“But,” says Binney, “we want to be out at the auction.”
Mark he looked at them for half a minute without saying a word. “This here,” says he, “hain’t a movin’-p-p-picture show or a picnic. It’s business.”
They didn’t have another word to say, because they knew Mark would have discharged them in a second if he had thought it was necessary.
“There’ll be folks nosin’ around,” says Mark, “and they g-got to be looked after. Plunk’ll help me.”
We had piled a lot of things up in front that we figured would tempt folks, and everything was ready for the auction. We didn’t open the store door till it was time, but at half past nine Mark sent Binney and me out with big bells.
“Walk up and d-down the street and ring ’em,” says he, “and carry these signs.”
Each of the signs had printed on it: “All ready for the auction. She’s going to start.”
Binney went one way and I went the other, which was right past Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s new store. There were a couple of folks in there and the music was a-going it as tight as it could, but Mr. Skip didn’t seem like he was happy. I stuck my head inside his door and hollered, “Auction’s goin’ to begin,” and then ducked. He started after me, poking his long neck ahead of him like a giraffe, but I knew he wouldn’t chase me, so I walked off—when I’d got outside—as calm as a parade of Odd Fellows.
Just before ten o’clock I hustled back. Mark had put the phonograph outside and it was doing the best it knew how. Quite a crowd was beginning to gather around. I looked at Mark to see if he was scared. Scared! He looked tickled to death.
“Come on,” says he.