“What news?”
“Why, that Old Mose has g-got a thousand votes—and that he hain’t made up his mind who to cast ’em for.”
“What good ’ll that do?”
“Remember the time Old Mose sicked his d-dog on us?”
“You bet I do.”
“Here’s our chance to g-git even. Mose don’t like folks. As soon as this news gits out he’ll see plenty of ’em—mostly wimmin. Everybody that’s g-got a man entered in this contest’ll be after Old Mose. There’ll be a procession out to his house. He’ll have more folks campin’ on his trail than he thought was in the county.”
It was plain enough. I could just see Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Bloom and the Presbyterian ladies and the Baptist ladies trotting out to Old Mose’s and honeying around him and making his life miserable. It would be as good as a show. They’d catch him in the morning and they’d catch him in the afternoon, and it would be as much as his life was worth to show his face in town. I just threw back my head and laughed like I haven’t felt like laughing since father was hurt.
Mark didn’t laugh, but his eyes twinkled. When I sobered down he says:
“We don’t want to l-let this beauty contest take all our time. We got to think up other schemes.”
“Sure,” says I.