“Votes? What votes? What do I want of votes?”
“Handsomest-man contest,” says Mark. “Folks in Wicksville is votin’ to see who he is.”
Old Mose glared. “Young feller,” says he, “if you’re a-makin’ fun of me I’m a-goin’ to lay you acrost my knee and give you what your pa’s neglected to.”
“It’s not a j-joke, sir. Everybody’s votin’. ’Most every man in t-town’s entered.”
Old Mose chuckled. “Kin I vote ’em for anybody I want to?”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled again, sort of mean-like.
“Gimme them votes. I calc’late I’ll take ’em home and think it over. ’Tain’t no easy job to pick the handsomest man in this town. Wicksville’s that full of handsome men they’re stumblin’ over each other in the street. Handsome! If there’s a feller in this town that kin look at his own reflection without feelin’ timid of it then I hain’t seen him. Gimme them votes, I say. What’s ailin’ you?”
Mark counted out the votes and then we helped Old Mose load his phonograph into his wagon. He climbed on to the seat and went off without even looking at us again. Crusty old codger, I say.
“Plunk,” says Mark, “d-don’t hesitate about spreadin’ the news.”