Mark Tidd in Business

by Clarence Budington Kelland

She marched, and old Peasley’s name went on the list with one vote more than Bloom.

That’s the way it went. Fellers that were nominated started worrying about how many votes they were going to get, and fellers that weren’t nominated got mad about it. Also there were others besides Chet and Chancy that nominated themselves.

Till ’most midnight customers kept us so busy we couldn’t hardly breathe. At last we shut the doors and counted up to see what we’d done. A hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty-seven cents for one day! That wasn’t the best of it, either, for we’d got rid of a lot of old stuff that had been cluttering up the store for years. In a little more we’d be down to real stock.

“Calc’late,” says Mark, “we better be castin’ our eyes around for somethin’ new and special to sell. We want our stock to be b-b-better than Jehoshaphat P. Skip’s.”

“Sure,” says I.

“We got to stock up on first-class s-s-staples,” says Mark, “and git, besides, some specialties that’ll stir folks up a leetle.”

We were pretty tired and sleepy, so we didn’t talk about it any more that night. Next morning all of us went to church, but after dinner we went to Mark’s house, and his mother made molasses taffy—and kept scolding about it all the time and saying we’d ruin the furniture and mess up our clothes. That was the way with Mrs. Tidd. She was always stirring around, busy as could be, and mostly she was sort of scolding at Mark or Mr. Tidd—but she didn’t mean a bit of it. I never knew anybody so free with pies and fried cakes and things as she was.

Along about the middle of the afternoon we heard a jangling and rattling, and above it all somebody whistling like all-git-out. Well, sir, we jumped for the window, because we knew that racket. There, just turning into the yard, was a red peddler’s wagon. To-day, it being Sunday, the pots and pans and brooms and whips and things that usually were stuck all over it were out of sight inside, but they jangled just the same. On the seat was a man whistling “Marching Through Georgia” with runs and trills and funny quirks to it. His nose was pointed straight up and his eyes were shut. His horse was finding its way without any help from him. If you didn’t look at anything but the man’s face you’d have said he was about six feet and a half high, but when you looked at the rest of him you saw right off that things had got mixed—he had the wrong body. He was less than five feet tall, and he was more than three feet wide—or he looked so, anyhow.

All of a sudden his horse stopped. The little man raised his big head with a snap and jerked it first in one direction and then in another. Then he took hold of the end of his nose and gave it a tweak as if it had managed to get out of shape. Then slow as molasses he began to get down.

At that we boys rushed out of the house, and Mr. Tidd and his wife followed a little slower. The little man saw us, put his hand on his stomach and made a low bow; then he put a thumb in the armhole of his vest and straightened up as dignified as a senator.