“I calc’late,” says he, “that folks’ll sort of flock in to vote for me as soon’s they see my name.”
“Well,” says Mark, “they’ll f-f-flock in, all right, Chancy, but I calc’late you got to depend on the unmarried vote. It beats all what a p-p-pile of han’some husbands and ministers there is here.”
“Ministers!” Chancy was like to choke. “Is ministers comin’ in? Now I don’t call that fair. Why,” says he, “them Prince Albert coats of theirn give ’em a head start right off. Besides,” says he, “ministers have more time to slick up.”
“Sure,” says Mark, “but not a one of ’em has c-c-curly hair.”
“I’d buy me one of them coats,” says Chancy, “but I hain’t got the money. Besides,” says he, “what money I git has got to go for votes.”
Mark was quick as a flash.
“We can order a suit to your m-m-measure,” says he, “from a Chicago catalogue. That’ll give you a sight of votes and us a little profit.”
But Chancy didn’t have the money and we didn’t give any credit, so that deal was off.
There was quite a few folks waiting in front to see the list go up, so we went and got it ready. There were a lot of names on it, but the three ministers were ahead, with Chancy and Chet next and the school principal next, and then Mr. Peterson and Mr. Bloom and the handsome husbands in a string, pretty much together.
All told there were two hundred and twenty-six votes cast. That made our morning’s business twenty-two dollars and sixty cents. That was pretty good for the first half-day.