“Well,” says he, “I might have a chance.”
“Chance!” I says. “Why, there wouldn’t be anybody else in it!”
“I don’t know many folks here,” he says.
“Bet lots of folks wished they did know you. All you’d have to do would be enter the contest, and the way they’d vote for you would be a caution.”
“Boss wouldn’t like it,” says he.
“If somebody put up your name without your knowin’ it he couldn’t object.”
I could see him sort of thinking that idea over. It was one that attracted him like a bald head attracts flies.
“I sure would like to git my name in,” says he, “but the boss hain’t got any use for that Bazar. He’s mad at the folks that run it and he says he’s goin’ to put it out of business. He’s a bad one, Jehoshaphat P. Skip is, and when he gits after anybody they want to look out.”
“Pretty smart man, hain’t he?”
“You bet he is—smarter ’n a weasel.”