Mark Tidd, Editor
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Title: Mark Tidd, Editor
Creator: Clarence Budington Kelland
Illustrator: William Wallace Clarke
Release date: February 1, 2013 [eBook #41964]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41964
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARK TIDD, EDITOR ***
Produced by Roger Frank.
[Illustration: Plunk and Tallow were there looking dilapidated and
frightened]
MARK TIDD, EDITOR
BY
CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND
author of
"Mark Tidd" "Mark Tidd in the Backwoods"
"Mark Tidd's Citadel" etc.
ILLUSTRATED
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Mark Tidd, Editor
Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
ILLUSTRATIONS
Plunk and tallow were there looking dilapidated and frightened
We went to selling papers as hard as we could, and before noon we were
cleaned out
"Huh!" says the second man, and we recognized him as the man with the
black gloves
Jethro just rushed at us and grabbed a-holt of Rock, rough-like
CHAPTER I
"Binney," says Mark Tidd to me, "the Wicksville _Trumpet_ is
b-b-busted."
"Well," says I, "it's been cracked for quite a spell. It hain't been
tootin' loud enough to notice for a year."
"Used to be a g-good newspaper once," says Mark.
"Yes--once," says I, "but not more 'n once. That hain't any record. If
I'd been gettin' out a paper fifty-two times a year for twenty years I
bet I could 'a' made more 'n one of those times a good one."
Mark looked at me sudden out of his little eyes that had to sort of
_peek_ up over his fat cheeks. "Binney," says he, "you hain't as useless
as I calc'lated. That's an idea."
"Oh," says I, "is that what it is? I sort of figgered maybe it was a
notion."
Mark turned the whole of him around so he could face Plunk Smalley and
Tallow Martin, who were standing behind him. By rights you ought to have
a turn-table to move Mark around on, like they have for locomotives.
He's 'most as heavy as a locomotive, and when he talks sometimes it
sounds like a locomotive pulling a load up-hill, snorting and
puffing--he stutters so.
"Fellows," says he, "this Binney Jenks is g-g-gettin' so he talks like a
minstrel show. Makes reg'lar j-jokes one right after another. Looks
l-like he hain't got time to be sensible any more."
"But what's the idea?" says Tallow.
"Want to talk to my father first," says Mark. "C-come on."
Mark's father didn't use to have any money at all. He just sat around
inventing things and reading Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire_. First he'd invent a little, and then he'd read a little, and it
was a wonder he didn't get the two mixed up. But finally he up and
invented a turbine-engine, and it made such a pile of money for him that
he didn't need to do a thing but read Gibbon and carry bushel-baskets of
dollars to the bank every little while.
Usually when a man goes and gets rich all of a sudden there's some
difference in him. He builds him a big house and hires a lot of folks to
brush his clothes and make his beds and cook chicken for him three meals
a day. But not Mr. Tidd. You wouldn't ever think he had a cent more than
he used to. He kept his little machine-shop in the barn, and wore
overalls mostly--when he didn't get on his Sunday suit by mistake. He
was as like as not to do that very thing, if Mark's mother didn't keep
her eye on him. He was a fine kind of a man, but he couldn't remember
things for a cent. If Mrs. Tidd sent him to the grocery for a bottle of
vanilla, he'd like as not bring home a bag of onions. As far as he'd get
with remembering, you see, would be that he wanted something with a
smell to it.
Mrs. Tidd was fine, too. She scolded quite considerable, but that was
just make-believe. If you'd come in sudden and tell her you were hungry
and wanted a piece of bread-and-butter she'd sort of frown, and say you
couldn't have it and that it wasn't good for boys to be stuffing
themselves between meals--and then, most likely, she'd call you back and
give you a piece of pie.
Getting rich hadn't changed her, either. Once she tried keeping a hired
girl, but it only lasted a week. She claimed it was more work following
the girl around and saving what she wasted than it was to do the work
itself.
Well, we hustled up to Mark's house and went back to his father's shop.
Mr. Tidd, in greasy overalls, sat right smack in the middle of the
floor, reading a book that looked like it was pretty close to worn out.
We didn't have to ask what it was--it was Gibbon. He didn't need to read
it; he could have _recited_ it if he'd a mind to.
"Hello, pa," says Mark.
Mr. Tidd looked up sort of vague, as if he wondered who this stranger
could be. Then he says: "Howdy, Marcus Aurelius. I was hopin' maybe
you'd drop in. Young eyes is better 'n old ones. Take a sort of a kind
of a look around to see if you can find a chunk of lead--about four
inches square and six inches long. Pretty hefty it was. Don't see how I
come to mislay it."
We looked and looked, and no lead was anywhere to be found. But Mark did
find a package with two pounds of butter in it.
"What's the b-b-butter for, pa?" he asked.
"Why," says Mr. Tidd, scratching his head, "why, seems to me like your
ma sent me after that butter. Guess I must 'a' fetched it in and clean
forgot it."
"Um!" says Mark, and out of the shop he went. In two minutes he came
back, lugging the chunk of lead.
"Where'd you git it, Marcus Aurelius?" says Mr. Tidd.
"In the ice-b-box," says Mark. "Boon's I see that b-butter I knew right
off where the lead was. You got the lead same time you did the butter,
didn't you, pa?"
"Yes," says Mr. Tidd.
Mark nodded his head like he'd known it all along. "Sure," says he, "and
you p-p-put the lead in the ice-box and fetched the butter out to the
shop."
"I swan!" says Mr. Tidd. "I calc'late your ma 'u'd been some s'prised if
she started spreadin' bread, eh?" He chuckled and chuckled, and so did
we.
"Pa," says Mark, when we quit laughing, "there was s-s-somethin' I
wanted to talk over with you."
"Go ahead," says Mr. Tidd.
"I got the idea from Binney," says Mark.
"Huh!" says I, "I hain't had any ideas this week."
"Your b-best ideas," says Mark, "is the ones you don't know you have."
"What's the idee?" asked Mr. Tidd.
"I'm thinkin'," says Mark, "of becomin' an editor."
"Sho!" says Mr. Tidd. He was surprised, and I guess maybe we three boys
weren't surprised, too! But if you're around much with Mark Tidd you've
got to get used to it. He's always surprising you; it's a regular
business with him.
"What you goin' to be editor of?" says I.
"The Wicksville _Trumpet_--if pa's willin'," says he.
I grinned. I almost laughed out loud. "Shucks!" says I.
"I'll bet he can do it," says Plunk Smalley.
Mark didn't pay any attention to us, but just talked to Mr. Tidd. "The
paper's b-b-busted," says he, stuttering for all that was in him, "and
it's goin' to be s-s-sold at s-sheriff's sale. I figger it'll go cheap.
Now, pa, can't you make out to buy it for us?" Mind how he said _us_?
That's the kind of a fellow he was. If you were a friend of his he stuck
to you, and whatever he started you could be in if you wanted to.
"Um!" says Mr. Tidd. "A newspaper's a mighty important thing, Marcus
Aurelius. I don't call to mind that Gibbon mentions any of 'em in this
book, but they're important jest the same. Figger you could make out to
run it so's not to do any harm?"
"Yes, pa," says Mark.
"I'll talk it over with your ma," says Mr. Tidd. That was always the way
with him. He had to talk over with Mrs. Tidd every last thing he did, if
it wasn't anything more important than digging worms to go fishing. Yes,
sir, he'd ask her what corner of the garden she thought was most likely
for worms, and she'd tell him, and nobody could get him to dig anywheres
else, either.
We all went traipsing into the kitchen, where Mrs. Tidd was baking a
batch of fried-cakes.
"Git right out of here," she says. "I'm busy. Won't have you underfoot.
Git right out."
"Now, ma," says Mr. Tidd, "we wasn't after fried-cakes--though one
wouldn't go bad at this minute. We want to talk newspaper."
"Go talk it to somebody else," says Mrs. Tidd. "What about newspapers?"
Now wasn't that just like her? First tell us to talk to somebody else,
and then ask about it in the same breath. "Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus
Tidd, you keep your hands off'n them fried-cakes," she said, sharp-like.
"Why," says Mr. Tidd, "Marcus Aurelius wants I should buy the Wicksville
_Trumpet_ for him and the boys."
"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Tidd, with a sniff, handing two crisp, brown
fried-cakes to each of us. "Nonsense!"
"Ma," says Mark, "it's goin' to be s-s-sold by the sheriff. Then there
won't be any more paper here. How'll you ever git along without the
p-p-p-personals to read?"
"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Tidd again.
"We can b-buy it dirt cheap," says Mark, "and we can run it and m-make
money while we're doin' it, and sell out after a while and m-make a
profit."
"What you'd make," says Mrs. Tidd, "would be monkeys of yourselves. No
use arguin' with me. You can't doit." She turned her back and dropped
some more cakes into the grease. "How much you calc'late it'll cost?"
says she.
"Two-three h-hunderd dollars," says Mark.
"Jest be throwin' it away," says Mrs. Tidd. "Now clear out. I don't want
to hear another word about it."
We turned and went out. Before we were off the back stoop she came to
the door. "You go to Lawyer Jones," says she, "and have him do the
buyin'. Hain't one of you fit to dicker for a cent's worth of dried
fish."
Mark he looked at me and winked. He knew his ma pretty well, and so did
we; but this time I thought she meant what she said.
We all hurried down to Lawyer Jones's office and told him about it. He
acted like he thought Mr. Tidd was crazy, and he said it was an outrage
to put the control of a Moulder of Public Opinion--that's what he called
a newspaper--? into the hands of harum-scarum boys. But all the same he
chuckled a little and says he figured Wicksville was in for stirring
times and he was glad he was alive to watch what was going to happen.
"Tidd," said Lawyer Jones, when we were through talking about the paper,
"did you know Henry Wigglesworth died last night?"
"No," says Mr. Tidd, looking as if he didn't quite know who Henry
Wigglesworth was. But we boys knew Mr. Wigglesworth was 'most as rich as
Mr. Tidd, so folks said. He owned a great big farm--hundreds of acres of
it--just outside of town, and he was one of the directors of the bank
and of the electric-light company. Altogether, folks believed he must
have pretty close to a quarter of a million dollars, and that's a heap,
I can tell you.
Everybody knew Mr. Wigglesworth, but not many were acquainted with him.
What I mean by acquainted is what we call so in Wicksville. It means you
stop to talk with him, and drop in at his house and stay to dinner if
you want to, and go to help when his horse gets sick, and ask him to
come help if you get in some kind of a pickle, that's being acquainted.
Well, nobody I know of was that way with Mr. Wigglesworth. I don't know
as I ever heard of a man that had been inside Mr. Wigglesworth's big
house, or that had had Mr. Wigglesworth in his house.
He wasn't exactly mean. No, he wasn't that. He was just big, and
stern-looking, and dignified, and acted like he wanted folks to let him
alone. Mark said to me one day that he acted like he was always sorry
about something, but I don't see what made Mark think so. Anyhow, folks
were afraid of him and let him alone, which, probably, was just what he
wanted. But he was talked about considerable, you can bet.
The way he lived all alone, with just one man that did his cooking and
helped take care of the big house, made folks talk, because it was
queer. Come to think about it, everything about that house of Mr.
Wigglesworth's was queer. Sort of spooky, I'd call it.
And now he was dead.
"Yes, sir," said Lawyer Jones, "he's dead and gone. I was called up
there before daylight, Tidd, and what d'you suppose I found in the
house?"
"Wa-al," says Mr. Tidd, "I dunno 's I'd be prepared to state."
"A boy," says Lawyer Jones, and looked at us with the kind of expression
a man wears when he expects he's going to startle you. And he did it,
all right.
"A b-boy!" says Mark Tidd.
"A boy," says Lawyer Jones again. "About fifteen, I calc'late he is."
"Who is he?" says Mark.
"That," says Lawyer Jones, "is what I'd give ten dollars to find out."
"Didn't you ask him?" says Tallow.
"He didn't know himself," says Lawyer Jones.
"Shucks!" says I, not meaning to be disrespectful.
"It's the truth," says Lawyer Jones. "Didn't know who he was nor what
for he was in Henry Wigglesworth's house. Says his first name is Rock
and that he didn't ever have a last name. Just Rock. Says a man named
Peterkin brought him here four days ago, and left him. Says Wigglesworth
never spoke to him, but just come sneakin' in one night after he was in
bed, with a lamp in his hand, and stood looking down at him. The boy
says he pretended he was asleep. That's all there is to it, and I wish I
had an idee what it all means."
I looked at Mark Tidd. His little eyes were twinkling the way they do
when he's all wrought up and interested, and his lips were pressed
together so they looked kind of white. You could see he was 'most eaten
up with curiosity. But he didn't ask any questions.
In a few minutes we went out and walked back to Mr. Tidd's shop, where
we all sat down to talk things over.
"R-reg'lar mystery," says Mark.
"Can't make no head or tail to it," says Tallow.
And that's what Wicksville in general decided--that they couldn't make
head nor tail to it. It gave everybody in town something to talk about
and figure over.
When the Man With the Black Gloves came to town and Henry Wigglesworth's
will was found, folks puzzled more than ever.
But we boys had other fish to fry--except Mark. I guess he had the
Wigglesworth mystery more in his mind than he did the Wicksville
_Trumpet_. But after the next morning he had to think more about the
_Trumpet_, for Lawyer Jones bid it in for us at the sheriff's sale of
three hundred and thirty-two dollars--and Mark Tidd was a real, live,
untamed editor.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Tidd went along with us when we took possession of the Wicksville
_Trumpet_. He headed straight for the room where the machinery was,
Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ sticking out of his pocket. Which one
interested him first would have him for the morning--so Mark began to
talk printing-press right off. Mr. Tidd went and looked it over and
sniffed in a gentle, mild-mannered sort of way.
It _wasn't_ much of a press, I expect. You worked it with a big crank,
like turning a coffee-grinder. We boys had seen it done lots of times,
for we'd hung around the printing-office more or less, and sometimes
we'd helped fold papers and such things. So we had _some_ experience.
Some was about all we had, though. We knew as much about running a
newspaper as a man that's picked a sliver out of his finger knows about
surgery.
Mr. Tidd shucked off his coat and started prodding around in the insides
of the press.
Mark motioned to us and we sneaked out into the office.
"Now," says Mark, "we c-c-commence. I'm editor and you f-fellows are
everything else."
"What else is there?" says I. "I want to pick out a good job."
"You can be assistant b-business manager," says Mark.
"Assistant?" says I. "Who's the real thing?"
"Me," says Mark.
"Huh!" says I.
"You're a reporter, too," says he. "You and Plunk and T-Tallow."
"What's my job?" says Tallow.
"You're a-a-assistant foreman of the pressroom," says Mark.
"Huh! Who's foreman?"
"Me," says Mark.
"What job have you got that I can be assistant to?" says Plunk.
"You're assistant circulation manager," says he.
"All we got to do is be those things you've said, and reporters
besides?" says I.
"That, and hustle for ads., and help run the press, and fold papers, and
learn to set type, and clean up, and help l-l-lick folks that come in to
l-lick the editor, and run the job press, and collect money, and get
subscribers, and d-d-drum up printin' jobs. When you hain't got anythin'
else to d-do, you can be l-lookin' for news."
"Too much loafin' about this to suit me," says Tallow.
"Say," says Plunk, "how _does_ a newspaper make money, anyhow?"
"It d-don't," says Mark. "Anyhow old Rogers always said so; but it
t-tries to make money by gettin' folks to subscribe, and by havin'
f-folks advertise, and by doin' printin' jobs--like tickets for the
Congregational Young Ladies' Auxiliary Annual Chicken-Pie Supper."
"How many subscribers did the _Trumpet_ have when it busted?" says I.
"Hunderd and t-twenty-six," says Mark. "And listen to this, you
f-fellows, we've got to have a thousand."
"Huh!" says I. "You'll have to git a few dozen fam'lies to move in
first."
"Yes," says Plunk, "and about that type-settin'--who's goin' to teach it
to us?"
Mark scratched his head at that. Who _was_ going to teach us how to do
it? But that was a worry that didn't last long. We found a bridge to
cross that difficulty and the name of it was Tecumseh Androcles Spat. He
came in through the door that very minute.
He looked like Abraham Lincoln in his shirtsleeves. Tall he was, and
bony, and he hadn't any coat on, and he did have one of those old
flat-brimmed silk hats.
He looked at us a moment and then says:
"Do I find myself standing in the editorial sanctum of one of those
bulwarks of liberty and free speech--the local newspaper?"
"Right on the edge of it," says Mark.
"Where then, may I ask, is that great and good man, the editor?"
Mark sort of puffed out his chest and looked important.
"I am the editor," says he.
The tall man looked sort of taken back, but just the same he took off
his hat with a sweep.
"I greet you sir," he said. "You see before you no less a person than
Tecumseh Androcles Spat. From my earliest youth the smell of printer's
ink has been in my nose. My services have been sought, obtained, and
finally dispensed with in no less than one hundred and seventy-four
printing establishments. I desire to round out the number and make it a
full century and three-quarters. Therefore, I apply to you for
employment."
"Can you set type?" says Mark, beginning to look cheerful.
"Stick type? Can Tecumseh Androcles Spat stick type? My young friend, my
first tooth was cut on a quoin; I learned my letters at the case; at the
immature age of seven--an infant prodigy, with all modesty I say it--I
could set the most complicated display. To-day, in my maturity, you
perceive me unrivaled in my profession. I am the Compleat Printer."
"You can have a j-job," says Mark, "but I dunno if you'll ever get your
wages."
"No matter, no matter. I am accustomed to that. Give me but a corner to
slumber in, food for my stomach, tobacco for my pipe, and my soul is at
peace."
"You're hired," says Mark.
"Where's your coat?" says I.
"In useful service, my young friend. It hangs from crossed sticks in the
midst of a garden patch a mile or more away. It was a lovely garden
patch wherein grew peas, string-beans, luscious cabbages, fragrant
onions. But it was being destroyed. The birds of the air descended upon
it in thousands. I looked, I comprehended. What a pity, said I. So, to
avert further depredations, I stripped my coat, hung it from crossed
sticks, and stood it in the midst of the garden patch. The garden needed
it worse than I. Each time I gaze upon my uncoated arms I say to myself,
'Tecumseh Androcles Spat is doing his part to preserve the nation's
food.'"
"He talks like he was a lot educated," says Plunk.
Tecumseh Androcles overheard him. "Educated. Ah, indeed. Have I not in
my day set type for every page of Goober's Grammar, Mills's Spelling
Book, to say nothing of histories, philosophies, dictionaries. But most
important of all, almanacs. Young gentlemen, I have set no less than ten
almanacs from beginning to end. What university, I ask you, can equip
you with the facts contained in a family almanac?"
"You'll n-n-need all you know around here," Mark says, with a grin. "We
just bought this p-paper at sheriff's sale, and we've got the whole
business to learn."
"Good! Splendid! You're in luck. Tecumseh Androcles Spat is the man to
teach you. Where'll I begin?"
"You might go out in the shop and l-look around. Sort of get the lay of
the land," says Mark.
He hung his silk hat on a hook and, in the most pompous, dignified way
you ever saw, he stalked out into the press-room.
