“Mr. Bugg, see if you can’t think of somebody that owes you some money—somebody you’ve sold things to.” “Wa-al,” says Silas, “I calc’late I’ve sold a heap of folks a heap of things. Some more and some less. Mostly they been in the habit of payin’. Some has, and I figger there’s some that hain’t, but for the life of me I can’t make out which is which.” Mark jerked a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it at Silas. “I’ve copied off of those p-pieces of wood in the office,” says he, “about all I could make out to read. How much of this is paid and how much is owed?” “When a man paid I mostly looked for his chunk of wood and fired it out of the window,” says Silas. “Then all of these haven’t p-paid?” “I wouldn’t go so far’s to say that. I hain’t what you might call a good hand at firin’ things out of windows. There was times when I aimed at the window and never come near it. Them blocks that didn’t go out must’a’ fell back on the floor. And then there was times when I was too busy to go lookin’ for anybody’s piece of wood and jest let her slide. No, I don’t calc’late you kin tell much by them blocks.” “Looks that way,” says Mark. “Who was the last firm you shipped chair-spindles to?” “Lemme see, now, was that Gorman and Peters, or was it the Family Chair Company? Dummed if I know. Maybe it wasn’t neither. But I shipped a mess away jest a few days before I shut down.” “Git paid for ’em?” “There was money comin’ in every leetle while. How d’you expect a feller to remember who it come from? Seems like maybe that there lot wa’n’t paid for, though. Seems like.” “Um!” says Mark. “Say, Silas, where’s there another mill around here that makes things like we do here?” “Over to Sunfield; and then there’s some over to Bostwick where them chair-factories is.” Mark walked off, and I followed him. He hunted up Tallow and Binney and give them their orders for the day. They was to check up every foot of timber that come into the mill, and to keep track of just how many spindles, or whatever it was, that every man made, and all that. “It’s for the c-c-cost system,” says Mark. “We got to have f-facts, and have ’em exact.” “While we’re doin’ that,” says Tallow, “what be you goin’ to do?” “I’m goin’ to Bostwick,” says Mark, “to git two things—information and m-m-money.” “Hope you have luck,” says Binney. “Calc’late to,” Mark says, in that funny way of his; it’s a determined way. When he speaks like that you know he has made up his mind to do what he’s set out to do or bust. “Come on, Plunk,” says he to me; “you’re goin’ along.” We went down to the depot, and Mark yelled for old Lish Peasley, the freight-man. “Mr. Peasley,” says he, “who did the last shipment from Bugg’s mill go to?” “Bugg,” snapped Lish, and scowled at Mark like he was figgering on taking a nip out of him. “Think all I got to do is keep track of who that old foozle ships stuff to?”