Binney Jenks, Tallow Martin, and I were sitting on Mark Tidd’s front porch, waiting for him to get through supper. Maybe you’ve got an idea that didn’t take any patience, but you want to change your mind pretty quick. Eating supper wasn’t any two-second job with Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. You can bet it wasn’t. He didn’t just grab a bite and run like us fellows do, but he sat down to the table with his stummick about six inches away from the edge of it, and kept on eating till he touched.

He knew we were waiting for him, but that didn’t make a bit of difference. If General Grant and the Emperor Napoleon were hanging around waiting for him to come out and play tag with them, he’d have eaten just as much and not a mite faster. When you weigh as much as he does I calc’late it takes more to keep you going, just like it takes more wood to run a big stove than it does a little one. It didn’t take him much more than an hour to get his stummick filled up this time, and out he waddled, looking kind of pleased and peaceful, with his hand resting gentle on his belt.

“Um!...” says he.

“Hope you didn’t hustle out before you got plenty,” says I.

He looked at me out of his little eyes that had to sort of peer over the tops of his dumpling cheeks. “Plunk,” says he, “if you d-d-do everythin’ in your l-life as thorough as I eat, folks is goin’ to admire you consid’able. I started in with vegetable soup at six o’clock, and I don’t recall neglectin’ a dish from that to apple pie. Two pieces of apple pie,” says he.

“It’s lucky,” says Binney, “that your pa’s rich. If he wasn’t he couldn’t afford to keep you. A poor fam’ly would have to drown you in a pail of water like folks does kittens they can’t figger to take care of.”

“Take a kind of big pail of water,” said Tallow. “Guess they’d need the village standpipe.”

“How’s your pa and ma?” says I.

“Oh,” says Mark, “Ma she’s b-b-busy, as usual. Just a-hustlin’ from git-up to go-to bed. Claims she’s p-plumb tired out, but the tireder she gets the harder she works. She just sent Dad out to put over the kittle while she cleared the table.”

“Did he do it?” says I.

Mark grinned. “When I l-looked through the kitchen door,” says he, “Dad he’d gone and set the dust-pan careful on the stove, and was settin’ in front of the stove, a-holdin’ the kittle in his lap and restin’ a volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall on top of it. You could ’a’ hollered fire and he wouldn’t budge.”

That was Mr. Tidd all over. He was one of these inventor folks, and that dreamy and absent-minded you wouldn’t believe it. Always a-thinking about something besides what he ought to be thinking about, and always getting into trouble with Mrs. Tidd—and forever reading the Decline and Fall. There’s eight volumes of it, and I’ll bet he can recite it word for word. Yes, sir, if Mrs. Tidd was to send him to the store for a pound of tea, as like as not he would come home bringin’ a knife-sharpener or a box of cough-drops or a sick dog. Mrs. Tidd always figgered on sendin’ him at least twice for anything—and then, ’most generally, she had to send one of us boys to git it, after all. And he was rich. Made so much money out of inventin’ a turbine engine that he’s got a bank full of it. But you’d never think it. Why, him and Mrs. Tidd lives just like they did when he didn’t have two dollars to his name. He dresses just the same, and she won’t even keep a hired girl. Fine folks, I can tell you, and us fellows think a heap of them.

“Well,” says Mark, “what’ll we d-do this evenin’?”

Before anybody could answer a man came through the gate and sort of shuffled up the walk toward the porch. He was nigh seven foot high and he wore enough whiskers to stop a mattress—the kind of whiskers that grow out every which way and waves around frantic when the wind blows. They made his head look as if it was about as big around as a bushel basket—but from there down you couldn’t hardly see him at all. He had a sort of look like a pumpkin lantern bein’ carried on the end of a long pole.

“Here’s Silas Doolittle Bugg,” says I.

We didn’t say anything till he got up to the steps. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to see us and stopped and reached for a handful of them whiskers. Sort of gathered together all he could in one grab and jerked ’em like he aimed to haul ’em out by the roots.

“Howdy!” says he.

“Howdy!” says we.