"Now for b-business," says Mark. "First thing 's to get some
s-subscribers. Folks'll take the _Trumpet_ if they know it's goin' to
amount to s-somethin'. We've got to tell 'em."
"How?" says I.
"By talkin' it, singin' it, w-whistlin' it and p-playin' it on your
mouth-organ," says Mark, with a grin. "Also by printin' it. We'll get
out some hand-bills--and some bigger bills to stick on fences and
things. I'll get up the bills. While I'm doin' it you fellows go out and
see what you can l-learn from Tecumseh Androcles."
So Mark sat down to his desk and got a pencil and commenced scratching
his head. The rest of us went out into the other room--and there was Mr.
Tidd and Tecumseh Androcles in a regular old argument. Both of them had
forgot all about working.
"'Tain't so," Mr. Tidd said, as loud and excited as he was capable of.
"There hain't no book got more solid and useful knowledge in it than
Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. It's better 'n the
whole kit and bundle of the rest of the books in the nation."
"My friend," said Tecumseh, "your view is narrow, not to say biased. I
have read the volumes you praise. Without doubt there is merit in them.
Oh, without doubt. But as compared to that marvelous book, Izaak
Walton's _Compleat Angler_, it is the nickering of a match to the
shining of the noonday sun."
"_Angler_," says Mr. Tidd, disgusted as could be.
"Yes, _Angler_," says Tecumseh.
"Huh!" says Mr. Tidd.
"Do not snort at Izaak Walton," roared Tecumseh. "I will not stand by to
see it done."
"Then don't go belittlin' Gibbon," says Mr. Tidd.
"Have you read _The Compleat Angler_?" shouted Tecumseh.
"No," says Mr. Tidd, more warlike than I thought he had it in him to be,
"nor I hain't read the Compleat Fly-catcher, nor the Compleat
Cold-catcher, nor--?"
"Sir!" yelled Tecumseh, reaching as if to take off his coat and finding
it was off. It sort of surprised him, I guess, but he got over it and
shook his fist under Mr. Tidd's nose. He quit talking educated and
careful, too--just for that minute.
"Your Gibbon wasn't nothin' but a flea on Walton's collar," says he.
It looked like there was going to be a regular rumpus, so I sort of
stepped up and says:
"How's the printin'-press gettin' along, Mr. Tidd?"
"Eh?" says he. "Printin'-press. What printin'-press?"
"This one," says I.
"Um!" says he, rubbing his chin. "Calc'late I plum' forgot it. What's
matter with it, Binney?"
"You was goin' to find out," says I.
"So I was.... So I was," says he.
"And you," says I to Tecumseh Androcles, "you quit botherin' him. He's
busy. See if it hain't catchin'."
Well, sir, you should have seen Tecumseh go to work. He could work, too,
and knew just what he was doing. He set every one of us doing something,
and it didn't seem like ten minutes, though it must have been an hour or
so, when Mark came out with some paper in his hand.
"Here's the hand-bill," says he. "Tecumseh Androcles, can you s-s-set
this up so's it'll look strikin'?"
"Give it to me, young man, and you shall see. Ah, you shall see."
So Tecumseh went to work and in no time had the thing set up. He fixed
it so it would go on the job press and then we began printing it. Just
let me tell you it was a jim-dandy. This is how it went:
THE WICKSVILLE "TRUMPET"
IS GOING TO TOOT
New Editor, New Management
New Policy, New Everything
First Toot Thursday
Mark Tidd and Company will
give this town a paper that will
make the State jealous.
$1.25 a Year
If there's anything you want
to know, look in the "Trumpet"
for it. It'll be there.
Don't crowd, don't push. But
hand in your subscription early.
If you miss the first toot you'll
never forgive yourself.
SUBSCRIBE SUBSCRIBE SUBSCRIBE
By that time it was noon. Tecumseh was the first one to notice it.
"It is my custom," said he, "to eat at this time. As I understand it you
are to supply me with nourishment."
"That was the b-bargain," says Mark. "Come on."
He went out with Tecumseh, and the rest of us followed. We knew he
didn't have any money to buy a meal with, because he'd spent his last
cent the day before, and we wondered what he was up to. He went straight
to the Acme Restaurant.
"Where's the boss?" he says to the girl at the counter.
"Kitchen," says she.
"Call him out," says he.
"Call him yourself," says she. "Your voice is as strong as mine."
So Mark yelled, and in a minute out came Mr. Schmidt, waddling like an
old duck.
"Vat iss?" says he.
"I want to b-board this gentleman here," says Mark, pointing to
Tecumseh.
"Yass," says Mr. Schmidt.
"But I hain't got any m-money."
"Den you don't got any board," says Mr. Schmidt----
"But I've g-got a _business_ p-proposition to make you."
"Make it quick, cakes iss in dat stove," says Mr. Schmidt.
"We own the newspaper," says Mark. "It's going to be the g-greatest
newspaper in the State. Everybody's goin' to read it. _You're_ goin' to
r-r-read it. Now, I want to make money for you."
"Why?" says Mr. Schmidt.
"Because," says Mark, "I like the way your cakes smell," and then he
went ahead quick, telling the old fellow how much more money he would
make if he advertised in the _Trumpet_ and told folks about his pies and
his meats, and what he was going to serve for meals. Once or twice Mr.
Schmidt tried to interrupt, but Mark never gave him a chance. He ended
up: "Now, Mr. Schmidt, you board Tecumseh Androcles and give him three
good meals a day, and we'll advertise your place so every f-f-farmer
that comes to town will want to eat here. I'll write the ads. m-myself.
I wouldn't do that for everybody. We'll give you a full column every
w-w-week."
"I don't--" began Mr. Schmidt, but Mark was at him again, and pretty
soon Mr. Schmidt waved his hands in the air and says: "Stop. Vill you
stop? Eh? Cakes I haff in dat oven. Dey schpoil. I advertise. Sure. I do
anyt'ing if you go away. T'ree meal a day. You advertise a column in
your paper. Iss dat it?"
"Yes," says Mark, and waved Tecumseh to a seat at a table. "Be sure you
eat a c-c-column's worth every week," says he, and grinned at us.
That was our first stroke of business. I guess it was a good bargain.
Once I saw Tecumseh eating, and I guess we didn't get much the worst of
it. No, I guess Mark Tidd didn't get beaten very bad on that bargain.
We went outside and started for home. At the corner we nearly bumped
into a stranger. He was a small man, with the blackest eyes you ever
saw, and he scowled at us as if we hadn't any right to be alive. One
funny thing about him was that he had on black kid gloves.
"I don't l-like that man's looks," says Mark, turning to stare after
him. "Wouldn't trust him with a red-hot stove, 'cause maybe his hands
would be made of asbestos."
"Did look mean," says I. "Wonder who he was?"
"Dunno," says Mark, "and don't want to."
But he was mistaken about that. Before long Mark Tidd did want to know
who he was, and wanted to know it worse than he had ever wanted to know
anything in his life.
And that's how we saw the Man With the Black Gloves for the first time.
CHAPTER III
"The t-trouble with this business," says Mark, when we were back in the
office, "is that we haven't m-much workin' capital."
"What's workin' capital?" Plunk wanted to know.
"It's money you have to keep your b-business runnin'. Right now we have
to buy ink and p-paper and things. We aren't t-takin' in enough money to
do it, and to pay rent, and such like. All we've got is f-fifty dollars,
and that's got to do. Ma says so. She says dad can t-throw away so much
money, but not another cent; and if we can't make this p-paper pay on
what we've got, why we can just up and b-bust."
"Um!" says I. "I guess we better get a wiggle on us, then."
"C-can't get many subscribers before the f-first paper comes out, but
we'll print f-f-five hunderd of 'em, anyhow. Cost money, but we got to
do it."
"How'll you get rid of 'em?" Tallow wanted to know.
"Sell 'em," says Mark, sharp-like. "We'll each take a bundle and sell
'em on the s-s-street like in the cities. Get more money out of 'em,
too. Subscribers get f-f-fifty-two copies for a dollar and a quarter.
We'll sell 'em for three cents--and folks'll buy 'em, too. Won't come
down with a year's subscription right off, but they'll dig up t-t-three
cents just so's they can make fun of what we're doin'."
"Got to have some news for the paper," I says.
"Yes," says Mark. "We've got a start. There's the story about Henry
Wigglesworth being dead, and about that boy. Probably the will will be
r-r-read this week, too. But we've got to go after l-little things for
p-p-personal items."
"How d'ye know when a thing's news?" says Plunk.
"Well," says Mark, "everything's news in Wicksville. But some things is
better news than others, and we can write m-m-more about 'em. Now,
s'pose Sam Wilkins hammers his finger with a h-hammer. Bein's it's
nobody but Sam, we'd just write a little piece somethin' like this: 'Sam
Wilkins up and banged his thumb with a hammer, Thursday afternoon. The
doctor says Sam'll recover.'
"But if Sam's brother was one of the selectmen, we'd say: 'Samuel
Wilkins, brother of our well-known and highly esteemed selectman, Hiram
P. Wilkins, painfully injured himself Thursday while working on his
brother's hen-coop. The selectman examined the injured thumb and gave it
as his opinion that Samuel would be able to go to work again before the
summer was over. Much regret has been expressed over the h-happening,
because it delays the completion of the selectman's splendid new
hen-house, which is one any village may be proud of.' See. T-that's the
idee. If Sam's brother was President of the United States we'd write a
whole column about it, and try to p-p-print a picture of the hurt
t-thumb."
"I see," says I.
"Me, too," says the other fellows.
Just then Mr. Greening, of the Big Corner Store, came in.
"Howdy, boys!" says he.
"Howdy!" says we.
"In shape to print some hand-bills?"
"You b-bet," says Mark. "Reg'lar size?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Five hundred. How much?"
Right off, without so much as waiting to wink, Mark told him.
"All right. Can I have 'em to-morrow sure?"
"Yes, _sir_. G-gettin' out jobs on time is our s-s-specialty. Promptness
and quality," says Mark, "is the watchword of this office."
"Fine. Do a good job on these and I'll have more for you every week."
"M-much obleeged," says Mark.
When Mr. Greening was gone I says to Mark: "How in the world did you
know how much to charge him? Bet you got it wrong."
"You d-d-do, eh?" says Mark, with a twinkle in his little eyes. "Well,
if I did, Binney, it hain't wrong on the losin' side for us. No, siree.
I've b-been goin' over the books the last owner of this p-p-paper left
here, to find out how much he charged for j-j-jobs, and what j-jobs was
likely to come in. Mr. Greening's was one of 'em. So when he come I just
charged him what the other feller would have charged--and added t-t-ten
per cent, to make sure we wouldn't l-lose anything."
He looked proud and pleased with himself, like he always does when he
does something that's pretty good. It _was_ pretty good, too. You've got
to take off your hat to Mark when it comes to making money. He's a
regular schemer, but for all that, he's fair. Nobody--at least no other
kid in Wicksville--would have thought of getting at prices the way Mark
did.
"The other owner of the p-p-paper didn't make money," says Mark. "That's
why I added ten per cent. If we f-f-find that isn't enough, we'll add
more--and we'll get it, too, 'cause we're goin' to turn out first-class
work--and turn it out just when we p-p-promise to. Folks don't mind a
few cents extry if they get quality and promptness."
Tecumseh Androcles Spat came in from the composing-room just then,
shaking his head from side to side and looking as doleful as a gander on
a rainy day.
"Mr. Editor," said he, "my talents are lying idle. It should not be so.
At this moment I should be dazzling the inhabitants of this village with
typographical displays such as their eyes have never feasted on. Yet no
copy hangs on the hook."
"In just one s-s-second there'll be some hangin' there," said Mark, and
he reached out and stuck the paper Mr. Greening had given him on the
hook where stuff is put that the man in the composing-room is to set in
type.
Tecumseh Androcles stared at it, cocked his head on one side, wrinkled
his nose, and then began making funny motions in the air with one hand
like he was drawing lines and making dots and flourishes.
"Good," says he in a minute. "The thing is done. Tecumseh Androcles Spat
sees the completed hand-bill in his mind's eye--and it is beautiful."
"M-make it beautiful," says Mark, "but also make it quick!"
"Young sir," says Tecumseh, "no compositor between the Broad Atlantic
and the boundless Pacific can vie with me in speed. I shall show you."
And he dodged out into the composing-room so quickly his head seemed to
snap like the snapper on the end of a horse-whip.
"I'm afraid," says Mark, "that Tecumseh's bothered with what some folks
call artistic t-t-temperament. I don't know what it is, exactly, but
it's hard to m-manage."
"You'll manage it, all right," says Tallow. "I'll bet you could drive
two artistic temperaments in a team."
"I'd hate to try," says Mark, but you could see he was tickled. He
always likes to be appreciated--and so do the rest of us, I guess.
"Now," says he, "Plunk and Tallow, scatter and hunt up news. Don't miss
anythin'. F-f-fetch in everything you get to hear, and we'll use all we
can that's really n-news. Now git--and don't loaf."
"Huh!" says Plunk. "Guess we hain't any more apt to loaf than _you_
are."
"Reporters always try to loaf," says Mark. "I read it in a book."
Then Mark says to me that he shouldn't be surprised if it would be a
good idea for me to go to the hotel and find out who was registered
there, and what they came to town for, and how long they were going to
stay.
"And," says he, "if there's any of t-t-them that sounds like he might be
int'restin', get a talk with him and write up what he says."
So off I went to the hotel.
"Gimme a look at the register," says I to Billy Green, the clerk.
"What d'you want to look at the register for?" says Bill, winking at a
traveling man that was standing close by.
"To see who's registered," says I. "Did you think I wanted to read a
poem out of it?"
Bill laughed and pulled the book away.
"No kids allowed," says he. "I'll bet your hands are dirty and you'd
muss it all up."
"Bill," says I, "you better quit makin' fun of me, or I'll put a piece
in the paper about how you got on the dining-car last week, and didn't
know what finger-bowls was, and drank the water out of your'n, thinkin'
it was lemonade 'cause it had lemon peelin' in it."
Bill he got pretty red and looked sideways at the traveling man and
tried to laugh it off. But it was so, and I knew it. He didn't know how
I knew it, and I wasn't going to tell him.
"Do I get to see the register?" says I.
"What you got to do with the newspaper?" he wanted to know.
"Mark Tidd and Plunk and Tallow and me is runnin' it," says I, "and I'm
after news."
"Guess I'll have to let you see it, then," says he, and he pushed it
over.
There was five men registered fresh that morning. Three of them I knew,
for they were traveling men that came to town every week. One of the
others was just a man from Freesoil that didn't amount to much, though I
wrote a line mentioning that he was in town. The other fellow I'd never
heard of.
"Who's this Silas Spragg?" says I.
"Dunno," says Billy. "He hain't stated his business."
"Guess I'll interview him, then," says I. "Maybe there's some news in
him. Where's he hidin' away?"
"That's him on the sidewalk, there," says Bill, and he pointed to a man
about thirty years old who was leaning against a hitching-post in front
and looking at the town like he didn't think much of it.
"Much obliged," says I, and went out to see Mr. Spragg.
"Good mornin'," says I. "Is this Mr. Silas Spragg?"
"Yes," says he, sharp-like. "What of it?"
I figured maybe his breakfast hadn't agreed with him, or that his shoes
was too tight, or something.
"I just saw your name on the register," says I, "and, bein' as I
represent the newspaper, I figgered I'd better get acquainted with you.
Ever been here before?"
"No," says he. "If I had 'a' been I wouldn't have come back this time."
"Goin' to stay long?" I asked.
He sort of grinned. "Reg'lar newspaper man, hain't you?" says he. "Run
one of them amateur newspapers?"
"No," says I, "professional. Reg'lar paper printed on a printin'-press,
with advertisin' in it, issued every Thursday, a dollar and a quarter a
year."
"Huh!" says he. "What paper's that?"
"The Wicksville _Trumpet_," says I.
He laughed. "That's busted," says he. "Sheriff took it for debts. You
can't fool me, sonny."
"Yes," says I, "it was sold by the sheriff and Mark Tidd's dad bought it
for us four fellers to run. It hain't busted any more, and, mister, it
hain't goin' to be busted, either. Guess you don't know Mark Tidd, do
you?"
"No," says he, "but I hope he didn't spend much money for his paper."
"Why?" says I.
"'Cause he's goin' to lose it," says he.
"Maybe," says I, "he'll have somethin' to say about that."
"So'll I," says he, "and here's some news for you. You'll like to print
it, I'll bet. I'm a newspaper man myself. Part owner of the Eagle Center
_Clarion_. When we heard the _Trumpet_ was busted we decided to grab on
to this town and get out a special edition of the _Clarion_ for it. See?
One plant to print two papers. I'm here to be editor of the Wicksville
edition.... Now what d'you think about bustin', eh? Figger there's room
for two papers here?"
"No," says I; "so you'd better take the noon train back to Eagle
Center."
He laughed, disagreeable-like. "Not me," says he. "The _Clarion_'ll
_own_ this town in two months. We'll give 'em a real paper that folks'll
buy and depend on. You might as well shut up shop right off and save
expense. Maybe we'd go so far as to give you a few dollars for the junk
up at your office."
"Huh!" says I. "If you're lookin' for a row, I guess we can pervide it
for you. And we'll start right off. Sorry I hain't got time to talk to
you any more, but I've got somethin' to do. Yes, Mister Spragg, I'm
movin' on now, and in ten minutes the Eagle Center _Clarion_'ll be
startin' in to wish it hadn't ever tried to hog the whole State.
Good-by, mister. Better leave while you've got change enough left to pay
your fare."
He said something to me that sounded like he was real mad, and I moved
off considerable rapid, because I didn't know but what he'd take it into
his head to get rough. Yes, I went away from there prompt, and hurried
to the office. Mark was sitting at his desk, editing.
"Hey, Mark," says I, "we're up against it again. Seems like we're always
runnin' up against it. Folks won't let us have peace."
"N-n-now what?" says he.
"Eagle Center _Clarion's_ goin' to print a special Wicksville edition,"
says I. "They've got an editor here, and he says he's goin' to put us
out of business."
"Um!" says Mark, and turned around so his face was toward the window.
"S-s-special edition, eh?" Then he began tugging at his ear like he
always does when there's a problem to figure out or some sort of
difficult thing to overcome. "Well," says he in a minute, "I don't see
how we can s-s-stop 'em. But we'll let 'em know they've got competition,
eh, Binney?"
"You bet," says I.
"Got to m-m-make our first paper a hummer," says he, "so folks'll talk
about it and wonder what the dickens we'll p-p-print _next_ week."
"Fine," says I. "How'll we get about it."
"Best way," says he, "is to take a chance of gettin' licked."
"Sounds good," says I.
"We'll p-p-print some _real_ news," says he, "and we'll have a
c-c-couple of typographical errors that h-happen on purpose."
"Dunno what they be," says I, "but they sound int'restin'."
"They will be," says he. "I'll m-m-make 'em myself."
"Kind of discouragin' to have another paper crowdin' in here right at
the start," says I.
"Shucks!" says he. "Just m-m-makes more work and more f-f-figgerin'.
'Tain't any fun to do a thing that's _easy_. Anybody can do an easy
thing. Where the fun comes in is havin' to _f-f-fight_ for it."
