip and the officer came in. The officer went over to Mark and says:
“I’ve come to take charge of this stock, young feller.”
“But,” says Mark, “d-don’t you have to give folks a chance to pay up before you seize the store?”
“Yes,” says the officer, “but I understood there wasn’t any chance of that.”
“Um!” says Mark, and he scrambled up on top of the counter. “Folks,” says he, as calm and cool as a chunk of ice, “here’s Jehoshaphat P. Skip and the officer to put us out of business. They’ve got a chattel mortgage for f-five hundred dollars, and if we can’t pay it the Bazar is b-busted. You know about Mr. Smalley. You’ve all been friends of his for years. What d’you think of a man who’ll take away everything Mr. Smalley’s got, just out of m-meanness?”
“Here,” says the officer, “none of that, now. Git off’n that counter and keep quiet.”
Mark looked down at him and says: