Chip dug down deep and hadn’t looked up for a bit until Sam squealed.

“Chip! A big group of otters are coming! Wipe that mean mug off your face!”

About forty otters were moving in clumps through the packed festival crowd. They moved with intent towards Mr. Steal Your Pearl.

Uncle Brit brightened.

“I may have to start calling these, Otter pops now instead of Britpops. Especially if the otter contingent gives us the advantage,” he said, “Especially if they give us the win.”

Chip drew in a sharp breath and he knew. In that moment, he knew that for all of his preparation, everything that it had taken to get here, he was satisfied to do his best. Winning the contest didn’t mean anything, because after all he’d gained in his new raft, his new friends… what was a contest?

Chip grinned a sheepish grin and took more orders.

His infectious grin spread to Sam, who reflected it back. Even Uncle Brit was grinning by the first few orders from the rafts of otters that had shown up.

Chip looked to his supplies are saw that they were getting low. That would be a good thing. They'd sold and sold, but never sold out.

That day not a half hour later, they sold out for the first time, ever.

Nothing was spared. Chip almost sold the tins, before his Uncle stopped him. With nothing to sell the otters cleaned up before the final tally. A fox came by to collect their numbers and their marbles for the buyers choice.

Arm in arm, they walked to hear how they did.