"Maybe," says I, "but that's where the worry comes, too."
"Keep so b-busy you won't have time to worry," says he, "and first
l-let's go find your Mister Spragg."
"Come on," says I, and off we went to the hotel.
Mr. Spragg was still leaning against the same hitching-post. If he
wasn't going to do anything but hold up a post, I thought to myself,
maybe we won't have such a hard time of it, after all.
"Mister Spragg," says I, "let me introduce the editor of the Wicksville
_Trumpet_."
"Him?" says Mr. Spragg, staring at Mark.
"Him," says I.
Then Mr. Spragg did something he hadn't ought to have done--not if he
was wise. He busted right out laughing in Mark's face.
"Him the editor!" says Mr. Spragg. "Oh, my goodness! Thought I was up
against some kind of a man, but nothin' but an over-fed kid that's so
fat he can't hardly waddle. Oh! Oh!"
I kept my eyes on Mark, but he didn't turn a hair. You would have
thought he didn't even hear what Spragg said, for he just waited for the
man to get through laughing, and then he said, quiet-like:
"Glad to meet you, Mister S-s-spragg."
"Go along, fatty," says Spragg, "and don't bother me."
"I d-d-don't want to bother you unless I _have_ to," says Mark, as calm
and quiet as a china nest egg. "I figgered maybe you'd like to t-t-talk
things over a bit."
"With _you_?" says Spragg, as scornful as anything. "No time to bother
with kids."
"All right," says Mark, still polite as peas. "I j-just wanted to give
you the chance, that was all. I don't b'lieve in sailin' into a f-feller
till there's some reason for it, and if there's a chance to be f-friends
and keep out hard feelin', I'm the one to do all I can."
"Don't be scairt of me, sonny. I hain't goin' to hurt you any--that is,
outside of bustin' up that paper you're playin' with."
"Oh," says Mark, "you're aimin' to do that, eh? I didn't have any right
to complain when you came in here with your p-p-paper. You had a right
to if you wanted to. And you had a r-r-right to take away my subscribers
and advertisers if you could get 'em--by fair, b-b-business-like means.
But you didn't have a right to come in here d-d-deliberately intendin'
to bust up our business. That hain't fair or honest."
He stopped and looked Mr. Spragg over from head to toes.
"Come to t-think of it," says he, "I don't b'lieve I like your l-looks.
You look like a bluffer to me, and your eyes are too close t-together
for folks to be warranted in t-trustin' you far. So I sha'n't.... That's
about all. I wanted to be d-d-decent about it, but I guess that hain't
your way of doin'. So I'll issue a little warnin'. Go as far as you kin
to get business. Go after my business as hard as you can m-m-manage--but
do it fair and above-board and the way d-decent business men do. As
l-long as you stick to the rules there won't be any trouble. But the
f-first time I catch you t-t-tryin' to do anythin' underhand or
shysterin' you'll think you sat down unexpected on to a nest of
yaller-jackets. Jest f-f-fix that in your mind, Mister Spragg....
Good-by."
For a minute Spragg stood looking at Mark bug-eyed. He was 'most
strangled with astonishment, I guess. We turned and walked off, and we'd
gone fifty feet before he came to himself enough to say a word. Then he
yelled:
"Hey, come back here! Hey, you! What you mean talkin' like that?" And he
started after us. But just then Billy Green, the hotel clerk, came out.
"What's matter?" says he, and then he saw Mark and me. "Hain't been
goin' up against Mark Tidd, have you?" says he to Spragg.
"That fat kid was sassin' me," says he.
"Thank your stars," says Billy, "that's all he done to you. Take my
advice and forgit it."
Mark didn't miss a word of it, and I could see his ears getting pink
with pleasure. He wasn't swell-headed, and I guess I've said so before,
but he did like to hear nice things said about himself, and more than
anything else he liked to know that folks figured he wasn't the sort you
could take advantage of. Mark was different from most fellows. He'd
rather have the sharpest brain in town than to win the most events in
the Olympic Games. And you could tickle him more by praising something
he'd _thought up_ than by praising something he'd just _done_.
Mark didn't say anything while we walked a couple of blocks, but a man
with one eye, and that one under a patch, could have seen he was
studying and studying.
"Well," says I, "what's the word?"
"Wisht he hadn't showed up so s-s-soon," says Mark, "I was perty busy
before. I wanted t-t-time to think and study on somethin' else for a
while. Now I'll have to think and s-s-study about how to stop Spragg
from gettin' the best of us, and how to get the b-best of him. Only
we've got to be _fair_."
"Sure," says I, "but what else did you want to figger on?"
"The Wigglesworth business," says he. "I wanted to p-p-puzzle out what's
goin' on, and I wanted to s-sneak out and see that boy and t-talk to
him. I bet he knows things Lawyer Jones didn't get out of him. Boys
don't always tell men all they know.... Well, I'll just have to f-f-find
time to do both."
"We'll help all we can," says I. "Maybe we'll be _some_ good."
"Now don't go gettin' sore," says Mark. "I hain't ever slighted you yet,
have I? Eh? When anythin' was g-goin' on you got plenty to do, didn't
you?"
"Yes," says I.
"Well," says he, "more l-likely you'll get more 'n you want to do this
time.... I do wisht I could figger out where that boy comes in. Rock's
his name. What's he got to do with Henry Wigglesworth? Why didn't Mr.
Wigglesworth speak to him at all? Remember Lawyer Jones said he didn't.
Then what m-m-made Mr. Wigglesworth come s-sneakin' in at night to look
at him? That's the hardest of all. He could see the b-boy all day. What
for did he want to be p-p-prowlin' in with a lamp to look at him at
night? It's all mixed up. But you can bet there's s-somethin' behind it
all that'll m-make a dandy newspaper story when we get to the b-b-bottom
of it."
"Maybe we won't," says I.
He turned on me quick. "We will," says he, "or bust."
"Huh!" says I. "We can't always come out on top."
"We can always if we t-t-try hard enough. The reason some folks is
always f-f-failin' is because they don't think hard enough and work hard
enough. Laziness makes more f-f-failures than bad luck."
"Maybe," says I, "but this looks like it was too tough a job for just
kids."
"Wait and see," says he.
"I'll help you," says I.
Lots of fellows would have told me to mind my own business, or maybe
laughed at me and said I wasn't smart enough to help, but not Mark.
"All right," says he, "two heads is b-better than a sack of meal. What I
m-miss you may see, and what you don't catch on to may stick out plain
to me. Let's get at it."
CHAPTER IV
The first thing that happened was the coming of the Man With the Black
Gloves. All of a sudden we looked up and there he was standing in the
door, squinting at us with his disagreeable eyes. You haven't any idea
how quiet he'd come. One second he wasn't there; the next second there
he was, and no fuss about it at all.
"Howdy!" says Mark.
"Proprietor in?" says the man, chopping off his words like he hated to
use them at all.
"I'm one of t-them," says Mark. "What can I do for you?"
"Liner ad. How much?" He didn't throw in one extra word for good
measure. After he was gone Mark says he bet he was stingy as anything.
He said he guessed so because he hated to give away the cheapest thing
in the world--which is talk.
"Cent a word," says Mark.
The Man With the Black Gloves poked out a paper to Mark and says, "Head
it 'Personal.'" Then he passed over a quarter and Mark counted the words
and gave back the change. The man turned and went out as quiet as he
came, not even nodding good-by.
Mark stood looking after him, and when he was out of ear-shot he turned
to me and said almost in a whisper, "Binney, l-l-look here!"
Something in his voice made me come quick. I took the paper out of his
hand and read what was written on it. It said:
Jethro: On deck. Report. Center Line Bridge. Eight. G. G. G.
"Funny kind of an ad.," says I.
"F-f-funny kind of a man," says Mark. "What d'you make of it?"
"Nothin'," says I.
"He's up to somethin'," says Mark.
"Huh!" says I. "Haven't we got work enough and mysteries enough on hand
without goin' out of our way to find another?"
"But," says Mark, "this is _s-s-suspicious_."
"What of it?" says I.
"Looks to me," says he, "like it was our d-duty as newspaper men to
l-l-look into it. May be for the good of the community."
"Rats!" says I.
"He hain't plannin' no good," says Mark.
"Likely he hain't," says I, "but what business is it of ours?"
"Everything is a newspaper man's b-business," says Mark, "even things
that hain't none of his b-business."
"That sounds crazy," says I.
"Anyhow," says he, "I'm goin' to f-f-find out what's the meanin' of this
ad."
"Go ahead," says I, "and if you get into trouble don't ask _me_ to pull
you out."
Mark looked at me and grinned, and I grinned back, for it _was_ funny.
Usually the one to get folks out of trouble wasn't me. I was better at
getting them into it. But Mark, why, he made a sort of business of
jerking us out of scrapes we got into!
"Why," says I, "would a man put in an ad. like that? Why doesn't he go
tell this Jethro instead of puttin' it in the paper?"
"One reason," says Mark, "is because he d-d-don't want to be seen near
where this Jethro is stayin'."
That did sound reasonable.
"Yes," says Mark, tugging at his ear. "Jethro's expectin' this feller.
This Black Glove feller's the boss, it looks to me Jethro's either
d-doin' somethin' or f-f-findin' out somethin' for Black Gloves, and
this ad. tells him to report. That's easy. He's to do his r-r-reportin'
at the Center Line Bridge, and the 'eight' means eight o'clock.... But
what d-day?"
"Why," says I, "the day the paper comes out!"
"N-no," says Mark. "I f-figger he means _next_ day. By that time
Jethro'd have time to get his p-p-paper and see the ad. Most likely he's
been told to look for his orders that way."
"To be sure," says I, and it did seem pretty clear after Mark reasoned
it out, but I never would have got that far in six years of digging.
"So," says Mark, "you and me will be at Center Line Bridge Friday
n-n-night an hour ahead of t-t-time, so's to hide away and overhear
what's up."
"And probably git our backs busted," says I.
"Hain't n-never got 'em b-busted yet," says he.
"All right, Mark," I says. "Where you go I go, but one of these times
neither one of us'll be comin' back in one piece. No, sir, we'll be
gettin' scattered all over the county so our folks'll have to gather us
up in a basket."
"B-b-between now and Friday," says Mark, changing the subject, "there's
a n-newspaper to get out. Stop gabblin' and go to work."
Mark turned around to his desk and went to work. I stood around a minute
and then, not seeing anything special to get at, I asked him what he
wanted me to do.
"Go out and get some advertisin'," says he, and went to work again.
Get some advertising, says he! I had about as much idea how to get
advertising as I had how to catch eels with my bare hands--and I found
out that advertisements were just about as easy to catch as eels. Yes,
and maybe a little harder. If you try to catch an eel, why, he just
wriggles away, but if you try to catch an advertisement the man you try
to catch it from is as likely as not to kick you out of his store. I
don't see why ads. aren't catching, like measles or mumps. It would make
it a heap easier for us newspaper men.
Anyhow, all the business I managed to get was a miserable little
advertisement from old man Crane, who had started to grow whiskers and
wanted to trade a safety razor for a brush and comb. It was a cent a
word and there were fifteen words. I didn't see exactly how we were
going to get rich at that rate.
While I was on my way back to the office I saw what looked like it was
going to be a fight, so I stopped around to watch, but it turned out to
be nothing but a squabble. It was kind of fun, though, even if nobody
did anything but talk and holler. The men mixed up in it were Mr. Pawl,
who owned the Emporium Grocery, and Mr. Giddings, who ran the Busy Big
Market.
When I got there they were just beginning to get started good. Mr. Pawl,
who was about five feet and a half tall, was reaching up in the air as
far as he could reach to shake his fist under Mr. Giddings's nose--and
Mr. Giddings's nose was so high up he couldn't even come near it.
"You did," says he, hollering as loud as he could yell. "You know you
did, you--you yaller grasshopper. She come right over and told me.
'Tain't the first time, neither. But it's goin' to be the last. No man
kin say to Missis Petty that the eggs in my store was laid by a hen that
was sufferin' from ague. No, sir, nobody kin. Sufferin' from ague, says
you, so that the eggs was addled before they was laid, on account of the
hen shakin' and shiverin' so.... That's what you told her, you wab-blin'
old bean-pole. Tryin' to drive away my customers, eh? I'll show you."
"Now, Banty," says Mr. Giddings, calling Mr. Pawl a name that always
made him mad enough to eat a barrel of nails, because he didn't like to
have folks mention his size, "now, Banty, jest keep your feet on the
ground. 'Tain't a mite worse for me to tell Missis Petty what I told her
than it is for you to tell Missis Green that whenever you grease up your
buggy you git a pound of my butter 'cause it's better for the purpose
than the best axle grease--but hain't good for nothin' else. Remember
that, don't you, you half-grown toadstool? ... Jest let me tell you,
this here slanderin' 's been goin' on long enough, and I'm a-goin' to
fight back. I'll give you tit for tat, and don't you forgit it."
"I'll have the law on you," Mr. Pawl hollered.
"Law--shucks! I'll take you acrost my knee and spank you," says
Giddings.
"I won't muss up my hands touchin' you," says Pawl. "'Twouldn't hurt you
nohow, with your rhinoceros hide. Only way to git you sufferin' is to
touch your pocket-book. From now I'm a-goin' after your business, and
goin' after it hard. I'll _bust_ you, that's what I'll do. I'll bust you
so's you can't be put together with glue."
"Two kin play that fiddle," says Mr. Giddings. "In two months there
won't be but one grocery store in Wicksville, and that one'll be
Giddings's Busy Big Market. Now run along and sleep on that."
Giddings walked off, leaving Pawl dancing up and down and making noises
that didn't have any sense to them. He was so mad he didn't know if he
was a man in Wicksville or a rampaging hyena in the Desert of Sahara.
I poked along to the office with my little ad. and handed it to Mark,
sort of figgerin' maybe he'd be mad because I hadn't got more, but he
wasn't, and I might have known he wouldn't be.
"F-f-fine," says he. "That's a starter. I didn't really f-f-figger you'd
get _any_, first time out. Bet you get to be the best advertisin'-getter
in the office."
Maybe he didn't mean it, and maybe he was saying it just to make me feel
good, but anyhow it was a good idea. If he'd growled and acted
disappointed, most likely it would have taken the heart out of me, so
that next time I'd have done worse. But as it was I felt, somehow, like
I could go out and get a whole basketful of ads. now. That was Mark
Tidd's way of doing things. He knew how to manage fellows and how to get
the most work out of them. I'll bet you that some day he's one of the
biggest business men there is. I don't mean big just because he's such a
whopper, but important.
I told him about the row between Pawl and Giddings, and he laughed till
the fat on his cheeks wabbled like a dish of jelly. Then he got sober
and began tugging his ear.
"Come on, Binney," says he.
"Where?" says I.
"Out to git some b-b-business," Says he.
I went following along till he came to Pawl's Emporium and was turning
in.
"Hey," says I, "what you goin' in here for? He's too mad to _sell_
things, let alone buyin' advertisin' space."
"Maybe," says Mark. "Let's try, anyhow."
So in we went. Mr. Pawl was behind the counter, walking up and down like
a wolf in a circus cage, and every little while he would up with his
fist and bang it down with all his might. I guess he imagined he was
smashing Giddings.
"Come on away from here," says I to Mark. "He may take it into his head
to wallop us."
Mark just grinned.
"Howdy, Mr. Pawl!" says he.
Mr. Pawl just glared at him and banged the counter again.
"I don't b-b-blame you for being mad," says Mark. "I'd be madder 'n you
are if it was me."
"If what was you?" says Mr. Pawl.
"If a competitor was t-tryin' to get ahead of me like yours is tryin' to
get ahead of you."
"What's he doin' now? What's he doin' now?" Mr. Pawl yelled at the top
of his voice.
"I'll tell you what I _think_ he's goin' to d-d-do," says Mark. "He's
goin' to go after your customers hard. He's goin' to offer 'em
b-bargains, and maybe he'll have somethin' to say about _you_."
"What d'you mean? How'll he offer bargains? Where'll he say anythin'
about me?"
"I _think_," says Mark, "he's goin' to p-p-put a big advertisement in
the p-p-paper. If he does he'll tell f-f-folks about some whoppin'
bargains. And I guess maybe he'll compare his store with yours, and his
b-bargains with yours, and your stuff won't get p-praised much. D'you
f-figger it will?"
"Advertise, will he? Thinks he can git ahead of me, does he? Go
spatterin' printer's ink, eh? Well, he better not. I'll have the law on
him, so I will. I'll make him wish his name wasn't Giddings 'fore I'm
through with him."
"I know what I'd do if I was you," says Mark.
"What 'u'd _you_ do?" growled Mr. Pawl.
"I'd b-b-beat him at his own game," says Mark. "I wouldn't let on I
f-f-figgered he was goin' to advertise, but I'd advertise myself, and
wouldn't I offer b-bargains! I'll bet I'd put things in the paper that
would start a reg'lar p-p-procession into this store. And if I could
think of anythin' to say, I guess I'd sort of allude to competitors and
their way of d-d-doin' business, and such."
"If I could think of anythin'!" yelled Mr. Pawl. "You bet I kin think of
somethin'. How big a advertisement d'you figger he'll print?"
"Prob'ly all of half a p-page," says Mark.
"I'll have a page, a whole blinged page. I'll show him! That's the way
we do business in the Emporium. No half-pages for us. We go the whole
hog when we go.... Now git out of here, you kids. I'm goin' to be busy.
I've got to rig up a whole-page ad. for that paper, and I got to do it
quick to beat that raker-handle of a Giddings.... When's the paper come
out?"
"To-morrow," says Mark. "Better get your ad. in this afternoon."
"You bet I will," says Mr. Pawl, and while we were going out he was
already writing on it.
Mark looked at me and grinned. "F-f-funny he didn't kick us out," says
he.
"Mark Tidd," says I, "I take off my hat. Talk about grabbin' a
opportunity when it's passin'! Well, I guess maybe you didn't grab this
one."
"You lugged in the opportunity," says Mark, giving me credit like he
always does, even though I didn't deserve much of it. "But we hain't
quite through grabbin' yet," says he. "We got to see Mr. Giddings."
We went catercorner across the street to the Busy Big Market, and there
was Mr. Giddings in the door, with a grin on his face, looking down at a
crate of eggs. On the crate he had just stuck a sign, which read:
These Eggs Were Laid by Hardworking, Honest Hens
The Oldest Is Under Twenty-Four Hours
Buy Your Eggs Here--Don't Go Elsewhere
Our Competitors' Chickens Have Ague
Their Eggs Are Scrambled in the Shell
Mark started in to laugh and nudged me with his elbow.
"Laugh, you chump," says he, "l-l-laugh."
So I set in to laughing with all my might. Mr. Giddings looked at us and
grinned.
"Perty good, eh?" says he.
"You bet," says Mark, "but I hear tell Mr. Pawl's goin' to have even
that sign beat."
"He is, is he?" says Mr. Giddings. "How is he, I'd like to know? He
better not start in on anythin'. What's the leetle weasel up to now?"
"Advertisin'," says Mark. "He's goin' to advertise such b-b-bargains as
Wicksville 'ain't ever seen before. I got wind of somethin' else, too. I
hear he's goin' to allude to his competitors in his advertisement, and
sort of lambaste 'em and their goods."
