“You can v-vote ’em for yourself,” says Mark, with a grin, “and elect yourself the handsomest m-man in town.”
Mr. Hopkins, who was a bully fellow, grinned back. “What’ll I do with ’em?” says he.
Mark’s eyes twinkled. “It wouldn’t be f-f-fair for me to suggest anything,” says he, “but if those votes were mine I’ll bet I’d have some f-f-fun with ’em.”
Mr. Hopkins thought a few minutes and then began writing a name on every ballot. It took him quite a while. I couldn’t see who it was, but all of a sudden Mark started to grin and I knew there was a joke on somebody.
“Who is it?” says I.
“Peabody,” says Mark. “Jupiter Peabody.”
“Don’t know him,” says I. I didn’t, either. I’d never heard of such a man. “Who is he?”
“Oh, he’s been living here a long time,” says Mr. Hopkins. “Maybe you never happened to meet him, though.”
I racked my brains, but for the life of me I couldn’t catch on to who he was.
At half past two the list was to go up, and there was a crowd on hand. Everybody was anxious, especially Chet and Chancy and some of the women. The men mostly pretended it was a joke, anyhow, and they didn’t care how it came out—but they did care, all the same.