“Well, hain’t that the beatin’est!” says Mr. Tidd. “Me ownin’ a mill! Whatever’ll I do with a mill, Silas?” “I dunno. Run it, maybe. Sell it, maybe.” Mark Tidd he got up slow, his eyes puckered and looking as bright as buttons. “Say, pa,” says he, “invite Mr. Bugg to set. I got an idee.” “He’s always gettin’ idees,” said Mr. Tidd to Silas. “What’s the idee this time, Marcus Aurelius?” “Why,” says Mark, “it l-looks like Mr. Bugg was busted!” “I be,” says Silas. “Because,” says Mark, “he hain’t a b-b-business man.” “Right,” says Silas. “Right as could be. I kin work, but I can’t figger.” “I kin f-f-figger,” says Mark. “Here’s my notion. Mr. Bugg owes you m-money he can’t pay. Well, there’s the mill, and mills is built to m-make money with. Money kin be made with this m-m-mill.” “Maybe,” says Silas. “Course it can,” says Mark. “Now, vacation’s here, and we hain’t got nothin’ to do. You take over Mr. Bugg’s mill, Dad, and the boys and me will run it. Git the idee? We’ll make money out of it and pay you back, and then, when we git her to goin’ and makin’ lots of money, we’ll turn her back to Silas ag’in. Kind of receivers, like they have when folks go bankrupt. How’s that, Dad?” “Don’t see no harm in it,” said Mr. Tidd. “How about you, Mr. Bugg?” “Anythin’ suits _me_,” says Silas. “You’ll keep on workin’,” says Mark, “and helpin’ to look after the manufacturin’. We’ll look after the b-business end, and help with the m-m-manufacturin’ end, too. Eh? How’s that?” “First class,” says Silas. “We’ll start in to-morrow,” says Mark. “You fellows be on hand. Whistle she b-blows at seven. We’ll git down and f-f-figger things out and then we’ll start to work. We hain’t never run a mill,” he says, all enthusiastic and worked up. “No,” says I, “we hain’t, nor a circus, nor a airyplane, nor a merry-go-round.” “But we kin,” says he. That was Mark Tidd all over. We kin, he says, and that was what he meant. Folks did run mills and make money, and if they could, why, he could, too. He was that confident in himself that he made you confident in him, too. And another thing, when he started in on a job he’d stick to it. Nothing would discourage him, and if there was any way of pulling it off he would do it, and you could bet your last dollar on it. “All right,” says he, “_that’s_ s-s-settled. We’ll see you at s-s-seven, Mr. Bugg.” “Well,” said Silas, slow and kind of groping around in his mind, “if this don’t beat all! It _does_ beat all. Sufferin’ codfish! I swan to man!” He turned around quick and began to shuffle off, muttering to himself and grabbing handfuls of his whiskers. The last we saw of him he had both his hands grabbed into them and he was pulling like all-git-out. Those whiskers must have been rooted in tight. “Better git to bed,” says Mark. “To-morrow’s goin’ to be a b-b-busy day.” CHAPTER II