"He is, eh? When? How?"
"To-morrow, in the Wicksville _Trumpet_," says Mark. "He's g-g-goin' to
have a full-page ad., and I'll bet he'll say some mean things in it,
too."
"Think so?" says Mr. Giddings, eager-like. "Well, now, I'll fool the
little flea. That's what I'll do. I'll have a page ad., too, and if he
can offer better bargains than I do, or say more cuttin' things, then
I'll go out of business. Paper comes out to-morrow, don't it?"
"Yes," says Mark. "Better have your page in the office this afternoon.
It'll have to be set up in a hurry."
"You bet I will," says Mr. Giddings, "and I'll say things in it so hot
your compositor'll burn his fingers settin' 'em in type."
We went hustling back to the office and told Tecumseh Androcles Spat
that he had a night's work ahead of him that would come close to taxing
even his ability.
"What is it?" says he.
"Two page ads.," says Mark.
"Huh!" says Tecumseh Androcles. "I'll have them ready. And they will not
be mere ads. They will be works of art. I will bring to the setting of
them all my skill and knowledge, to say nothing of the genius with which
nature has endowed me. Young sirs, this town will see two page ads. such
as it has never dreamed of."
"Fine," says Mark, and we went back into the office.
"I'll bet," says Mark, "that Tecumseh Androcles was right about one
t-t-thing. Wicksville hain't ever dreamed of two page advertisements
like those'll be."
"I only hope," says I, "that there won't be no bloodshed."
Mark grinned, happy-like. "Business is p-p-pickin' up. Wonder how many
page advertisements Spragg has p-p-picked up for the Eagle Center
_Clarion_?"
CHAPTER V
Next day what Mark Tidd called the _mended_ Wicksville _Trumpet_ gave
its first toot. It didn't break our backs carrying to the post-office
the copies we mailed to regular subscribers. The four of us boys could
'most have written out enough papers longhand to fix _them_ up, but we
did print five hundred copies altogether. The rest we were going to sell
just like papers are sold in cities.
We sold them for three cents apiece, and every fellow had subscription
blanks in his pocket so if anybody got so reckless as to want to
subscribe we could catch him before he cooled off. You wouldn't believe
it, but before night we had raked in forty-six regular
honest-to-goodness subscribers.
Folks was that interested! At first they bought our papers to see the
joke, I guess, but pretty soon they were buying them because they wanted
to read what was in them, and especial to read about Henry Wigglesworth
and the two page advertisements from Pawl and Giddings.
The Eagle Center _Clarion_ was on deck, too, giving away sample copies
of the new Wicksville edition. But we had Spragg swamped. For every
local he had we printed three, and three of the kind Wicksville folks
like to read. He had only a dozen lines about Henry Wigglesworth, while
we had two columns full of interesting things, and mystery, and Rock,
and such like. It was the first time folks really got any clear idea of
what had happened out there. At that, I guess they thought they had a
clearer idea than they had. I know we editors would have given
considerable to be better posted.
Ten minutes after he got his paper Mr. Pawl started out to lick Mr.
Giddings. About that same minute Mr. Giddings started out to do things
to Mr. Pawl, and they met in the square close to the town pump. Each of
them had a _Trumpet_ clutched in his fingers, and was waving it around
like a battle flag. When they saw each other they both let out a bellow
and rushed.
But neither of them was so war-like, when it came to doing regular
fighting, as they were when nothing but yelling was necessary. When they
got about eight feet apart they both stepped like somebody was standing
up and hauling on the lines. They stopped so sudden it must have jarred
them, and there they stood, shaking their fists at each other and waving
their _Trumpets_.
Uncle Ike Bond, the 'bus driver, drew up his horses and craned his neck
to listen.
"What's trouble?" he called down.
"They're squabblin' about them advertisements," said Jim Walker.
"Um! ... If I was them fellers I'd keep shet up about them ads. As I
view it there was consid'able truth about both of 'em. Giddings he lets
on Pawl is a skinflint and weighs his hand with every pound of butter;
Pawl he gives it out that Giddings hain't got but one honest hair in his
head, and that one's so loose at the root it's clost to fallin' out.
I've dealt consid'able with both," Uncle Ike went on, waggling his head,
"and as I view it nobody hain't been wronged." He stopped a minute and
squinted down at them.
"Be you honest figgerin' on a fight?" he asked, "'cause if you be I'll
stop to watch, but if it hain't nothin' but a fist-shakin' match I'll
move along. Hey?"
Both men looked sort of sheepish, and like they wished they was where
they weren't.
"Go on, Pawl," said Uncle Ike, "step up and lam him one."
Pawl backed off like the place he was standing was too hot for his feet.
"Um!" says Uncle Ike. "Well, _you_ start it, Giddings. Somebody put a
chip on Pawl's shoulder. Giddings'll knock it off."
"I won't have no chip on my shoulder," says Pawl.
"I see somebody goin' into my store," says Giddings. "I got to hurry
over there."
"Both of you better hurry back," says Uncle Ike. "I'm what you might
call a man with experience and wisdom. For more years 'n I like to think
about I've been a-drivin' this 'bus, and the seat of a 'bus is the place
to git experience. Nothin' like it. Greatest teacher in the world. I
calc'late there's few things I hain't capable of discussin' if I was
asked. I'm capable of offerin' both of you belligerents advice right
here and now, and this is it: You go on back to your stores and tend to
business, which don't mean puttin' sand in the sugar, or sellin'
cold-storage eggs with a yarn that the hen is still cacklin' that laid
'em. Jest try bein' square with your customers, and with each other, if
you kin go so far, and you won't git made sich an idiotic spectacle of
as you be now. Nobody's profited by this here rumpus but Mark Tidd.
Advertisin'! Huh! Now run along, you fellers, and advertise all over
again, but advertise yourselves, and advertise honest. Try it once, and
see if you don't git a substantial profit out of it. Jest tell the plain
truth in Mark's paper, and stick to what you advertise. Bein' as you're
who you are, 'tain't reasonable to expect wonders of you, but you can
give a sort of flickerin' imitation of business men.... G'dap, bosses.
Mooch along there." And Uncle Ike rattled off up the street, contented
with himself and almost tickled to death that he'd got a chance to jaw
somebody.
As for us fellows, we went to selling papers as hard as we could, and
would you believe it, before noon we were cleaned out. Yes, sir, we'd
sold every single solitary one.
"Don't get s-s-set up," says Mark. "Tain't goin' to be as easy all the
t-t-time. Folks is buyin' to-day out of curiosity. Next week we'll have
harder sleddin'."
"Bet we don't," says Plunk. "Bet it'll be easier to run this old paper
than it is to slide down-hill. I don't see anythin' hard about it."
"Huh!" says Mark, and not another word.
Mark and I walked past the hotel, and there stood Spragg. He scowled at
us over the top of one of our papers that he had paid three real cents
for.
[Illustration: We went to selling papers as hard as we could, and before
noon we were cleaned out]
"Well," says I, "what do you think of it?"
"Kid paper," says he.
"Those page ads. are k-k-kid ads., ain't they?" says Mark.
"Luck," says Spragg. "I'll have 'em next week."
"Wigglesworth story was a kid story?" says Mark.
"Nothin' to it," says Spragg. "I've asked folks. I'm a newspaper man,
and if there was a story I'd get it. It wouldn't be you young ones."
"You g-go on thinkin' so," says Mark. "We couldn't ask anythin'
b-better."
We went on, and when we were out of earshot Mark says: "That reminds me,
I want to go up to Lawyer Jones. I w-w-want to know about Mr.
Wigglesworth's w-w-will. Folks'll want to know in the next _Trumpet_,
t-too."
"All right," says I. "I don't mind sayin' I'm a mite curious, myself."
So up we went.
"Ah," says Lawyer Jones, "what can I do for you, my young friends? Are
you--ah--representing the press to-day?"
"Y-yes," says Mark. "We came to find out if there was anything new to
the Wigglesworth b-business. Or if you'd tell us about the w-w-will."
"Nothing new," says Lawyer Jones. "I can't find out a thing about that
boy, and he can't tell me anything that will throw the least light on
why he was in Henry Wigglesworth's house. Seems he's been kept alone
most of his life--without folks, anyhow. Pretty well looked after, I
guess, though. Been to one boarding-school after another ever since he
can remember--cheap ones. Didn't know who paid his bills. Lonely little
customer. Not a coul in the world ever stood to him in the position of
father or guardian."
"Interestin'," says Mark. "Who's stayin' there with the boy?"
"Mr. Wigglesworth's man-of-all-work. Jethro's his name."
"_What_?" says Mark in a tone that made me jump.
"Jethro," repeated Mr. Jones, sort of surprised. "Why?"
"Oh, nothin'," says Mark. "Kind of a f-f-funny name."
"About the will," says Mr. Jones, "I guess there's nothing to prevent me
from reading it to you. It's sort of queer, like everything else that
has happened since Mr. Wigglesworth died. I don't know just what to do."
"Will it d-d-do any harm if we p-print it?" says Mark.
Mr. Jones hesitated a moment, like lawyers always do, just for effect, I
guess, then he said, "Wa-al, I dunno's it would do any harm."
"And it'll do a h-h-heap of good," says Mark, with a grin. "There's a
lot of curiosity itchin' f-f-folks that readin' what that will says will
c-cure."
"And that sells newspapers," says Lawyer Jones. "Well, I'm glad to help
you all I can." So he went to his safe and came back with the will. We
could understand it, all right, though for the life of me I can't see
why it wasn't written out plain without so many "whereases" and
"theretofores" and "devises," and such like.
Anyhow, the gist of it was that Henry Wigglesworth claimed his mind was
as good as new and that this was his regular will, and no other one was
worth a cent. Then he said his debts had to be paid, which they would
have had to be, whether he said it or not, I guess. Then he "gave,
devised, and bequeathed," whatever that means, all the "rest, residue,
and remainder" of his property to "any heir or heirs in direct line of
descent from myself, if such exist or can be found."
All that meant, Lawyer Jones explained, was that he wanted his property
to go to his sons or daughters, or his grandsons or granddaughters or
great-grandsons or great-granddaughters, if he had any.
Then the will said if nobody could find any of these direct heirs the
property was to go to George Gardener Grover, only son of Mr.
Wigglesworth's only sister. And there you are.
"Um!" says Mark when Lawyer Jones was through. "'Tis f-f-funny, hain't
it? These heirs, now. Why didn't he up and name 'em by n-name?"
"I can't tell you," said Lawyer Jones.
"He acts," says I, "like he wasn't sure whether he had any or not."
Mark looked at me with a squint, his little eyes twinkling like
everything. "Binney," says he, "that's a g-good shot. I'll bet that's
it. Anyhow, we'll m-make b'lieve it is till we find out different. Got
to have s-somethin' to start on."
"To start what on?" says I.
"Why," says he, "the job of f-f-findin' these heirs, or of findin out
there hain't any." Then he turned to Mr. Jones. "Mr. Wigglesworth must
'a' had a son or daughter or s-somethin'," says he, "or he wouldn't be
s-suspectin' he had grandchildern or great-grandchildern."
"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Jones.
"Ever hear of any?" says Mark.
"In the years Mr. Wigglesworth has been here," said Mr. Jones, "he has
never mentioned a relative to me. No, I never heard that he had a child
or a wife. Somehow I had always supposed he was an old bachelor."
"Gets queerer every minute," says Mark.
"Well," says I, "we can't sit here figgerin' about it. We got work to
do."
"Sometimes," says Mark, "sittin' and figgerin' is the most valuable work
there is."
"Maybe sometimes," says I, "but this hain't one of 'em. We've got ink
and paper to buy and Tecumseh Androcles Spat to feed, and rent, and a
heap of things. And you said yourself we didn't have any workin'
capital. Since we ran that bazaar I've had a heap of respect for workin'
capital."
"Me too," says Mark. "And there's no chance of g-g-gettin' more money
from dad. Ma set her foot down hard. She says we can waste what was put
into this paper, but she won't see another cent go after it, and when ma
says it like that there hain't any use arguin'. We got to sink or swim
all by ourselves."
"Well," says I, "I guess we made a profit on this week's _Trumpet_,
anyhow."
"Yes," says Mark, "but there's other weeks a-comin'."
We thanked Lawyer Jones and started to go.
"Come again," says he. "If you get any libel suits on your hands I'll
take care of them for you at cost, so to speak. Glad to see you any
time."
When we were outside I says to Mark, "Now don't go gettin' all het up
about this mystery. We got enough on our hands now. We can't run a paper
on nothin' and find missin' heirs and investigate mysterious liner
advertisements put in the paper by men with black gloves, and a dozen
other things. We got to settle down to this paper job."
"Sure," says Mark. "That's what I'm doin'. Hain't gettin' news about the
biggest thing a newspaper has to do?"
"No," says I, "gettin' money is."
He grinned like he does sometimes when he's ready to admit he's getting
the worst of an argument.
"Maybe you're r-r-right, Binney," says he, "and then again, maybe this
heir-huntin' and mystery-piercin' will help to get that money. Never can
tell."
"I wouldn't depend on it," says I.
"I sha'n't," says he. "Come on to the office."
Plunk and Tallow were there, and so was Tecumseh Androcles. He was
standing up, making a speech to the fellows.
"Ah," says he, when we came in, "here is the editor and another of the
staff. I, Tecumseh Androcles Spat, wish to congratulate you on the first
issue of the rejuvenated _Trumpet_. It was an achievement. On your part,
you have filled the paper with pertinent reading-matter and with
lucrative advertising. On my part, I have put it in type in such a
manner as to cause favorable comment, even from the metropolitan press.
I am proud to be associated with you. I hope the relation will long
continue and that the progress of this deserving paper will be marked
and rapid."
"Good for you," says Mark, "but one swallow don't make a summer. Wait
till we see what happens next week. See how many new subscribers we can
gaffle on to, and how m-m-many advertisements we can get. Likewise,
let's not forget the job-printin' end of it. Now, let's buckle down f'r
the n-n-next issue."
Which we did.
CHAPTER VI
Next morning Mark and Tallow and Plunk and I were in the office just
after the train from the city came in. A strange man came slamming
through the door like he figured out his errand was pretty important and
he was pretty important himself.
"Where's the editor?" says he in about the same voice you might expect
somebody to say, "Who stole my horse?"
"I'm h-him," says Mark, and I could see his face sort of setting like it
does when he thinks something unpleasant is going to happen and he's got
to use his wits.
"Huh!" says the man, looking him over. "There's enough of you, hain't
there--except so far as age is concerned."
Now, if there's one thing Mark hates to be twitted about it's his size;
it riles him to have anybody make fun of it, and his little eyes began
to get sharp and bright. "Look out, mister," says I to myself. Mark
didn't say anything, though, except, "What can I d-do for you."
"You can hand over the cash for _that_," says the man, throwing a piece
of paper down on the counter.
Mark picked it up and looked at it. You couldn't tell by his face what
he thought of it, though he read it pretty careful and then didn't say
anything for quite a spell.
"Well, my fat friend," says the man, "what about it?"
Mark looked him over hard, and then says, "Mister, if you had as much
manners as I've got flesh, you and me would get along b-b-better."
"Don't git fresh," says the man.
"Look here," says Mark, "this is my office. If you c-c-come in here like
you ought to, actin' d-decent, you'll be treated the same. If you've got
any b-business with me, act like a b-business man. If you can't act that
way--git out. There's the d-door. I guess whatever b-business there is
to do can be done with your boss."
The man sort of eased off a trifle and acted a little more like he was a
regular human being instead of a bear with a toothache.
"I was sent here to collect that bill," says he.
"All right," says Mark. "Now what about that bill? I don't know anythin'
about it. So f-f-far as I know I don't owe any bill. What m-makes you
think I do?"
"It's for paper," says the man. "Paper sold to the Wicksville _Trumpet_
more 'n three months ago, and it hain't never been paid for. The boss he
told me either to git the money or to shut up your shop for you. So
which'll it be?"
"N-neither for a minute," says Mark. "Here you come rushin' in here with
a b-b-bill for eighty-seven dollars that I hain't ever heard of. Before
anythin' else happens I want to know a l-little more about it."
"There hain't any more to know. You've had the paper, and we hain't ever
had the money."
"But we don't owe it," says Tallow. "We just bought this paper a few
days ago."
"Well," says the man, "you bought its bills with it, didn't you?"
"Not if we could h-help it," says Mark. "Now, mister, you come with me.
We'll f-f-find out."
So all of us went to Lawyer Jones and told him the facts. He looked
sorry and acted sorry, but he said there wasn't anything to do but pay
it. "It's a shame," say she, "and you've been swindled, but it can't be
helped. The old proprietor owed this money, and concealed the fact when
you bought the paper. It isn't honest, but the people who sold the paper
aren't to blame. The man who sold you the _Trumpet_ is. According to law
you'll have to pay."
"Um!" says Mark, tugging at his cheek like he always does when he's
thinking hard. "Eighty-seven d-d-dollars. Woosh!"
"We 'ain't got it," says I.
"Mister," says Mark, "you see h-how it is. 'Tain't _our_ fault this bill
isn't paid. Seems to me like the l-l-least you could do would be to give
us some more time."
"It don't rest with me," says he. "I was sent here to git the money or
to put you out of business. Them's orders, and I'm a man that obeys his
orders every time. You can bet on that."
"Come b-back to the office," says Mark.
We all went back there, and us four boys held a little meeting to see
how much cash we had. Every cent we could scrape up in the world, and
that included advertising bills that hadn't been paid, was seventy-six
dollars. We'd had to spend some for supplies and such.
"Will you t-t-take fifty dollars," says Mark, "and wait for the rest?"
"I'll take eighty-seven dollars," says the man.
"F-fellers," says Mark, "we're eleven d-dollars shy. Looks like we _got_
to pay. Tallow, you go out and collect in what's owin' us. Tell the
f-f-folks why we got to have it. They'll p-pay. The rest of us'll get
the eleven dollars. You, mister, sit down and wait half an hour."
Out we went, and I says to Mark, "How we goin' to git that eleven
dollars?"
"I just got a s-scheme," says he, "while that man was talkin'. It's
about Home-Comin' Week. We'll get out a s-special Home-Comin' Edition.
Get the idee?"
"I don't," says I.
"Here it is," says he. "We'll print a p-page full of pictures of our
l-leadin' citizens, with a little piece about each of 'em. The cuts of
the photographs'll cost about a dollar apiece, and we'll charge 'em two
dollars 'n' a h-half to have 'em put in. That l-leaves a d-dollar 'n' a
half to cover the cost of paper and p-printin'. Be a nice profit in it."
"You won't git nobody," says I.
"Binney," says he, "you hain't got any idee how many folks wants to see
their picture in the p-paper. We'll git a lot."
"Go ahead," says I, "but you'll see."
"Got the idee so's you understand it?" says he to Plunk and me.
We told him we guessed so.
"Can you t-talk it?" says he.
"We can try," says I.
"Then," says he, "Tallow'll take the right side of Main Street, Binney,
you take the left side, and don't miss anybody, clerks and all. I'll
kind of s-s-skirmish around."
