“He’s more likely to bust his neck,” says Mark.
“What you going to do?”
“I’m goin’ to give Mr. Skip the time of his life,” says Mark. “I’m goin’ to give him c-c-competition till he’s so sick of it he won’t be able to eat it with molasses.”
“But he’s a business man, and he’s got lots of money.”
“Hum!” says Mark.
“His Grand Openin’ ’ll draw everybody in Wicksville, and maybe they’ll never come here any more.”
“Plunk,” says Mark, “Mr. Skip ’ll think his Grand Openin’ has a smallpox sign stuck up on it.”
“How?” says I.
“Folks’ll never n-n-notice it’s goin’ on,” says he.
I was beginning to feel some better, for it was as plain as the wart on Mr. Skip’s nose that Mark had hit on a scheme. “Why won’t they?” I asked.