“We’ll do it,” says he. “I’ve noticed,” says he, “that if you’ve got to do a thing or b-b-bust you usually do it—or bust.” He grinned all over his fat face. “Now let’s forget about the mortgage and start to makin’ money.”
“Suits me,” says I.
By this time we had our stock pretty well arranged. You wouldn’t have known the old store. Everything was in order and arranged so it could be found. The most expensive things were at the front, the five-and-ten-cent things were at the back. That was Mark’s idea.
“Folks is after bargains,” says he, “and they’ll walk to get ’em. When they come in they’ll be after somethin’ cheap. But we’ll m-make ’em walk past the other things. They can’t h-help lookin’ at ’em, and chances are they’ll see somethin’ they need.”
It was so, too. I can name three or four folks who came in to buy something for a dime, but did buy something for a half a dollar or a dollar just because they saw them on the way back. Things we calculated folks would want we had set up conspicuous, with the price marked on them plain—and it was generally a price that ended in odd cents. Mark says folks are used to paying even money, and if you make it ninety-eight cents or sixty-three cents, why, right off they think it’s a bargain.
But don’t get to thinking business was good. It wasn’t. It wasn’t any better Friday, though quite a few folks came in to ask what we were up to next. This tickled Mark because he said it meant folks were watching us and thinking about us and wondering what sort of scheme we were going to work off on them. That, says he, is good advertising.
Wicksville is full of folks with curiosity. I’ll bet I was asked questions about our signs a dozen times, but wouldn’t tell. Mark said to keep them guessing till we were ready, which was Saturday about ten o’clock. Then Mark put up in the window a big sign explaining about the beauty contest. Lots of folks stopped to look at it, and grinned and laughed, just like I thought they would. Once there was quite a little crowd looking in. Along came Chet Weevil. Uncle Ike Bond was there, and as soon as he saw Chet he commenced to yell at him.
“Ho, Chet!” says he, “here’s somethin’ ’ll int’rest you. Han’somest-man contest! You and them neckties of yourn ’ll be enterin’, eh? Got to settle whether you or Chancy Miller is the beautifulest. Seems like I can’t sleep till I git the judgment of folks on that.”
Chet was all primped up with a checked suit and yellow shoes and a necktie that looked like it would burn your finger if you touched it. He didn’t grin—not Chet. He sort of drew himself up and looked at his reflection in the window and felt of his tie to see if it was on straight.
“Hum!” says he. “I don’t lay no claim to beauty.” Then he sort of put his head on one side and looked at himself again.