I went along and talked to four people, and every one of them said they
didn't want anything to do with it, just like I told Mark, so I went
back to the corner pretty disgusted with the idea. I met Plunk there,
and he was disgusted, too.
"Knew it wouldn't work," says he.
"Where's Mark?" says I.
"He went that way," says he, pointing.
"Let's find him," says I; so off we went.
Pretty soon we saw him come around the corner and go into the milkman's
yard.
"What's he goin' in there for?" Tallow says. "Can't be figgerin' on
gettin' anythin' out of Ol' Hans Richter."
"Let's find out," says I, and we went along and followed Mark right back
into Richter's barn. Richter was standing in the barn door with a
milk-pail over each arm, and Mark was talking to him. Just as we got
there Old Hans says:
"Mein picture in your baber, eh? Ho! What for does Ol' Hans want mit a
picture in the baber?"
"It isn't what you w-w-want," says Mark, "it's what the f-f-folks in
town want. Why, Mr. Richter, this thing won't be worth a cent if you
ain't in it! What kind of a p-page of prominent citizens of Wicksville
would it b-be if you wasn't there? No good. Folks 'u'd say, 'Where's
Hans Richter? Where's the man that's been f-fetchin' our milk for twenty
year?' That's what they'd say. And folks comin' from out of t-t-town
would want to know what b-business we had printin' other men's pictures
and leavin' yours out. Why, Mr. Richter, we _d-dassen't_ leave you out!"
"You t'ink dot?"
"You bet I do. We just _got_ to have you. You don't think we want to
have to print Jim Withers's picture, do you? He hain't been p-peddlin'
milk here more 'n two years."
"Jim Withers, iss it? Ho! You print his picture in your baber if mine I
do not give? Eh?"
"We'd have to, but we don't _want_ to."
"By yimminy, you don't haff to. Nein. Shall der people be cheated? Nein.
Dey shall haff Hans Richter's picture, and not any other. Jim Withers!
Whoosh! He iss a no-goot milkman. How much you said dot vass?"
"Two d-dollars 'n' a half," says Mark.
Old Hans dug down into his back pocket and pulled out a leather bag, and
I'm going to turn as black as a crow if he didn't give Mark the money.
"Now," says he, "I giff you dot picture, eh? Vun I got w'ich was took in
mein vedding coat a year ago. Dot coat iss yet as goot as new, and
fourt-one year old it iss. Ya. Fourt-one year."
"Fine," says Mark, and in a minute Old Hans gave him the picture and
Mark turned around to where we were.
"How you comin'?" says he.
"Poor," says I.
"How about you?" says Plunk.
"P-perty good," says Mark. "I got four."
"_Four_," says I. "So quick! How'd you do it, and who be they?"
"Well, there's Richter, and old man Meigs, our leadin' veteran of the
Civil War, and Grandad Jones, that crossed the plains in a p-prairie
schooner, and Uncle Ike Bond."
"I surrender," says I. "If you kin git them old coots you kin git
anybody. I'm through. Nobody'll listen to me or Plunk. You sail in and
git 'em."
He grinned the way he does when he's tickled with himself and when he
knows folks are appreciating what a brainy kid he is.
"It's easy," says he. "Just m-make 'em feel how important they are. You
f-fellows go and see what news you can p-pick up. I'll git in these
pictures."
And I'll be kicked hard if he didn't. In an hour he came to the office
with ten photographs and twenty-two dollars and a half. He handed over
to the collector man what was due him, for Tallow had got in most of the
collections, and had enough left to pay for the cuts of the photographs.
The man signed a receipt for the money and went away, looking like he
was disappointed.
"Well," says Mark, "we s-s-scrambled out of _that_ hole, didn't we? But
we got to do some harder s-scramblin' now. I'm goin' after more
photographs."
He took most of the day at it, and when night come around how many do
you think he'd grabbed on to? Forty-one. Yes, sir. And he had the cash
money for every one of them. That left us with just exactly ninety-one
dollars and a half in the treasury, and so we were really some better
off than we had been before the collector came around.
"Fiddlesticks!" says Tallow. "Wisht the collector hadn't showed up. We'd
almost be _rich_."
"If he hadn't s-s-showed up," says Mark, "we wouldn't have thought up
this s-scheme. It's _havin'_ to do things that makes folks do their
best. Bein' necessary is one of the best things can happen to a
f-f-fellow."
Wasn't that just like him! And you'll notice he didn't grab all the
credit himself, though, goodness knows, he was entitled to it. No, sir,
he says, "we" thought up the scheme. He was the real kind of a kid to do
anything with, because he kept you feeling good. All the time you knew
he was the one that was thinking up things and doing them. All we did
was trail around and help. But just the same, he made us feel we had as
much to do with it as he did. I expect we worked all the harder because
of that. Do you know, I shouldn't wonder if that was a pretty good way
for all folks that has other folks working for them to act. The working
folks would work harder and take more pleasure in it. I expect Mark had
it all figured out that way.
CHAPTER VII
After supper we met at the office, though I'm bound to say I wasn't
tickled to death with the prospect of what was ahead.
"Mark," says I, "here we're goin' out to Center Line Bridge to meddle
with somethin' that don't concern us. It 'u'd serve us right if this Man
With the Black Gloves caught us and gave us the larrupin' of our lives."
"'Tis our b-business," says Mark. "Anythin' that's suspicious is the
business of a newspaper man. There's news in it.... And b-besides I
figger it's our duty to do."
When Mark Tidd starts talking about duty you might as well lay down and
roll over. You couldn't change his mind with a ton of giant powder.
"Duty?" says I. "How?"
"Well," says he, "as citizens. Maybe these f-fellers are plannin'
somethin' that ought to be stopped, and there hain't anybody to stop it
but us, b-because nobody else suspects 'em."
"All right," says I. "I expect I can run as fast as any of you."
"Besides," says Mark, "the man the Man With the Black Gloves is g-goin'
to meet is named Jethro."
"What's that got to do with it?" I says.
"Heaps," says Mark, and then shut up like a clam. That's the way with
him. Sometimes he gets it into his head to be mysterious and to keep his
notions shut up under his hat. Well, when he does you might as well
forget them, for he's as close-mouthed as a bulldog with a tramp's pants
in his teeth.
"Come on, then," says I, "let's get it over."
It was a half-hour's walk to the bridge, but before we got within a
quarter of a mile of it Mark halted us.
"We can't go bangin' up t-t-there with a brass b-band," says he. "There
wouldn't be any meetin'. We got to come the Indian."
"Crawl a quarter of a mile through witch-hazel and swamp on our bellies,
I expect," says I.
"There hain't any law compellin' you to come, Binney," says Mark, "but I
f-figgered you wouldn't want to miss anythin'."
"I don't," says I, "not even a good lickin', which most likely we'll
git. You hain't got any idea, Mark," says I, "how I love a good
lickin'."
He laughed and says, "Say, Binney, anybody'd think you was a million
years old. Hain't there any f-f-fun in you? Here's a reg'lar game to
p-play that beats any game you can think up, and we can add to it by
p-pretendin'." He was the greatest fellow for pretending I ever saw, and
when he was at it he almost had you believing that what he _made
believe_ was so.
"Go on," says I, "start up your game. I'll be taggin' right on behind."
"All right," says he. "Us four kids are the f-f-faithful followers of a
young Duke. This young Duke has disappeared, and we kind of figger his
enemy, the Knight With the Black Gauntlets, has captured him and is
holdin' him for r-ransom. See? But we don't know where. But our scouts
tell us the Knight With the Black Gauntlets is close to our castle and
we set out to watch him to see if we can't rescue the Duke--and here we
be. We know our enemy's ahead somewheres, and we want to git clost to
him to watch him and overhear what he s-says, if he says anythin'. Most
likely the Duke will make us all knights if we rescue him, and I've
always sort of hankered to be a knight."
"Me too," says Plunk. "Them knights sure had a circus, ridin' around
with lances and bustin' up tournaments and lickin' everybody they met by
slammin' 'em over the head with an iron mallet or pokin' 'em off a horse
with a lance. That there Richard Cur the Lion was the best one, eh? Say,
Mark, what did they call him Cur the Lion for? Curs and lions hain't got
much in common."
"'Tain't Cur," says Mark, "though it _does_ s-sound like it. You spell
it C-o-e-u-r. The whole thing means 'of the Lion Heart.'"
"Fine," says Plunk. "That's a bully name."
"If you want a name," says I, "I'll give you one."
"What?" says he.
"Plunk of the Wooden Head," says I, because I was sort of disgusted.
"And I'll g-give _you_ one," says Mark. "It's Binney of the Complainin'
Tongue."
I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say, and I might have
known better, in the first place, than to go fooling with a scheme of
Mark's and making fun of it. So I shut up and was glad to.
"Now," says Mark, "I f-figger that Knight'll stop clost to the bridge
that crosses the river dividin' his lands from ourn. Maybe there'll be a
m-messenger a-waitin' there for him. It's our business to hear what's
said, because a word may be d-dropped that'll show us where he's
imprisoned our master, the Duke."
"How'll we manage it?" says Tallow.
"Divide up," says Mark. "You two men-at-arms, Tallow and Plunk, sneak
over and come to the b-bridge from the left side of the road. There's
thick alders growin' right there and you can scrooch down in 'em. Binney
and I will t-tackle the job from the right. Then, if one p-party's
discovered and s-slain, the other party's got a chance to come through
alive and rescue the Duke."
"Huh!" says I. "I know which party I hope gits slain, if anybody does,
and I hain't one of it."
We started off then, Mark and I going to the right, and Tallow and Plunk
cutting off through the woods to the left.
"We want to get there g-good and early," says Mark, "so as to get all
p-placed and settled before the Knight with the Black Gauntlets comes."
"All right," says I. "Maybe I can't think as fast as you can, but I can
make my legs go faster."
So off we went, for a while going as fast as we could plug, then, when
we were getting so near that a man on the bridge might hear us, Mark
made me stop hurrying and crawl.
"Maybe they got g-guards out," says he, "and we can't take any chances."
So we crawled the rest of the way, dodging from one tree to another and
getting mud on our knees and tearing holes in our pants. But it was fun.
I was beginning to get excited myself, and I believe I really got to
worrying about the young Duke that was held a captive. Yes, sir, I felt
pretty bad about the hole he had got himself into, and says to Mark I
hoped they gave him enough to eat and treated him decent.
That's how persuading Mark is. He really gets you to think things are
happening that he's only pretending about.
Anyhow, we got to the bridge, or rather so close to it we could look it
over careful and see if anybody was there. But not a soul was in sight.
"'Tain't safe," says Mark, "even if it looks l-like it was. They may be
in ambush along the road. We got to f-find out."
We kept on crawling until we were sure nobody was on our side of the
bridge anywheres. Then Mark made us wade the river, which was only about
up to our knees in spots, to be sure nobody was hid on the other side.
It would have been fine if there hadn't been a hole there and if I
hadn't stepped in it. But I did, and fell down and floundered around and
let out a yell.
"Hey!" Mark whispered. "Shut up! Want to git a l-lance through your
stummick?"
"Don't expect a feller to drownd without makin' a noise, do you?" says
I. "I notice you didn't fall into any holes."
"No," says he, with a grin. "I had you walk first so if there was one
you'd sort of warn me of it."
"Which I done," says I, feeling pretty chilly and not what you could
call comfortable.
"You've been wet before," says he, "and it didn't hurt you."
"Probably," says I, "it won't hurt me this time, but that hain't no
reason I should be happy about it."
We didn't say any more until we'd scouted out the other side of the
bridge and found that none of the Knight's men were hidden there.
"Now," says Mark, "we want to hide ourselves so's we can overhear what
they s-s-say. Let's f-find a good place."
It was an old wooden bridge, and when you looked up at it from below you
made up your mind that it had better be fixed some time before long, for
you could see through cracks and splits and broken boards right up to
the sky.
"What's the matter," says I, "with hidin' down under the bridge, right
at the end? Nobody'll look there, and we can sit on the bank in the mud
and be comfortable. I love to sit in the mud," says I.
"Good idee," says Mark. "Fine idee. We can hear p-plain, and not one
chance in a hunderd of bein' seen."
Under we got and settled there as comfortable as was possible. I don't
know if you ever sat in black mud under an old bridge with your clothes
dripping and the evening chilly, but if you did, and got any fun out of
it, why then, you are better at enjoying yourself than I am. My teeth
got to chattering.
"Keep s-still," says Mark.
"You'll have to hold my jaw if you want me to," says I. "The cold makes
it wiggle and rattle my teeth."
"Stuff your cap in your mouth," says he, which I did. Oh, it was a
pleasant party, what with chewing on an old cap and all that!
"Wonder if Tallow and Plunk are on deck," says I.
"Sure," says he; "you can always d-d-depend on _them_."
"Meanin'," says I, and feeling sort of peevish, "that you can't depend
on me."
"You n-notice," says he, "that I picked you to come with me, don't you?"
That made me feel pretty good, like praise always does make a fellow,
even if he don't deserve it, and after that the cold wasn't so chilly
nor my clothes so clammy on my back.
After about half an hour, which seemed like a week, we heard a horse
coming. It stopped at the end of the bridge and a man got out. He
whistled, but nobody answered, and the man started to pacing up and down
from one end of the bridge to the other. Then in another ten minutes up
came another rig, and a man got out of it.
"I been waitin' for you," says the first man.
"Huh!" says the second, and we recognized him as the Man With the Black
Gloves, or the Knight With the Black Gauntlets, like he was promoted to
be to-night.
"Well?" he says in a minute.
"Everythin's all right," said the first man. "Rock don't remember
nothin' he hadn't ought to, 'cause I've questioned him mighty close.
Nobody's been sneakin' around to see him, though a lot of Jakes have
drove by to stare at him since them kids had that piece in the paper."
"Wigglesworth didn't leave any writing?" says the Knight.
[Illustration: "Huh!" says the second man, and we recognized him as the
man with the black gloves]
"Not what you'd call writin'. Though he might. Acted toward the last
like he was suspicious of me. Didn't let on nothin' to me, and kept to
himself. One night he was writin' in the library, but what he wrote I
dunno. Maybe it was letters. He didn't leave anythin' around. That is,
except a puzzle or somethin' he wrote out for Rock."
"Puzzle," says the Knight.
"Yes," says the first man, "puzzle, or else he'd gone crazy."
"What become of it?"
"Rock's got it."
"Thought I said to grab every bit of writing you could get your hands
on."
"This didn't amount to nothin'," said the man.
"You aren't on the job to think, but to do what you're told."
"Well, I done it," says the man; "anyhow I made a copy of it, and give
the old man's writin' to the kid."
"Let's have it," says the Knight.
He read it, or I guess that's what he was doing, because he was still
awhile. Then he grunted, disgusted-like.
"No sense to it," says he.
"Not a mite," says the other man.
"But there may be," says the Knight.
"Shucks!" says the man.
"Wigglesworth was queer--and suspicious. Look how he acted toward the
boy. Maybe he made a writing. Seems like he must have. Didn't _tell_
anybody, so far as I can find out. That's certain, I guess. But he must
have written. _Must_ have. And we've got to find it. Never can tell when
a writing will pop up just when it will send you higher than a kite."
"I've looked till my eyes is wore out."
"Look some more," says the Knight.
"Where's Pekoe?"
"Nobody knows. Gone off to South America or India or the North Pole
again, likely. _He_ won't bother us."
"May some day."
"Don't believe he knows enough about things. If he had he'd hung
around."
And right there Tallow Martin let out a sneeze. I knew it was Tallow,
because there ain't a man, woman, child, horse, cow, or mule in
Wicksville that could enter a sneezing match with him and even get
second prize. Tallow would get all the prizes if there was a dozen.
"What's that?" says the Knight.
"Sneeze," says the other man.
"Somebody's around here--listening," says the Knight. "It came from that
way. Quick! After them."
Off they went, tearing into the bushes, and we could hear Plunk and
Tallow get up and flounder away. Mark was disgusted.
"Tallow," says he, "ought to train his nose to be quiet, or sell it to a
lighthouse for a foghorn. Now the fat's in the f-f-fire."
"They'll never catch those kids," says I.
"Not likely to," says he, "but they'll be on their guard now. They know
somebody was listenin'--and if somebody was l-listenin' it means
somebody was suspicious of 'em."
"Looks that way," says I, "but what do we suspect 'em of?"
"I don't know," says he, "but it's somethin' to do with Mr. Wigglesworth
and that kid."
"Sure," says I, "but let's not worry about that right now. Let's make
tracks while they're gone."
"Can't leave Plunk and Tallow," says he. "Maybe they n-n-need help."
That was Mark all over. He'd stick to you like a corn-plaster, and he
wouldn't quit sticking till he'd got you out of any fix you were in. Of
course I couldn't go off, either, and not know what had happened, so we
climbed out of the mud and started into the woods after the men.
We didn't go far, though, before we heard them coming back, and laid
down behind some bushes till they were past. They didn't have any
captives, so we knew the kids were safe.
"Well," says Mark, when it was safe to move along again, "we know one
thing. We know where our master, the Duke, is imprisoned."
"Oh," says I, "do we?"
"Yes," says he, "he's shut up in Castle Wigglesworth, and they won't
l-let him use his own name, but call him Rock. The next thing on our
program is to t-t-try to get a chance to talk to him and l-look over the
lay of the land."
We went on back to the printing-office as quick as we could, and Plunk
and Tallow were there looking pretty scratched up and dilapidated, and
frightened a little, I guess. Mark didn't say a word about Tallow's
sneezing, though Tallow looked pretty guilty. But Mark knew Tallow
didn't do it on purpose, and he never lit into a fellow much, anyhow. If
you did something that was wooden-headed he might look at you so you'd
wish the floor would open up and let you through, but that would be all.
Oh, he was a bully fellow to go into things with, all right.
"Now," says he, "we b-better get to bed. To-morrow Binney and I are
goin' to Wigglesworth Castle to t-try to see the Duke and to get a
squint at that p-puzzle paper he's got. Maybe there's somethin'
important in it. Bet there is."
And we all headed for home.
CHAPTER VIII
"What's in the box?" says I to Mark Tidd next morning, when we had
started out toward what he was still calling Castle Wigglesworth.
"Did you f-f-fetch a lunch?" says he.
"No," says I.
"Didn't think you would," says he, "so I f-fetched enough for two."
I looked at the box. Honest, it reminded me more of a piano box than
anything else; anyhow, of a good-sized packing-case.
"Is that full?" says I.
"Couldn't git in another crumb," says he.
"How long you plannin' to stay?"
"Home 'fore supper."
"And that's just lunch!" says I.
"Nothin' but a s-snack," says he. "Didn't put in a thing but six pieces
of apple p-p-pie and eight ham sandriches and a few fried-cakes, and
three-four bananas, and a l-little hunk of cake, and some f-f-fried
chicken, and a h-hunk of bread in case we didn't have enough sandriches,
and some b-butter--"
"And a barrel of flour," says I, "and a crate of eggs, and a crock of
baked beans, and a side of bacon--"
"Huh!" says he. "I guess there won't be much l-left."
"I wonder," says I, "if they let our Duke go prancin' around outdoors,
or do they keep him shut up in a dongeon?"
"Can't never tell about this crowd," says Mark. "They're l-liable to do
'most anythin'. I calc'late, though, he'll be let out some, with a
strong guard."
