“Huh!” says I.
“We’ll git orders,” he says, “b-because my prices are fair. I’ll bet they’re l-lower than some. So far’s I kin see,” he says, “’tain’t any worse to go b-busted sellin’ for enough than for too little. One way we’re sure to b-bust. The other way we got a chance.”
“If we kin git orders,” says I, “and if we kin find money to carry us through the next month.”
“That’s the idee,” says he, and you could tell he was a mite worried by the way he took a hold of his cheek and pinched it and jerked at it. He always did that when he was worried, but I never got really scairt till he began to whittle. When Mark Tidd whittled, then things was perty sick.
“That notice of yours comes out in the paper this afternoon,” says I. “The one about Silas’s debts.”
“Uh-huh,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “what if half the town comes traipsin’ in with bills against him? What then?”
“We’ll have to f-f-figger to pay ’em somehow,” says he.
All the time I saw him looking at two or three of our turners who didn’t seem to be very busy. Anyhow, they had time to stand off from their lathes and talk about taxes, and William Jennings Bryan, and rabbit-dogs, and fishing, and how mean Clem Roberts’s wife was to him. Mark kind of frowned and squinted up his little eyes and fidgeted around.
“Makes me mad,” says he. “Here we’re payin’ them men for a day’s work, and what do we git? We git just as much work as they feel like doin’. I’ll bet them old coots wastes a quarter of a day, and don’t kill themselves the rest of the time. We ought to be gittin’ about twice as much done as we do—and that would lower costs a heap.”