“He will,” says Mark, short and sharp. “He’ll want to hire one to t-t-take your job if you don’t git a move on you.” Just then a tall gentleman came along the hall and looked at Mark, and sort of grinned when he heard what Mark said. He stopped and says, “What seems to be the main difficulty here?” “We came to see the m-m-man that owns this factory—on m-mighty important business—and this kid spoke a piece he didn’t seem to know very well,” says Mark. The man coughed into his hand and says: “I own the mill, young man. What’s your important business?” “Money,” says Mark. “That’s always important,” says the man. “You bet,” says Mark. “So we come to git some. You owe us f-f-for ’most a car of chair-s-spindles shipped a week ago, and if you had any idea how much we need that money I’ll bet you’d send it by telegraph. Honest, I dunno’s _anybody_ ever needed money as bad as we need that.” “Who are you, anyhow?” “I’m Mark Tidd and this is Plunk Smalley. We’re from Wicksville and we’re runnin’ Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill. He got it all messed up and we s-s-stepped in to straighten him out.” “Silas Bugg, eh?” says the man. “And you stepped in to straighten him out? Mill experts, are you?” “We hain’t much of any experts,” says Mark, “but when it comes to business, anythin’ would be an improvement over Silas. We calc’late to pull him through.” “How much do we owe you?” “Silas don’t know and we don’t know.” “Then how do you expect I can pay you? It’s customary to send an invoice.” “Not with Silas it hain’t. Silas never got introduced to an invoice. But we got the amount of stuff that was s-s-shipped, and we figgered you knew how much you was payin’ for it. ’Most gen’ally men that’s been able to git to own a factory like this know what they’re payin’ for a thing before they buy it.” “Hum!” says the man, and he looked at Mark kind of interested. “You got some powers of observation, haven’t you?” “That’s common s-s-sense,” says Mark. “A good many folks don’t have common sense.... But you’re right this time. We had a contract with Silas Bugg. I’ll look it up. When did you ship those spindles?” Mark told him. “Your money isn’t due, then,” says the man. “We have thirty days to pay, and almost two weeks of it are left.” “Um!” says Mark. “Git a discount for thirty days?” “Two per cent.,” says the man, trying to look severe and sober, but with a twinkle in his eyes. “Business is business,” says Mark; “if we ask for s-somethin’ we hain’t entitled to we’re willin’ to pay for it. If you git two per cent, for thirty days, you ought to get three, anyhow, for f-f-fourteen.” “If I pay now you’ll give me an extra one per cent, discount?” “Yes, sir.” “Come into the office and we’ll look up Bugg’s contract. How is it you haven’t a copy?” “Most likely Silas Doolittle used his c-copy to kindle a f-f-fire with,” says Mark.