"If the guard's around, how'll we git to talk to him?"
"That's what we got to f-find out," says he.
We got to where we could see Mr. Wigglesworth's house--the castle, I
should say--along about nine o'clock. It was a big place with porches
and lots of windows and curlicues and gables and wings, and such like. I
can't ever see what one old man ever did with all of it. It was in the
middle of a whopping yard that was beginning to look run down. The grass
hadn't been cut as often as it ought to have been, and things was
beginning to grow up in the gravel walk. In a month more it would look
like one of those houses where nobody lives.
There was a hedge all along the front higher than my head, but when we
had crept up close I poked my head through and had a good look. It was a
funny kind of a place. Sort of a menagerie, only the animals weren't
alive. There were some deer and a big dog and a cat and a lion--all made
out of stone or something.
"Huh!" says I. "If _I_ was goin' to keep pets I'll bet they'd be the
kind I could teach tricks to. What good 's a stone dog, _I'd_ like to
know."
"It's art," says Mark.
"Oh," says I, "it is, eh? I thought art was daubin' paint on a piece of
cloth, and then puttin' a gold frame around it."
"Anythin's art," says Mark, "that hain't good for nothin' but to look
at."
"Then," says I, "I hain't art."
"No," says Mark, "but you come m-mighty clost to it."
"Where d'you s'pose the Duke is?" says I, changing the subject because I
couldn't see any use talking about art any more. I wasn't interested in
art. "I don't see no guards," says I, "and I don't see the Duke."
But just then a kid came around the corner of the house. He was just an
ordinary-looking kid, though it didn't seem like he was enjoying himself
very much. He sat down alongside the stone dog and propped his head up
in his hands and stared at the ground.
"L-lonesome," says Mark, sympathetic-like.
"Let's go in and play with him," says I.
"Sure," says Mark, sarcastic, "and s-spill the whole mess of beans. What
would the Knight With the Black Gauntlets do if he saw us playin' with
that Duke, eh? He wouldn't suspect any thin', would he?"
"Let's git him over here, then," says I.
"Charm him over l-like a snake does a bird," says Mark.
But the Duke saved us trouble by getting up and walking over toward the
hedge and then following the hedge around toward us. When he was right
opposite us Mark whistled low and cautious. The Duke stopped and looked.
"We're r-right here behind the hedge," says Mark. "Don't act like you
was t-t-talkin' to anybody. Come and sit down with your back ag'in' that
l-little mountain-ash tree."
The boy did like Mark said, acting sort of surprised, but not frightened
a bit. I guess he had pretty good nerve, because I figger I'd be some
scared to have a voice I couldn't see, and wasn't expecting, and didn't
know anything about, go ordering me around.
"Be you Rock?" asked Mark.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"I'm Mark Tidd, and Binney Jenks is with me. We came out to talk to
you."
"You better not let Jethro see you," says Rock. "What do you want of
me?"
"First," says Mark, "we want to git acquainted. And when we're
acquainted and you git so you can trust us, then we want to see if there
hain't s-somethin' we can do to help you."
"I don't know that I need any help," says Rock, stiff-like.
"If you don't," says Mark, "you're the f-first feller I ever see that
didn't. For instance, Rock, wouldn't you l-like to be helped to know
what you're here at Wigglesworth's for? Eh? Don't suppose that's been
worryin' you any. From what you say Jethro don't want f-folks talkin' to
you. Wouldn't you like to know why? Do you know the Man With the Black
Gloves? And did you know him and Jethro met on Center Line Bridge l-last
night and t-talked you over? Why d'you s'pose they did that?"
"Where do you come in?" says Rock.
"Well," says Mark, "there's a number of r-reasons for my comin' in.
First, I'm in the newspaper b-business, and I want the news. Second, I
kind of like m-monkeyin' around with mysteries. It's got to be a habit
with me."
"Hum!" says Rock, and sat quiet a spell, sort of thinking it over.
Pretty soon he says: "Well, it can't do any harm if it doesn't do any
good. I"--his voice sort of wabbled for a second and I hoped he wasn't
going to blubber--"I've been mighty lonesome--almost always."
"That's p-perty rotten, hain't it?" says Mark.
"You'd think so," says Rock, "if you hadn't ever had any folks at all
that you knew about, and had lived with folks that kept you just because
somebody paid your board, and had been sent off to schools where the
fellows thought you were queer because you didn't know anything about
yourself and never made friends with you."
"I'll b-bet I would," says Mark in a way he has when he's sorry for
anybody. Somehow he manages to make you feel some better right off. "And
we--there's f-four of us--would like to be friends with you if you'll
let us. Honest. And we'd l-like to help you out. We ain't just
s-stickin' our noses into your business out of curiosity."
"I wish I could get a look at you," says Rock, sort of dubious.
Mark chuckled and nudged me. You could see he liked Rock saying that,
and afterward he said to me that right there he made up his mind the
strange boy was all right. "He ain't anybody's fool," says he, "and if
you go trustin' anybody before you get a good l-look into his eyes, why,
then you'll run a fine chance of bein' a fool."
He says to Rock, "Come out and take a l-look, then."
"I dassent," says Rock. "Jethro's watchin' me all the time, and he
ordered me not to go outside the hedge nor to speak to any one."
"I b'lieve in orders bein' obeyed when somebody gives 'em that's got the
right to," says Mark, "but this Jethro hain't no more right to be
b-bossin' you than I have, which hain't any at all."
"I know that," says Rock, "but if he catches me there won't be any fun
in it."
"We'll fix it so's he _won't_ catch you," says Mark. "Wait a minute till
I think."
He studied over it a minute, and then says to Rock: "Hain't there an
arbor back there a c-couple of hunderd feet?"
"Yes," says Rock.
"Does it back right against the hedge?" says Mark.
Rock looked careful and said it did.
"Good," says Mark. "You sort of l-loaf back there slow and like you
didn't have anythin' in mind. We'll crawl up along the hedge and
b-burrow through. 'Tain't likely we'll be seen in there."
"All right," says Rock, and off he went. Mark watched to see how he did
it, and nodded like he was satisfied. "Look," says he to me. "That kid's
got b-brains."
Rock did act fine, and not a bit like he had anything on his mind. He
just sort of wandered around, but every little bit he managed to get
nearer to the arbor. Then he stooped and picked up a stone out of the
driveway in front of the house and chucked it at the arbor. Like anybody
would, he stopped to see where the stone hit, and then he walked over
there slow and poked around the arbor like he was sort of curious to see
how it was built.
"Come on," says Mark, and we snaked it on our stummicks till we was
right back of the arbor. I poked my head through, and then wiggled
through myself. It wasn't so easy for Mark, because a hole that would do
for me wouldn't be big enough for one of his legs, but he made it at
last, considerable scratched and het up. Then he whistled soft.
In a minute Rock came mooching in, but he didn't come right in. He
stopped in the door and looked at it. It wasn't a door, but just a sort
of open arch, and he shook the side to see if it was strong, and turned
around and looked all over the yard. Then he moved back in as slow as
molasses, until he figgered it was safe to quit acting and look us over.
"Hello!" says he.
"I'm Mark Tidd," says Mark, "and this is Binney Jenks."
Rock didn't say anything, but just eyed Mark steady, and then me;
finally he stuck out his hand and says, "I like your looks."
"Fine," says Mark, "then everybody's satisfied. I kind of like my looks
myself. There's enough of 'em." Mark would joke about his being fat
himself, but if anybody else went to trying it they wanted to look out.
"There's this about us," says Mark, "we may not be able to do you any
good, but it's s-s-sure we can't do you any harm."
"Whether you do me good or harm," says Rock, "I'm goin' to tie to you.
Just," says he, "for the sake of bein' able to say to myself that I've
got some friends."
"Bully for you," says Mark. "Now l-let's get to business. What's your
whole name?"
"Roscoe Beaumont," says he.
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
"Where was you b-born?"
"I don't know?"
"What was your f-f-father's first name?"
"I don't know."
"What was your m-mother's name before she was married?"
"I don't know."
"Who brought you to Mr. Wigglesworth's?"
"A man by the name of Pekoe."
"_What?_" says Mark.
"Pekoe," says Rock, and then I remembered that the Man With the Black
Gloves had mentioned this Pekoe on the bridge.
"Who is Pekoe?"
"I don't know," says Rock.
"How did he happen to f-fetch you here?"
"He came to the school where I was and said my father had told him to
come after me the first chance he got and take me to Henry Wigglesworth
in Wicksville, Michigan, but he says that was several years ago, and
this was the first time he'd been in my part of the United States since
then. He said my father was dead, and that he died down in South
America."
"Oh," says Mark. "I guess your mother must 'a' died a long time ago"
"When I was a baby," says Rock.
"And t-t-that's all you know about yourself?"
"Every single word."
"Don't know why you was to be f-f-fetched to Mr. Wigglesworth?"
"No."
"What did Mr. Wigglesworth say when you came?"
"Nothin'. Pekoe he left me outside and went to the house. He was gone
half an hour and came back and said I was to go in. Pekoe went on out of
the gate and I went in. Jethro met me and fixed up a room for me. I
didn't see Mr. Wigglesworth for a couple of days. He never came out of
his room. Guess he was perty sick then. One night when he thought I was
asleep he came into my room with a light turned down, and looked at me.
I pretended I was asleep, but I managed to get a look at him just the
same. He didn't say a word, but just looked funny--queer. He shook his
head and then nodded as much as to say that something was so. After that
he went out. I never saw him again."
"What did you do with the p-p-puzzle he wrote for you the night before
he d-died?"
Rock looked sort of surprised that Mark knew about it, but didn't ask
any questions. "I got it in my pocket," says he. "It don't mean
anythin'. I guess he must have been out of his head."
"Maybe," says Mark. "Can't tell. Mind lettin' me see it?"
Rock pulled it out and handed it over.
"Huh!" says he. "This d-d-don't make _much_ sense."
"I can't see it makes any," says Rock.
"If it's what it _may_ be," says Mark, "it would take work to f-figger
sense out of it. Can I keep it?"
"Yes," says Rock. "Do you think it really is anything?"
"Lemme study it first. Let's see, it says, 'Where pussy looks she walks.
Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six. Stop ninety degrees in the
shade. In. Down. Across. What color is a brick? Investigate. Believe
what tells the truth.' Some muddle, hain't it?"
"Clean out of his head when he wrote it," says I.
"Suppose," says Mark, "you knew you was d-dyin', and there was a
m-message you wanted to l-leave, and you knew the only man around was
ag'in' you, and you dassent trust him, and you was sick and a leetle
queer. Suppose you just _had_ to leave a m-message that nobody could see
sense to, but that had sense in it if it was studied out. Then what? Eh?
Maybe," says Mark, waggling his head--"maybe you'd think up a p-p-puzzle
like this."
"Do you think it's a--what d'you call 'em-a cryptogram?"
"I think," says Mark, "that there's a chance of it."
"What's a cryptogram?" says I.
"A cipher message," says Mark.
"Oh," says I. "Like havin' each letter in the alphabet a number or some
kind of a mark?"
"Yes," says Mark, "only this hain't that kind--if it is one."
"What kind is it?"
"It's one where the words and letters mean just what they are, but where
you have to study out what they tell you to do."
"Clear as mud," says I.
"'Tain't what you'd call plain as p-p-print," says Mark, "but I'll study
over it." He shoved it into his inside pocket. "We better be gettin'
along, Rock. We'll come as often to see you as we can. You come here
every day, and maybe we'll be here or leave a m-message. We'll l-leave
it under that stone. If you have any word for us, why, you leave a note
under the stone. Eh?"
"All right," says Rock. "I hope you'll come often."
"We will," says Mark, "and we'll keep you posted. You open your ears and
eyes and don't miss anythin'."
"You bet," says Rock. "Somehow you got me irit'rested, and sort of
lookin' ahead. I haven't ever had anything to look ahead to before."
"Maybe you haven't now," says Mark, "so don't get your heart set on it
too much."
"Good-by," says Rock. "_Look out_," he whispered, sudden. "_I see Jethro
comin'_."
In about two jerks of a lamb's tail we were through the hedge and out of
sight. Rock sauntered out of the arbor as if nothing had happened, and
we saw Jethro stop and talk to him with a scowl. Then we hurried back to
town.
CHAPTER IX
During the next few days we were pretty busy getting ready for the next
issue of the _Trumpet_, so we didn't get to see Rock, and Mark didn't
have a minute to study out that puzzle about the cat and what color is a
brick and all that. Things didn't go along as smooth this time as they
did before. Mark said it was because the novelty had worn off. We got
some advertising, but there weren't any full pages, and we didn't get in
half a dozen subscriptions, so that when the paper was printed we were
just about out of money again.
Our paper, printed with patent insides, as they call them, had to be
paid for at the express office before we could get it, and Tecumseh
Androcles Spat had had to buy a new pair of pants on account of some
trouble with a dog while he was out walking one evening, and ink cost
money. You haven't any idea what a lot it takes to print a paper.
Well, we got it out all right, and then started to sell it. But this
time Spragg was right on hand with his Eagle Center _Clarion_, and had
kids selling it just like we sold the _Trumpet_, only he sold his paper
for three cents, while we had to get five or bust.
And this time he had more Wicksville news, though we still beat him
there. But folks will buy cheap even if what they're getting isn't so
good as what costs a little more. The result of the whole thing was that
we got left with a hundred papers on our hands, and that was pretty bad.
It was Spragg that did it.
When we knew just how we'd come out we had a meeting in the office to
see what to do about it.
"If we could only git rid of Spragg," says Tallow.
"Yes," says I, "he's messin' up the whole show."
"S-sounds easy," says Mark. "How'd you goat it?"
We looked at one another but nobody had any ideas.
"Might sick a dog on him," says I.
"We might get out an Eagle Center edition of the _Trumpet_," says Plunk.
Well, there was an idea and we talked it over, but it wasn't long before
we saw that wouldn't do. We had our hands full now without monkeying
with Eagle Center.
"If," says I, "we could only fix it so's folks here didn't want anything
to do with Eagle Center--"
"Binney," says Mark, "_there_ is an idee. Start a t-town row. Get folks
here to hatin' Eagle Center. Make a sort of war, eh? Fine. Now," says he
with a grin, "all we got to do is f-figger out how to do it."
"If that Eagle Center paper would only talk mean about Wicksville," says
I.
"It won't," says Mark; "they're after Wicksville b-business."
He sat back and pulled at his ear like he does when he's thinking hard,
and whistled a little, and reached for his jack-knife and whittled some.
Pretty soon he whacked his leg and says he's got it.
"Well?" says I.
"We'll go to Eagle Center," says he, "and interview a b-b-bunch of
folks, and sort of get 'em to talk about Wicksville. Bet we can f-fix it
so's they make fun of this town. Then," says he, "there's that old
b-business of the trolley line from the city, which might go through
here and m-might go through Eagle Center. What made me think of that was
that a s-surveyor got off'n the train to-day, and I asked him what he
was up to, and he says he was goin' over the right of way that was laid
out a couple of years ago."
"Um!" says I. "Sounds promisin'."
"We'll t-try it," says Mark. "Binney, you and I will go over in the
m-mornin'."
So next morning over we went.
I never saw anything so easy. Mark says that folks would rather make fun
of somebody or something, whether they've got any reason for doing it or
not, than to work and make money, and I guess he's right.
As soon as we began talking about Wicksville they up and sailed into it
like they had been waiting for the chance for years. Of course we helped
things along by bragging a little and by making a few comparisons that
didn't favor Eagle Center any. But it didn't take much urging. Why, we
could have got enough interviews to fill the paper twice, and any one of
them, when they stood out in print, was enough to make the whole
population of Wicksville take off its coats and roll up its
shirt-sleeves and start right over to give Eagle Center a walloping.
When we had all we wanted we started back for home, and planned out how
we'd use it, and the way we planned was the one that would do the most
good, you bet.
"Now," says Mark, "if we just had some sure news about that t-trolley
line."
"We hain't," says I.
"No," says he, "but if Plunk and Tallow'll git out and tag around after
that s-surveyor we'll git some. Just hang around him and ask questions,
but don't l-let on you're newspaper men. Just be kids."
So off they went.
They found out that surveyors were going over both routes--the one
through Wicksville and the one through Eagle Center. It seems like the
company was keeping pretty quiet about the whole thing, but from what
Plunk and Tallow could gather, it was pretty sure the trolley line was
going through some place.
Well, there was big news, and if Spragg didn't get hold of it it would
be bigger than ever.
We set right to work getting things in shape for the next paper, and
called in Tecumseh Androcles Spat to tell him all about it and get him
to fix up the paper so it would look exciting. He got the idea right
away.
"Will Tecumseh A. Spat dress up this paper? You may take it, young
gentlemen, from an authority, that he will. It is an opportunity. This
town shall see what a paper with a real story in it should look like. We
will hammer them in the eyes with type. We will make our pages leap out
to meet them. Ah, this is an occasion such as delights the heart of a
compositor and make-up man. I revel in it. Trust me, gentlemen, and you
shall not be disappointed."
And we weren't. All we had to do was write the stuff and give it to
Tecumseh. Why, he hardly took time to eat or sleep! He was that tickled
with himself he almost busted out of his clothes, and we had to keep
going hard or he'd have run right away from us.
It was two days before we got the stories all written--the trolley line
and what Eagle Center thought of Wicksville. Then we did a little
advertising of our own. Mark wrote the signs.
The first one, printed in big type and tacked up in front of our office,
went like this:
WICKSVILLE INSULTED
Never were such things said about a town without
blood being shed.
Has Wicksville any pride?
You bet it has pride.
READ ABOUT IT IN THE NEXT WICKSVILLE "TRUMPET"
Every word printed was actually uttered.
What will you do about it?
Then we printed about twenty little signs that said:
Where is Wicksville's civic pride?
Will it stand by to be insulted?
Read the insults in the Wicksville _Trumpet_.
That night we put these all up, and the next morning the town was
talking. I'll bet twenty folks stopped in the office to ask what it was
about, but mum was the word with us. We wouldn't peep.
"It's so," says Mark Tidd. "Every w-w-word of it. This town's been
insulted like no town was ever insulted before. It's a shame and
somethin' ought to be done about it. The Board of Trade ought to do
somethin'."
"But who insulted us?"
"The whole thing's in the n-n-next p-paper," says Mark, getting sort of
excited and stuttering like everything. "Wait till the paper comes out."
"We want to know now," says the man.
"Well," says Mark, "I'm sorry, but it hain't possible to accommodate
you. This is a newspaper. It's p-printed to give news. That's what we
have to sell, and we can't give it away any more than the grocer would
give you a p-p-pound of cheese."
"I'll pay you for it," says the man. "Your paper costs a nickel. Well,
there's your nickel. Now give me the news."
"No," says Mark, "that wouldn't be f-f-fair. Other folks have to wait
till their paper comes, and so will you." And that was the end of it,
though the man kept on asking, and so did other folks.
By the time Thursday got around the town was pretty much worked up. You
haven't any idea how much folks think of their town till something
happens, and then up in the air they go. Well, Wicksville was up in the
air, you can bet, and it looked like it was up there to stay. Some folks
was for having a public meeting about it, but others pointed out it was
foolish to have a public meeting till you knew what you were going to
have it about.
