“Well,” says I, hardly able to keep my face straight, “I hain’t much of a judge, but that curly hair of his—”
“Huh!” he growled. “Hair hain’t goin’ to count. Got any bang-up neckties? The kind folks can’t help seein’?”
“We got some,” says I, “that you could flag a train with on a dark night.”
“How much?” says he.
“Forty-nine cents apiece.”
He reached down into his pocket and pulled out two dollar bills. “This here,” says he, “is secret between you and me. I want four of them ties—and you needn’t mind the change. Vote them twenty votes for me like somebody else did it—and if Chancy goes votin’ for himself, just you lemme know, and I’ll beat him or—or bust a gallus.”
From that on I was more cheerful. Things began getting exciting and, somehow, I almost forgot about Jehoshaphat P. Skip and his chattel mortgage.
CHAPTER VII
When I got back to the Bazar from dinner that Saturday noon Mark had a big sign in one window that said the list of candidates with their votes would be put up at two o’clock. In the other window was just a line across the top that said:
CANDIDATES AND THEIR VOTES