“Yes,” says I.
“And you was here yestiddy when Mis’ Bloom was bragging to Mis’ Peterson about what a upstandin’, fine-lookin’ feller her husband was. Eh?”
“Yes,” says I.
“Well,” says he, again, “wimmin kin s-s-see beauty in a feller that a hoss would shy at. There’s this, too: even if a woman d-d-don’t think her husband’s han’some, she hain’t g-goin’ to let on, is she? Not much, she hain’t. Thing to do, Plunk, is to git the wimmin mad about it. Git them wimmin mad and the m-m-men jealous of one another, and there’ll be votin’, Plunk.”
“There’ll be fist-fights,” says I.
“Hope so,” says Mark; “it’ll advertise.”
“How we goin’ to work it?”
“One v-v-vote with every ten-cent purchase,” says he. “Any voter can enter a candidate. We’ll paste a l-list of candidates in the window and every afternoon at two o’clock we’ll put up the vote.... The p-p-prize to the han’somest m-man,” says he, with the first grin he’d let loose, “will be that mirror back there with an imitation silver Cupid on top of it.”
“Some folks’ll make a joke of it.”
“Sure,” says Mark. “Some smart Alecs ’ll be votin’ for ol’ Stan Brazer, like’s not. That’ll only make them that takes it serious madder ’n git-out. Every v-v-vote’s a dime sale, Plunk.”