There wasn’t anything under—it was just waiting there, staring folks in the face.
Along about a quarter past one in came a delegation of ladies from the Methodist church, nominating their parson, Rev. Hamilton Hannis. They were buzzing away, and all excited as a meeting of crows in a maple-tree. Somehow the Congregationalists had got hold of the news and in came six of them before the Methodists had cleared out. They nominated Rev. Orson Whipit, their minister. We got a matter of six dollars and seventy cents out of the two parties.
“Binney,” says Mark, “hain’t your f-f-folks Baptists?”
“Yes,” says Binney.
“Skin home, then,” says Mark, “and tell your ma.”
Off went Binney with the news, and in twenty minutes in came seven Baptist ladies with their pocketbooks and determined expressions, ready to stand up for their parson, Rev. Jenkins McCormick. They invested three dollars and forty cents. That made ten dollars and ten cents we got out of those three denominations.
There were three others to hear from—the United Brethren, the Universalists, and the Catholics, but they didn’t get wind of what was going on till later in the day. We got the whole six of them in the end, but the main contest turned out to be between the first three.
Six other women came in to put up their husbands’ names, and four school-teachers got there separately and privately to nominate Mr. Pilkins, the principal.
“If they v-v-vote as hard as they nominate,” stuttered Mark, “we’ll have to order more goods.”
We put up the list at two o’clock. Just before it went up Chancy Miller came sneaking in the back door with two dollars and twenty cents, and nominated himself. He bought a pair of military brushes and a bottle of perfume. He let on he was going to buy some kid gloves as soon as he saved up another dollar.