“We calc’lated she’d hang together a s-s-spell longer,” says Mark.
“It’s been runnin’ down for years,” says Skip. “It would of busted more’n four months ago if this here Mr. Smalley that owns it hadn’t of borrowed money to pay his debts. He up and borrowed five hundred dollars and give his note and a chattel mortgage on this Bazar. That’s what he done. And I was lookin’ around yestiddy and found out about it. That’s me, Jehoshaphat P. Skip. I look around—and I find out. Folks don’t want to git me down on ’em or they’re sorry for it.”
“To be sure,” says Mark.
“This here mortgage and note is due six weeks from to-day,” says Skip.
“Six weeks,” says Mark, slow-like. “Guess there won’t be any trouble about that, mister.” Jehoshaphat P. choked and gurgled and blinked his eyes.
“There won’t, eh? Think you can pay off five hundred dollars in six weeks, do you?” He grinned again as mean as a cornered alley cat. “Don’t matter what you think,” says he, “it can’t be done. Six weeks from to-day I’m goin’ to be the owner of this Bazar.”
“If I was you,” says Mark, “I w-wouldn’t go spendin’ any m-m-money you’re goin’ to make runnin’ this store—yet. Mister,” says he, “there’s fair business and there’s rotten business. There’s things it’s right to do to a competitor, and things a skunk would b-be ashamed of. Mister, a skunk that was well brought up, and had a f-f-family to think about, wouldn’t stay in the same town with you.” He stopped for breath and to give his jaw a rest, for the way he’d been stuttering was enough to knock chips off his teeth. “That’s what we th-th-think of you, mister. Now about that chattel mortgage—it’ll be paid, on the m-m-minute. We’ve got six weeks. When the six weeks are up you’ve got something to say—but if you come into this place again before that note’s due—if you even stick your long nose inside the door—we’ll throw you out and r-r-roll you in the mud for the whole town to see.... Now, mister, git.”
I’d seen Mark pretty worked up before, but I don’t recollect ever watching him when his lips got white the way they were then. His lips were white and his cheeks were gray, and his little eyes sort of glowed like there was a slow fire in them that was apt to break into a blaze.
Jehoshaphat P. Skip looked at Mark and sort of caught his breath and began to look uneasy.
“Git!” says Mark, again, before Skip could open his mouth.