He kind of leaned over like he was breaking in two in the middle and pointed a finger nigh six inches long right in Mark’s face. “You’re the Tidd boy,” he says, in a voice like shooting off a giant firecracker. He didn’t speak; he exploded!

There wasn’t any use in Mark’s trying to deny it. Nobody would have believed him, so he says he was the Tidd boy.

“Pa home?” says Silas.

“Yes, sir,” says Mark.

“I come to see him,” says Silas, exploding it again. But then the queerest thing happened to his voice. It sort of faded away. It got littler and littler. “But,” he says, turning around on his heels, “I don’t calc’late I’ll wait. I guess I’ll be goin’. Somehow it don’t seem’s though I needed to see him to amount to anythin’. I guess maybe he druther not see me.... Say, young feller, how’s he feelin’ to-night? Savage or jest so-so?”

“I don’t call to m-m-mind a time when Dad was s-savage,” says Mark.

“You figger I better see him, then,” says Silas.

“I don’t f-figger he’ll harm you none.”

Silas gives out a big sigh that came all the way from his shoes. “I’m plumb scairt,” says he.

“I’ll call him,” says Mark.

“No. No. Whoa there, boy. Hold on a minnit. Lemme git ready first. Seems like I got to brace myself for this meetin’. Sure he’s feelin’ mild and gentle?”

“As a lamb,” says Mark.

“Wisht I could git a peek at him before I tackle him,” says Silas.

“Just walk around and look through the kitchen window,” says Mark.

Silas stood still a minute, and then he tip-toed around the house, and we saw him put his nose against the window and stand there, staring in. In a couple of jiffies he was back again.

“Looks stern and kind of war-like,” he says.

“Dad never bit nobody,” says Mark.

“You calc’late it’s safe for me to see him?”

“Course,” says Mark.

“Well,” says Silas, letting off another of those big sighs, “I guess it’s got to be did. Hain’t no way of puttin’ it off; but, gosh! how I dread it!”

Mark got up and went in to call his father. In a minute he was back with Mr. Tidd, who had his thumb in the Decline and Fall and was blinking peaceful and looking as gentle and serene as a ten-year-old rabbit-hound. When Silas saw him coming he was like to have taken to his heels, and he fidgeted and moved from one foot to the other and twisted his fingers like he was trying to braid them, and breathed hard. You would have thought he was going to run into a tribe of massacreeing Injuns.

Mr. Tidd stood on the top step and peered down at Silas with those mild eyes of his, and nodded, and says, “It’s Silas, hain’t it?”

“Yes,” says Silas, with all the explosion gone out of his voice. “How you feelin’, Mr. Tidd? Be you patient and long-sufferin’ to-night, or be you kind of riled about somethin’? ’Cause if you be I kin come back to-morrow.”

“I calc’late I feel perty peaceful, Silas. Wouldn’t you say I was feelin’ peaceful, Marcus Aurelius?”

“I’d call you so,” says Mark.

“You’ll need to be,” says Silas, “when I break it to you.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Tidd, kind of vague, “you got somethin’ to break to me?”

“You ought to know what,” says Silas.

Mr. Tidd waggled his head and opened his book and shut it again, and scratched his leg. “Calc’late somebody must be sick,” says he.

“’Tain’t that,” says Silas.

“I hain’t much good at guessin’, Silas.... Say, Silas, set a minute and listen to this here passage out of Gibbon. I was just a-readin’ it over. You’ll find it jam full of pleasure and profit.” He leaned against a post and opened up the book, but Silas spoke up, anxious-like, and says:

“I don’t calc’late I got any heart to listen to readin’, Mr. Tidd, and neither will you have when I git around to breakin’ it to you.”

“No?” says Mr. Tidd. “Well, then, Silas, admittin’ you got somethin’ to break, why don’t you up and break it?”

“Seems like I hain’t got the courage. I was hopin’ maybe you’d guess.”

“I’m willin’ to try,” says Mr. Tidd, in that gentle voice of his. “I’ll guess maybe the house is on fire.”

