Part 43 (1/2)

”Down to the hotel,” says Mark, with a funny look in his eye. ”I don't calc'late we'll see Rock 'fore night.”

”That's funny,” says I.

”'Tain't so funny as you m-might think,” says he.

Tallow was keeping count of subscriptions, and every little while he'd come and tell us how many was in.

”Lit'ry Circlers is two ahead,” says he, about four o'clock. The contest was goin' to close at five, so it looked like the Circlers had it. But in come Mrs. Bobbin with three more, and put the Culturers jest one ahead. That was all till the clock was 'most ready to strike, when in come Mrs. Strubber with one. One!

Mark and I looked at each other, and then we looked at Tallow and Plunk.

It was a tie. Them women had got four hunderd and forty-six subscriptions for each club-and the fat was in the fire. Anything else could have happened and made a little trouble, maybe, but to have this thing end up in a tie was to bring on a regular war.

”Mark,” says I, ”I guess I got to go out of town for a couple of days-over to Uncle Oscar's.”

He grinned.

”We're up against it, Binney,” says he, ”but we got to stick it out.”

”Let's give one of 'em an extry,” says Tallow, ”that'll fix the tie.”

”No,” says Mark. ”This t-t-thing has been run fair, and it'll be f-f-finished fair. We'll take what's comin' to us, and git out of it the best we can. Anyhow,” says he, beginning to shake all over, ”it'll be the f-funniest thing that ever happened in Wicksville.”

”Yes,” says I, ”I'll bet we laugh like anythin' at it when our folks come to the hospital to tell us about it. A tie,” says I. ”Think of the row them women will make when they find out they're tied.”

”I'm t-thinkin' about it,” says Mark.

CHAPTER XXII

There wasn't anything for us fellows to do but to go through with the thing now. We couldn't very well duck out and then ever show our faces again in Wicksville. So right after supper we went down and opened up the hall where the food show was, and got things ready for the ma.s.sacre.

I kind of wished the times that Mark played games about would come back for a while. I mean when knights and such-like fellows went around with cast-iron nightgowns on so that you couldn't hurt them without you found the combination to the safe and got the door open. That's what Mark calls a mixed metaphor. It says what I mean, so I don't care what he calls it. Anyhow, I don't believe he knows what he's talking about.

Well, about seven o'clock the crowd began to come. They came in a jam.

There was to be a program, and at the end of it the announcement was to be made who had won the contest. The program started up at eight o'clock, and meanwhile all of us but Mark had been back at the _Trumpet_ office, helping get out the paper. That was to be part of the evening's excitement, too.

Pretty soon folks began to get tired of the program and began to yell for the decision of the contest. It kept getting louder and louder, till Mark judged it was best to let them have it.

”I'll d-do it,” says he. ”I'm the one that t-thought it up, so I'll make the announcement and t-take what's comin'. You fellers better skip.”

”Nix,” I says. ”We're goin' to be right with you.”

”What you git we git,” says Plunk.

We listened and could hear the folks stamping their feet and clapping and yelling.

”Who won? Who won?” they started to yell over and over.

”Here goes,” says Mark, and out he went. We stuck right to his heels.