“I’d rather go huntin’,” says I, “and shoot the first rabbit I see—and git it—than to sit around waiting for two to stand in a row so’s I could shoot ’em both to once. ’Cause they might never git in a row.”
“All right,” says Mark, with a sigh, “if you’re so all-fired impatient. We’ll s-start somethin’ to-morrow.” He stopped and wagged his head. “Nope, not to-morrow. ’S Friday. ’Tain’t s-safe to start things Friday.”
“Saturday’s a better day, anyhow. Farmers’ll be comin’ in.”
“Saturday it is,” says Mark. “We’ll b-begin gittin’ ready.”
“For what?” says I.
“For the votin’ contest,” says Mark. “Plunk, we’re a-goin’ to do a lot of good in Wicksville.” His little eyes were twinkling and glowing, but his face was as solemn as a ball of putty. “We’re a-goin’,” says he, “to settle a question that’s been b-b-botherin’ some folks I could name for years.”
“Well,” says I, “what is it?”
“Who is the h-h-h-han’somest man in Wicksville?” says he.
“What?” says I, and I could feel my nose wrinkle, I was that disgusted.
“Votin’ contest,” says Mark. “But this one’ll be different. Folks have voted for the most popular girl, and the m-most beautiful girl, and sich like. But nobody, so far’s I ever heard, has t-t-tried to pick the han’somest man.”