Other folks said, though, that as long as you knew your town had been
insulted, what was the difference _how_ it was insulted or who did it?
Something ought to be done. Of course we didn't do a thing to stop
people from feeling that way, either.
At last the _Trumpet_ went to press, and she was a dandy. Across the
front page was a big head-line:
WICKSVILLE INSULTED BY EAGLE CENTER
Then, side by side, we printed interviews, heading each one
appropriately. Mr. Wiggamore, the justice of the peace at Eagle Center,
said every time a loafer came into his court the first question he asked
him was, did he come from Wicksville. That was pretty good for a
send-off, letting on that Wicksville folks were loafers, but he went
farther than that. He said when he had to drive through the country he
would go out of his way five miles before he would drive through our
town, because our streets were so rotten they weren't fit to drive
cattle over, let alone a horse and buggy. We knew that would rile the
folks, because we do take pride in our streets.
Next came Mr. Smart, the grocer. He said he wouldn't do business in
Wicksville except on a cash basis. That he'd never seen a man from
Wicksville he'd trust with a red-hot stove. And he said the town looked
like somebody passing in the night had dropped it by accident and
forgotten it. Also he said that the man that dropped it was probably
mighty glad of it.
Then came Mr. Pilkins, town clerk, and he gave his opinion that
Wicksville was the worst-looking, most run-down, dilapidated,
out-at-heel village in Michigan. He said it was a shame; that the rest
of the towns in the country ought to take up a collection to help
Wicksville folks paint their houses. He said it was his experience that
Wicksville folks were ashamed of where they lived, and didn't let on
unless they were cornered, and he said that when they thought they'd be
believed they always let on they came from Eagle Center.
Mr. Stoddy said that Wicksville didn't have enterprise enough to keep
the hogs out of Main Street. Now that was a lie if there ever was one,
and it made me kind of mad myself. He said the best men in our town were
the women, and that so fax's he could see there wasn't any reason for
keeping up such a town at all unless it was that no other town wanted
such a lot of folks to live in it.
Well, those are just samples. The men that said them were more than
nine-tenths joking, all right, but when you saw what they said right in
cold type it looked pretty bad. Whee! but it looked bad.
Then, right on top of those insults, and a lot more, we printed another
big head-line:
SHALL EAGLE CENTER STEAL OUR TROLLEY LINE?
Then we printed the story about the trolley line, and what was going on.
And we more than hinted that if Eagle Center got a chance it would do
something underhanded to influence the line to go that way. And we
pointed out the benefits of the line to Wicksville, and what money it
would bring to town, and all that. My! it was a screamer.
Then, inside, we printed an editorial by Mark Tidd, which asked our
folks if they wanted anything to do with a town that thought about us
the way Eagle Center did. He asked if we wanted to trade with them, or
visit with them. He wanted to know why the Board of Trade didn't meet
and fix up to boycott Eagle Center, and he ended up by demanding why
something wasn't done at once to see to it Wicksville got that trolley
line for itself.
You wouldn't believe it, but we ran out of papers before they'd had time
to dry, and had to turn to and print some more. Yes, sir, we printed a
whole hundred extra, and sold every one of them. Wherever you looked was
a man reading the paper, maybe out loud to a crowd. It was funny. Men
stood shaking their fists and scowling and making speeches and tearing
around like they was crazy. There was some talk of organizing a party to
go over to Eagle Center to dare them to fight, but this was overruled.
Anyhow, everybody was mad, and when Spragg, of the Eagle Center
_Clarion_, came out of the hotel and sent his boys to sell papers, the
crowd took after him and chased him up to his room, and he didn't dare
come down until the town marshal went home and put on his star and then
escorted him to the train. Spragg never waited to see what became of his
papers, but just went away from there as fast as he could.
I don't believe he was exactly clear why the folks was so turned against
him, but he soon found out, all right.
Well, there was a mass meeting, and our folks adopted resolutions paying
their respects to Eagle Center and to everybody that lived in it, and
they vowed they wouldn't have any dealings with the town or anybody in
it. They appointed committees and everything.
Mark and the rest of us were at the meeting, and we got busy getting
subscriptions. Civic pride was the tune we played.
"Here," says Mark, "is a paper all our own. It's a b-b-better paper than
Eagle Center's. Yet you f-folks let an Eagle Center man come in here and
sell that paper of his, and you r-refuse to buy ours. Now's the time to
show them. If you mean what you say, why, cut out that Eagle Center
paper and dig down for a dollar 'n' a quarter to subscribe for your
own."
That was the way he talked, and the rest of us took a leaf out of his
book. And it got results, too. That night we took more than fifty
subscriptions. Which was pretty good. We thought it had disposed forever
of the Eagle Center _Clarion_, but it hadn't. Anyhow, it hadn't disposed
of Mr. Spragg, who seemed to have got a grudge against us. He wasn't
much of a newspaper man, but as an enemy he did pretty well, so we found
out before we were through with him.
CHAPTER X
"We've been sort of neglectin' Rock," says I to Mark Tidd, that evening.
"We have been perty b-busy," says he, "but we better go out to see him
to-morrow."
"Fine," says I. "I liked his looks."
"Man With the Black Gloves is in t-town," says Mark.
"When did you see him?" says I.
"He drove in a couple of hours ago."
"Hum!" says I. "He's comin' for somethin'."
"Yes," says Mark, and wrinkled his fat face all up like he was puzzled.
"D'you know," says he, "that we don't even know his n-n-name?"
"That's right," says I.
"Nor where he hails from."
"Correct," says I.
"Let's see what we kin find out," says he.
So we went off to the hotel and asked questions, but we didn't find out
anything. Seems like the man never stayed there overnight and didn't
register. Nobody we could find had ever spoken to him, and nobody had
ever seen him before a week or so ago. He just _was_ and that's all we
could find out about him.
"T-try the livery stable," says Mark.
"What for?" says I.
"See if anybody there recognizes his horse," says Mark, impatient-like.
Now there was a real idea, and I wished I'd thought of it myself, but I
didn't. It took Mark for that. When he missed thinking of a thing it was
a pretty foggy day, I tell you.
Over at the livery we didn't get much satisfaction.
"He hain't never drove in with the same horse twict," says the barn-man.
"Sometimes it's a gray, and sometimes it's a bay, and last time it was a
black."
"Didn't recognize any of 'em?" says Mark.
"Nary," says the man.
And there we were, no better off than we'd been before. If those horses
had come from anywheres within ten or fifteen miles of Wicksville that
barn-man would have known them, so all we learned was that the Man With
the Black Gloves must have come farther than that.
"If we could only trace those horses," says Mark.
"Which way did he come from?" says I.
"Good for you, Binney," says Mark. "That'll help some, if we can
f-f-find out."
We asked around and found out the man drove in from the west. But there
was quite a lot of country west of us, as Mark pointed out, reaching
right out to the Pacific Ocean, which was a little matter of a couple of
thousand miles.
"'Tain't likely he drove from the Pacific," says I, "and 'tain't likely
he drove more 'n twenty-five or thirty mile."
"No," says he, "'tain't.... We might as well give _that_ up for
to-night. I expect Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves are havin' a
m-m-meetin' somewheres."
"How about that puzzle?" says I. "The one about where the cat looks and
what color is a brick, and all that stuff."
"I hain't l-looked at it," says he. "Let's see what we can make of it."
He took it out of his pocket and we went to his house and sat down by a
lamp.
"'Where pussy looks she walks,' it goes," says Mark. "'Thirty and twenty
and ten and forty-six. Stop. Ninety degrees in the shade. In. Down.
Across. What color is a brick? Investigate. Believe what tells the
truth.' There she is," says he. "If you can see any sense to it, Binney,
you've got me beat."
"Let's take it by chunks," says I. "That first sentence, now. 'Where
pussy looks she walks.' What's there to that? Anything?"
"Huh!" says he. "Huh!" And then he went to tugging at his ear and
scowling. "If we knew what pussy he was talkin' about we might have some
idee."
"But we don't," says I.
"Binney," says he, sober as a judge, but with a twinkle in his little
eyes, "I calc'late you're right for once, though how you come to manage
it _I_ don't know. We sure don't know what cat's bein' d-d-discussed."
"Where she looks she walks," I says. "Oh, rats! it's crazy!"
"If," says Mark, "it means anythin' at all, it's givin' a direction.
See? If Mr. Wigglesworth left a message and this is it, why, maybe, just
for instance, he'd hid somethin'. Eh? And if he hid somethin', why, he
wanted somebody to f-f-find it, but he wanted that s-somebody to be the
right p-person."
"Yes," says I, "but who's the right person?"
"Rock," says he.
"How d'you know?" says I.
"B-because," says he, "it was Rock he gave the p-puzzle to."
"All right so far," says I. "But let's git back to pussy and what's
she's lookin' at. Most likely it's a bird. Cats is gen'rally lookin' at
birds."
"This cat wouldn't be," says he. "It would be l-lookin' somewhere
definite, and it would keep l-lookin'. What would be the use sayin' it
at all if the cat wouldn't still be lookin' where Mr. Wigglesworth
wanted it to when we found her?"
"None," says I, "which makes the whole thing look crazier 'n ever. A cat
don't set around eyin' one spot permanent, even if it's a mouse-hole.
Cats move around," says I, "and hain't to be depended on."
"I'll bet you this cat is," says he.
"You've got some notion about it," says I.
"Not much of one," says he, "but I'm guessin', for the sake of argument,
that Mr. Wigglesworth wanted somebody to find the cat and s-start there
and go to walkin' where p-p-pussy looked. See? That would give the
direction to go. Go where she looked. If she l-looked south, walk south.
If she l-looked north, walk north."
"So far so good," says I. "Go on."
"The next looks easy. 'Stop,' it says. Well, 'stop' means to quit
w-walkin', don't it?"
"Yes," says I, "but you're leavin' out some-thin'."
"What?" says he.
"Why," says I, "the 'Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six.'"
"To be sure," says he. He thought some more, and so did I.
"Maybe," says I, "them figures means letters of the alphabet. A would be
1, and B would be 2, and so on. Let's try it."
We did, but nothing came of it. It didn't make a word of sense.
"'Tain't that," says Mark, "but I'll tell you what I b-b-b'lieve it
_is_."
"What?" says I.
"Feet," says he.
"Whose feet?" says I.
"Feet," says he, sharp-like. "Measure. Twelve-inch feet."
"Oh," says I.
"Yes," says he, his cheeks flushing a little and his eyes getting all
shiny with excitement. "That must be it. It means to start where the cat
is and walk where she looks thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six
feet. How many's t-that?"
"Thirty and twenty's fifty, and ten is sixty and forty-six is a hunderd
and six," says I.
"Good enough," says he. "We're so far in no time at all. We f-find
pussy, makin' sure we got the _right_ pussy, and we take note of where
she's l-lookin' and we walk that way a hunderd and six f-feet.... Then
what do we do?" says he, with a grin.
"We stop," says I. "It says it on this paper, but it didn't need to.
We're stopped, anyhow, by what comes next."
"What does come next?"
"'Ninety degrees in the shade,'" says I.
"Perty hot," says he.
"Does it mean we got to look for a spot that's as warm as that?"
"Don't b'lieve it," says he. "No spot's n-ninety degrees in the shade
around here _always_. To be any good for what Mr. Wigglesworth's got in
mind, a spot would _always_ have to be ninety in the shade. Or else
there'd have to be somethin' to tell just when to look. See? If he's
given directions to find somethin', I think those directions are good
every d-day and every hour of the day."
"That's l-likely," says I. "If we only knew he _was_ givin' directions,"
says I, "we could git along better."
"As for me," says he, "I'm s-s-sure of it."
"That settles it, then," says I, gettin' a little sarcastic.
While we were arguing about it there was a clanging and banging out in
the yard like a dozen kids were knocking tin pans together, and we heard
somebody set up a holler.
"Hey! inside there! Hey! Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, are you at
home?"
"It's Zadok," says I, and we ran to the door.
Sure enough, there was old Zadok Biggs, the tin peddler, who was such a
good friend of ours. Zadok was about half a man high and a man and a
half wide, with the soberest, most serious-looking face you ever saw. He
traveled all over the State in his red wagon, swapping tinware with
wimmen for old rags.
"Come in, Zadok," Mark called, and in he came.
"Ha!" says he. "My friend Marcus Aurelius. Remarkable boy, remarkable
name. Where's your ma and pa? Extraordinary folks. No ordinary ma and pa
would have picked out such a name. Live up to it," says Zadok Biggs.
"And there's Binney Jenks, too. Howdy, Binney?"
"Fine," says I, "and how's yourself?"
"Excellent," says he, "or, to put it in plain language, very well
indeed. What have you boys been accomplishing? Accomplishing is an
elegant word. I love to use it. Most folks would say'doing.'"
"We're runnin' a newspaper," says I. "At least Mark is, and the rest of
us are helping."
"Newspaper. Ha! Splendid! Molding public opinion. I, Zadok Biggs, might
have been a great editor, though nature fitted me to be a judge. What
newspaper?"
"The Wicksville _Trumpet_" says Mark.
"Splendid! Extraordinary! Are you making money? Do the folks appreciate
a good periodical--paper is the commoner term?"
"Some d-does and some doesn't," says Mark.
"Ha! Not going as well as would be wished. Talk it over with Zadok. Tell
Zadok your troubles. Maybe there will be a resultant benefit. Good
words, those. Another man would say that maybe good would come of it,
but Zadok Biggs has seen life and studied life, and he knows words.
Perhaps I will be able to point out an opportunity. Opportunities are my
specialty."
"You b-bet they are," says Mark, and I agreed with him, for Zadok had
helped us out more than once before.
"Opportunity!" says Zadok. "A fine word and means a fine thing. What is
an opportunity? Means something like a chance, only better. An
opportunity is something you take hold of and hang onto and it leads you
ahead. Always ahead. Opportunities never hold you back. Some folks say
there aren't opportunities, but they don't know. If they rode all over
the State on top of my wagon they would know. I know. I see 'em.
Everywhere I see opportunities, and I see folks missing them. Yes, sir,
missing opportunities that would make something of them. Why? Because
they're lazy, or because they want somebody to help them instead of
helping themselves, or because they haven't eyes to see. But I don't
take much stock in that. Anybody has eyes to see. What they lack is
ambition to git up and hustle. Am I right?"
"You are," says Mark.
"Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd does not let his opportunities slip. I
have seen him catch them by the tail. Oh, many times I have seen him,
and Binney, too, and Plunk and Tallow. Don't be impatient. While I talk
I think, I look about to see if there is an opportunity running at
large. An opportunity for boys running a newspaper. Ha!"
He stopped and scratched his head, and whistled "Marching Through
Georgia," and got up and walked out to the dining-room, where he yelled
at Mr. Tidd and Mark's mother, and talked to them awhile. Then he came
back and says:
"How does a paper make money? Subscribers, say I, and advertising. How
do you get subscribers? First by having a good paper they'll want to
read. I can trust you to do that. Mark Tidd would have no other kind.
Advertising? There may be advertising your experience has not made you
aware of. That you don't know about would be the vulgar way of
expressing it. And Zadok Biggs knows of such advertising. It pays. There
is money in it."
"Good," says Mark. "What is it?"
"County advertisin'," says Zadok. "Things the law requires the county to
have published in a newspaper. Like accounts and audits and proceedings
and such. Advertise for bids generally, and the paper that bids lowest
gets the work. For a year, mostly. And now's the time."
"Mostly goes to politicians, don't it?" says Mark.
"Yes," says Zadok, "but there's an opportunity for other folks--for Mark
Tidd and his friends. If I was them I'd go to the county-seat, and I'd
see the county authorities and I'd argue with 'em. Yes, sir, and I'll
bet I'd get that business. I'd surprise'em. That's what I'd do."
"When is the contract g-given out?" says Mark.
"Next week," says Zadok.
"Then," says Mark, "you can expect to see Binney and me h-headin' for
the county-seat about the day after to-morrow."
"Why not to-morrow?" says Zadok. "Opportunities don't perch long. You
got to get 'em before they flit."
So we told him we had to see Rock to-morrow and why and all about it,
and he agreed with us. "Let's see that cryptogram," says he. "You know
what cryptogram means, eh?"
"Yes," says Mark, and handed him the writing and told him what we had
made out of it. As far as we had gone he agreed with us, but couldn't go
any farther.
"About that Man With the Black Gloves," says he. "I'll keep an eye out
for him. Comes from the West, does he? I'll watch. Zadok goes many
places and sees many folks. Perhaps I will see him. Now," says he, "is
there a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk and a bed for me?"
"You bet," says Mark, so we all had a lunch that Mrs. Tidd got for us,
like she always does whenever anybody is there, and I went home. I
promised to be there bright and early to go out to Rock's with Mark.
CHAPTER XI
Mark was around at my house, whistling for me, before I was through
breakfast, so I gobbled down my last four pancakes and hustled out. He
had another lunch as big as a trunk, so it was safe to say we wouldn't
starve before noon.
About a half a mile from the Wigglesworth place we saw a buggy coming
toward us like the horse was running away, but it wasn't. A man was
driving, and the man was Jethro. When he saw us he pulled up so short he
almost snapped his horse's head off, which was mighty poor driving.
"Hey!" says he. "Seen a kid down that way anywheres?"
"L-lots of 'em," says Mark.
"Don't git fresh," says Jethro.
"I wasn't," says Mark. "I was t-t-tellin' the truth."
"Did you see a kid," says Jethro, "that looked like he was runnin'
away?"
"How does a kid l-look that's runnin' away?" Mark asked.
Jethro reached for the whip like he had intentions of taking a lick at
us, but he changed his mind.
"You know all the kids in Wicksville," says he. "This was a strange
one--one you hain't never seen before. See sich a one?"
"No," says Mark. "What's he runnin' away for?"
"'Cause he's a ongrateful little skunk," says Jethro. "If you see any
strange kids sort of hidin' around, you tell me and I'll give you a
dollar."
"You're Mr. Wigglesworth's man, hain't you?" says Mark, like he didn't
know.
"Yes," says Jethro.
"Didn't know you had a b-boy," says Mark.
"He wasn't mine. I was sort of guardian over him."
"Oh!" says Mark. "And he's run off and you want us to help you f-find
him?"
Jethro didn't say anything for a minute, but thought it over. Then he
says to himself something about kids being all over creation and seeing
everything that goes on. After that he says to us:
"You kids make a business of lookin' for this runaway, and I'll pay you
five dollars if you find him."
"Why don't you advertise?" says Mark, and at that Jethro looked sort of
startled.
"Look here," says he, "no advertisin' goes. This is a secret between you
and me. See? You hain't to talk about it to anybody or you don't get no
five dollars."
"Mum's the word," says Mark.
"You report to me at Wigglesworth's house," says Jethro, "if you find
out anything."
"All right," says Mark, and off drove Jethro. When he was gone Mark
turned and winked at me.
"Hired by the enemy," says he. "Now there's a way we can get into the
Wigglesworth grounds and house any t-t-time we want to without makin'
Jethro suspicious."
"Sure," says I, "but what's this runaway business? Has Rock run off?"
"It l-looks that way," says Mark,
"What for?" says I.