“What house?” says Silas, sort of taken by surprise.

“Why,” says Mr. Tidd, as mild as could be, “this house.”

Silas looked up at the roof and craned his neck to peer around to the side. “This house,” says he, all flabbergasted. “Say, if you think this house is on fire, why hain’t you doin’ somethin’ about it?”

“Well,” said Mr. Tidd, “what would you advise doin’?”

“Yellin’,” says Silas.

“I hain’t much on yellin’,” says Mr. Tidd.

“If my house was on fire I’d calc’late to make some racket,” says Silas.

“But I don’t know this house is on fire. I jest guessed it was.”

“Hain’t you goin’ to find out?”

“Why,” says Mr. Tidd, “if it’s on fire we’ll find out quick enough, won’t we?”

Maybe you think Mr. Tidd was joking with Silas Doolittle Bugg, but he wasn’t. That was his way. He’d have acted just that way if the house really was on fire, and probably he’d have stopped the fire company on the lawn to read to them out of the Decline and Fall if the roof was blazing.

“Well, I swan!” says Silas.

“Hain’t that what you wanted to break to me, Silas?” Mr. Tidd says.

“No,” says Silas; “it was somethin’ else.”

“Oh!” says Mr. Tidd. “Want me to guess ag’in?”

“’Twouldn’t do no good,” says Silas, drooping with discouragement. “You wouldn’t guess right.”

“Maybe so,” says Mr. Tidd.

“It’s about me,” says Silas.

“You?” says Mr. Tidd.

“Me and you.”

“Oh, you and me? I want to know!”

“Don’t you remember?” says Silas.

“I hain’t certain,” says Mr. Tidd, scratching his leg again. “Don’t seem to remember anythin’.”

“Money,” says Silas.

“Oh, money?” Mr. Tidd says, as vague as a cloud of fog.

“Lots of money,” says Silas.

“Do tell,” says Mr. Tidd.

“And my mill.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Tidd. “It’s your mill that’s on fire?”

“My mill hain’t afire. Nothin’s afire. You hain’t standin’ there tellin’ me you plumb clean forgot?”

“I hain’t forgot exactly, Silas, but it don’t seem like I remember clear. You might sort of give me a hint.”

“Promissory note,” says Silas.

“Promissory note, eh? What about it, Silas? Um!... I’ve heard of promissory notes. Gibbon he don’t mention ’em, but I’ve heard tell of ’em somewheres. Now where was it? Lemme see.... Promissory note....”

“I give you one.”

“Much obleeged,” says Mr. Tidd. “What’ll I do with it?”

“Say, you look here, Mr. Tidd. A promissory note means I promise to pay you money.”

“To be sure,” says Mr. Tidd. “It’s kind of you. But I don’t calc’late to need money.”

“That’s it,” says Silas. “You hain’t goin’ to git none.”

“No?” says Mr. Tidd. “Hain’t I?”

“Not a penny,” says Silas. “Not that I owe you.”

“Well.... Well....” said Mr. Tidd.

“You lent me money when I needed it to start up my mill,” said Silas.

“So I did,” says Mr. Tidd. “Seems like I remember somethin’ about it. You was goin’ to pay it back or somethin’. That was it, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the idee,” says Silas, “and that’s what I come to break to you. I was mighty nervous about comin’, but it had to be did. I jest can’t pay that money, Mr. Tidd. I’m plumb busted. The mill’s plumb busted. I can’t make no money out of her, and so I can’t pay you none. I come to tell you all you kin do is to take the mill.”

“I don’t want no mills,” said Mr. Tidd.

“You got to take it,” says Silas.

“I got to?”

“Sure as shootin’. It was your security, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” says Mr. Tidd. “Well, I swan to man!”

“So,” says Silas, “I come to tell you and to turn that there property over to you. It’s the best I kin do. I calc’late to be honest, but somehow I can’t figger to make money. I kin lose money. You hain’t no idee how skilful I be at losin’ money.... The mill’s yourn and that’s all there is to it.”

“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.”