"How should I know?" says Mark. "Let's head for the arbor and see if
he's left a l-letter."
We ducked off the road and slid up the hedge. This time Mark was too
interested in what was really happening to do any pretending about dukes
or knights, so we just sneaked along like a couple of boys till we got
to the arbor, and wriggled through the hedge. There was a letter in the
hiding-place.
_Dear Friend_ [the letter said], I'm going away. I don't like it
here because Jethro keeps getting meaner and meaner, and watches
me all the time like I was in jail, and won't let me do
anything. I won't stand it. Jethro isn't anything to me, and
neither is that man with black gloves that comes and scowls at
me and asks a lot of questions. I'm going off to China or
Florida or the South Sea Islands or some place, so most likely
I'll never see you again.
I don't know what I was brought to this place for. If anybody
has a right to make me stay, why doesn't he say so? I might as
well be in jail. I guess I can earn a living, all right. Maybe
I'll go to Alaska and dig gold. Maybe I'll write to you some
day.
Yours truly,
_Rock_.
"H'm!" says Mark. "He's g-goin' a lot of places, hain't he?"
"Wisht I was goin' with him," says I. "The South Sea Islands sounds
fine."
"But it's quite a walk," says Mark, "especially when you think about
crossin' the Pacific Ocean to get there."
"He'd stow away on a vessel?" says I.
"Shucks!" says he. "Rock won't get twenty m-miles from Wicksville."
"Bet he does," says I.
"Shucks!" says Mark again. "We got to f-find him, and I hain't goin' to
look in Alaska, nor Florida, either."
"You hain't goin' to give him up to Jethro, be you?"
"That," says he, "is exactly what I'm goin' to do."
"Mark Tidd," says I, "I wouldn't 'a' thought it. For five dollars you'd
squeal on this poor kid that's in a peck of trouble. Well," says I,
getting madder and madder, "you can hunt for him alone. I won't have
anything to do with it. It's a dirty trick," says I.
"Binney," says Mark, "l-look out or you'll bile out of your shirt. Keep
it on," says he. "How many d-dirty tricks have you seen me play on
folks?"
"None," says I, "but that don't stop this from bein' one."
He just grinned as good-natured as could be.
"You're foolin'," says I.
"No," says he, "I mean it."
"You'll give up Rock to them men?"
"Yes," says he, "if I f-f-find him."
"Then," says I, "you and me is through. We been perty good friends, and
we've done a heap of things together, and I guess I figgered you was
almost as great a man as Napoleon Bonaparte, but you hain't. I hain't as
smart as you," says I, "but you can bet I don't go givin' away any kids
that's in trouble. You go look for him," says I, "and I'll go look for
him. But I won't be tellin' on him if I find him. I'll warn him," says
I.
"Binney," says Mark, "you're a n-noble young man right out of a book.
Honest you are. You're a hero," says he.
"I hain't," says I.
"L-look here, you saphead," says he, "have some sense. I'm goin' to git
Rock back into Jethro's hands," says he, "but not to help Jethro. We
_got_ to have him back here. How we g-g-goin' to find out about him if
he's run away? Tell me that. There's somethin' mighty mysterious and
important about him. Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves hain't
d-doin' all they're up to just for fun, be they? Not by a jugful. Rock
had ought to have known b-better than to go sneakin' off, but I s'pose
he got l-lonesome. Poor kid! But lonesome or not, he's got to come
b-back."
I felt pretty silly and didn't think of anything to say.
"Come on," says Mark.
"Where?" says I.
"To l-look for Rock," says he.
"Where'll we look?"
"Well," says he, "if you was Rock and was r-r-runnin' away, where'd you
go?"
"South Sea Islands," says I.
He just grunted scornful-like. "Which way would you g-g-go first?"
"Right to the depot," says I, "and take a train."
"How'd you pay for your t-ticket? Rock didn't have a cent."
That was a facer. "Then I'd steal a ride on a freight," says I.
"No you wouldn't," says he. "You wouldn't go toward t-town at all.
Jethro was watchin' you close. You had to sneak away in a s-second when
he wasn't lookin'. How'd you m-manage it?"
"Why," says I, "I'd git near the gate gradual, and then I'd run like the
dickens."
"You wouldn't, n-n-neither--especial if you wanted to leave a l-letter.
I'll tell you what Rock did. He got hold of p-p-paper and pencil and
pocketed 'em. Then he went out in the yard and walked around. You see
how he did the other day when we came here first. He hain't any n-ninny.
Well, he'd walk around the yard and after a while he'd c-c-come into
this arbor. For t-two reasons. To leave the letter he was goin' to
write, and to get time to hustle off to quite a d-distance before Jethro
suspected he was escapin'."
"How's that?" says I.
"Why," says he, "Jethro'd s-see Rock come in here, and he'd think he
knew where he was. He wouldn't come p-pokin' in to see. So Rock would
write his l-letter in a hurry, and scrooch out through the hedge and
run. All the t-time Jethro'd be thinkin' he was right in here. Maybe it
would b-be an hour before he'd begin to wonder what Rock was up to so
l-long and come in to see. In an hour Rock could move off quite a ways."
"Sure," says I, "but where'd he move to?"
"He'd git away from the road," says Mark. "He wouldn't take the road
t-toward Wicksville, and he wouldn't go the other way, and he wouldn't
cross the road and go s-south, because somebody might see him when he
crossed. There hain't but one other way for him to go, and that's
n-north toward the r-river and the woods. That's where he went."
"Sounds likely," I says.
"It's sure," says he. "He got through the hedge and took a l-look and
seen those woods right there. Then he made for 'em lickety-split."
"When did he go?" says I. "The letter didn't say."
"This m-mornin'," says Mark. "Jethro was all excited. Didn't he act that
way? Like he'd just found out Rock was gone? Sure he did. He acted like
he was most r-rattled to pieces, and the first thing he did was to hitch
a horse and go f-flyin' off wild-like, just lookin' for the sake of
lookin'. Anyhow, Jethro hain't got many brains. Yes, Binney, you can bet
Jethro just f-found it out."
"Then," says I, "Rock hain't been gone more 'n an hour or two."
"That's how I f-f-figger," says he.
"Come on, then," says I, "he's got quite a start."
We streaked it along till we got out of the field and into the woods.
Maybe you think because Mark Tidd is fat that he can't move. Well you'd
get fooled there, for though there's enough of him for two boys and
their little brother rolled into one, he can get from one place to
another about as fast as the next one. I've read those rhinoceroses and
hippopotamuses in Africa are pretty whopping animals, but that when they
get started they can run to beat a horse. I don't know if it's so, but
Mark Tidd sort of leads me to believe it.
Right in the edge of the woods Mark stopped and picked up a cap.
"There," says he.
"Rock's?" says I.
"He was wearin' it when I saw it l-last," says he.
"Must 'a' been in a hurry, not to pick it up."
"P-panic," says Mark. "He got to runnin' across the f-field and then got
scairt. It works that way. Once you start to run, the idee gits into
your head s-somebody's chasin' you hard. I'll bet Rock thought Jethro
was right onto his heels. He didn't stop for anythin'."
"Hope he hain't runnin' yet," says I.
"Can't tell," says Mark, "but I was right about the way he went, eh?"
You see, when he did a thing that was pretty bright he liked to have
folks tell him so. Not that he was what you'd call vain. He wasn't, and
he wasn't all excited about himself, either, but he was funny that way,
and I guess we liked him all the better on account of it. So I told him
he was right about it, and that it was a good job of figgering things
out. And I was telling him what was so, too, for it _was_ a good job. I
wouldn't have thought out what Rock had done in forty years.
We cut straight through the woods to the river, but when we came to it
we stopped, for we didn't know whether Rock went up-stream or down, or
waded across.
"He didn't wade," says Mark, "b-because he don't know this river. It
l-looks like it might be deep out there, and the current's swift. He
wouldn't tackle it."
"I guess not," says I, "but which way did he go?"
"That," says Mark, "is what we got to f-find out. Maybe he didn't come
right down to the river at all, but I think he did."
"Why?" says I.
"To see if he couldn't get across. He'd f-feel safer with a river
between him and Jethro. But he didn't cross here. It looks dangerous.
Either he went up or down, and I think close to the water, searchin' for
a place to cross."
"It's perty soft along here for quite a ways," says I. "Maybe we can
find footprints."
"You go up," says Mark, "and I'll go down. Holler if you f-f-find any
thin'."
I went off like he said, pretending I was an Indian. Maybe a couple of
hunderd feet upstream I came on a place where somebody had walked right
down to the edge of the river, because there in the mud were tracks
filled with water. The place was tramped up quite a bit, and there were
tracks leading back away from the river toward the bluff and the trees.
I yelled at Mark and he turned and came.
We followed the tracks part way up the bluff and then they turned
up-stream, going along among the trees. Then, all of a sudden, they went
up the bank again and turned right back down-stream the way they'd come
from, and then they went higher till they came to a rail fence right
along the edge of the bluff and among the trees. From that minute we
couldn't find another track.
"Huh!" says Mark, after a couple of minutes. "Rock's all right. Know
what he did?"
"No," says I. "What?"
"Got on top of the fence and went along. Maybe took off his shoes,
because the t-top rail hain't scratched up anywheres. Figgered he
wouldn't leave any trail. What with his doublin' back and f-f-forth, we
don't know which way he's aimin'. Maybe he went up and maybe he went
down. He's a good one, all right."
"Too good for us," says I, sort of discouraged.
"Huh!" says Mark, like he didn't like my saying that very well.
"What'll we do?" says I.
"Eat," says he, "and then hunt both ways. Separate like we did below."
"All right," says I, and that's what we did. But not a sign had either
of us seen of him when we met at the office just before supper-time.
Rock had just naturally up and disappeared.
CHAPTER XII
We had to forget about Rock for the next day, anyhow, and go to the
county-seat to see about that political printing. It was two hours' ride
on the train, but we enjoyed that and made use of it planning how we'd
go to work to land the business. At least Mark planned and I listened
while he did it. But, somehow or other, the plans we made weren't the
ones we carried out. Not by a long shot. If they had been Mark wouldn't
have been as famous in the State as he is to-day among men that follow
up politics for a living, and among newspaper men.
No, the plans we carried out were other plans altogether, and they were
made in a lot less than two hours. I should say they were.
We got off the train and went up to the court-house. At the door stood a
lot of men smoking and loafing and talking, and we walked up to them and
wanted to know where we'd find the man that gave out the county printing
to the newspapers.
A couple of them winked at each other and said we'd better see the judge
of probate, who took care of orphans and lunatics and such, and I
expected to hear Mark come right back at him with something hot. But he
didn't. Afterward he said to me:
"Binney, when you're on b-business don't let anythin' mix up with it. If
you git grudges ag'in' folks s-s-save 'em up for some other day. Some
feller may say somethin' smart to you and git a l-lot of fun out of it.
If you take him d-down off 'n his high horse it'll sour him quick--and
that very man may be the f-feller whose scalp you're after."
"Shucks!" says I.
"It's easier to git what you want out of a man that's f-f-feelin' good,"
says he, "and there hain't no way to make a man feel g-good that beats
lettin' him think he's awful smart. If you let him make a j-joke on you,
why, he sort of feels friendly 'cause you've helped him show his friends
what a w-w-whale of a feller he is. And then you git easier s-sailin'."
"Maybe so," says I; "that's figgerin' too far ahead for me. If somebody
says somethin' fresh to me and I kin think of somethin' to say back,
why, you can bet your hat I'm goin' to pop it right at him."
"And l-lose money by it," says he.
"Money hain't the whole thing," says I.
"It is," says he, "when it's money you're _after_. When you start out
f-for a thing you want to git it, don't you, whether it's m-money or
apples or f-freckles on your nose? It hain't the money that's important;
it's _gittin'_ it."
That was Mark Tidd all over. If he made up his mind he was after a thing
he stuck to it till he got it, or till it was put where it was a sure
thing he couldn't touch it. It wasn't so much that he wanted the
_thing_, whatever it was; it was that he was bound to do what he set out
to do. He might figure and work a week to get some old thing, and then
turn right around and give it to you. It was just the being able to
_get_ it that interested _him_.
So he didn't say a word back to the man that joked him--that is, not a
word that was smart. He just says, "We hain't got any orphans or
l-lunatics on hand this m-mornin', but we'd like mighty well to see that
printin' feller."
He was so all-fired polite about it that somebody spoke up and says,
"There's a couple of 'em you'll have to deal with, sonny. Feller named
Brown and another feller named Wiggins, and they hain't what you could
call friends, neither. You hain't like to find 'em roostin' in the same
bush. Both of them's inside somewheres. If you find a feller skinnier 'n
a beanpole and along about nine feet high, with red hair on top of him,
why, that's Wiggins. If you run ag'in' a feller equal skinny and equal
tall without no hair at all, why, that's Brown. You can't mistake either
of 'em."
"Much obliged," says Mark, and in we went.
We poked around quite a spell, going one place and another, but we
didn't see any tall, thin men, till we got onto the second floor and
walked up to some doors that were standing open, and looked in. It was a
court-room. We knew that right off because there was a high place built
up for the judge in front, and a pen for the jury and lots of seats.
Nothing was going on at all, and we were coming out again when we heard
a sort of murmur like folks were talking low and confidential.
"'S-s-sh!" says Mark, who was always cautious till he found out where he
stood. Then he craned his neck, and 'way back in the shadows were two
men, one standing and the other sitting, and the standing man was so
tall and thin he could have got a job in a circus. The sitting man was
thin, with a bunch of carroty hair.
"Brown and Wiggins," says Mark, drawing back quick.
"Come on in, then," says I.
"Nix," says he. "L-let's think.... Man said they wasn't friends, didn't
he, and that we wasn't likely to f-f-find 'em together?"
"Yes," says I.
"Then," says he, "if folks that know 'em f-figger they wouldn't be
together, it's sort of f-f-funny to find 'em hobnobbin', hain't it?"
"Why," says I, "I calc'late it is."
"And them b-bein' politicians, it's f-funnier 'n ever," says he.
"To be sure," says I.
"Politicians," says he, "is said to be s-s-slippery."
"My dad says so."
"Then," says he, "l-lookin' at this from all sides, a man up a t-tree
would figger them fellers was up to somethin', eh?"
"Shouldn't wonder," says I, "but what of it?"
"And they've s-sneaked off and hid to talk," says he to himself.
"None of our business," says I.
"Newspaper men, hain't we?"
"Yes," says I.
"Sellin' advertisin' to the county to-day?"
"Yes," says I.
"Then," says he, "whatever those f-fellers do is mighty int'restin' to
me."
"All right," says I. "What of it?"
"I'm f-figgerin'," says he, "on how we could git to l-listen a little to
what they was sayin'."
"Eavesdroppin'," says I, scornful-like.
"When men is up to a game and s-sneaks off to p-plan it," he says, "it's
not eavesdroppin' to listen. They git what's comin' to 'em."
"Have it that way, then," says I.
"But," says he, "g-gittin' so's we can listen hain't so easy. Let's go
outside and look around."
We went, and as we walked down-stairs Mark says, "The p'litical fight in
this county this fall is over the sheriff."
"I know it," says I.
"Then," says he, "if two men that's p'litical enemies is seen
hobnobbin', most likely the sheriff's got somethin' to do with it.
Bowman's the man that's got the job now, and Whittaker wants to git the
Republican nomination away from him. Now, takin' for granted that
pow-wow up there's about the sheriff, why, what be they d-doin' about
it?"
"How should I know?" says I.
We stopped a minute at the door, and Mark says, "How's the fight for
sheriff gettin' on?"
"Perty hot," says a man--"perty almighty hot."
"Brown's for Bowman, hain't he?" says Mark.
"No," says the man; "where'd you git that idee? He's strong for
Whittaker."
"How's Wiggins?"
"Nobody knows, but fellers that pertends to be wise figgers he's for
Bowman--jest so's to be for anybody Brown is against."
"Huh!" says Mark. "What d'you calc'late 'u'd happen if Brown and Wiggins
was to make up f-friends and work for the same man?"
"It couldn't happen," says the man, "but if it did, with the batch of
delegates each one of 'em controls in the convention, the man they
agreed on would have a walk-away."
"Hum!" says Mark. "Is Brown awful strong for Whittaker?"
"Whittaker's best friend he's got. Why, Whittaker lent him the money to
go into business first, and has always been befriendin' him, and two
year ago Brown up and married Whittaker's sister."
"So," says Mark, "there hain't much danger of his switchin' to Bowman?"
"He jest _couldn't_," says the man.
"Hum!" says Mark. "Int'restin' to hear. Much obliged, mister."
We walked on, and all of a sudden Mark chuckled right out. "Binney,"
says he, "we don't need to go listenin' to what those f-f-fellers is
talkin' about. I know."
"Shucks!" says I.
"Wait and see," says he. "We'll walk around a while and then go back and
see Wiggins."
Which we did. In half an hour we went back, and after looking around a
spell we found Wiggins in his office. In we went.
"Howdy-do, Mr. Wiggins!" says Mark, "I'm Mark Tidd, of Wicksville, and
this is Binney Jenks."
"Glad to meet you," says Mr. Wiggins. "What can I do for you?"
"Why," says Mark, "we come on b-business. I'm editor of the Wicksville
_Trumpet_" he says, "and the Wicksville _Trumpet_ needs some good steady
advertisin'. So," says he, "we come to see if we couldn't git the
c-county p-printin' for the next year."
"H'm!" says Mr. Wiggins, his eyes twinkling like he wanted to laugh.
"Juvenile paper? Amateur editor?"
"Not any," says Mark. "Reg'lar weekly," and he showed Mr. Wiggins a
copy.
"Mean to say you boys are running this?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," says Mark.
"Well," says Mr. Wiggins, "the way this printing is given out, the
papers that want it make bids telling how much the county will have to
pay, and then the bids are opened and the job goes to the lowest."
"Sure," says Mark, "that's the gen'ral idee of it, but," he says, "most
gen'ally the f-feller gits it that's got the most p'litical pull, don't
he, honest Injun?"
Mr. Wiggins laughed. "Well," he said, "maybe politics does have
something to do with it. If you think that, what made you come?"
"Because," says Mark, "Binney and me is p-politicians, and we got pull."
"Oh," says Mr. Wiggins. "What influence have you to bring to bear?"
"Why," says Mark, "we sort of f-f-figger on _yours_, and on Mr.
Brown's."
Mr. Wiggins laughed right out. "Don't you know," says he, "that Brown
and I don't live in the same nest at all? You couldn't get the two of us
to agree on anything to save your life. And, besides, I never saw you or
heard of you before. How do you figure you have _my_ influence?"
"Because," says Mark, "we calc'late to be reg'lar p-politicians and see
farther into what's goin' on than m-most folks, and because you want us
on your side a l-little worse 'n you want 'most anybody else in the
county."
"Now look here, sonny," says Mr. Wiggins, "I'm pretty busy, and, while I
like boys and am willing to fool with 'em, to-day I'm short of time.
Come in some other day."
"Wait a m-minute," says Mark, "till we tell you how we size up this here
sheriff fight." He didn't wait for Wiggins to say he could, but jumped
right into it.
"This here is the hardest f-f-fight for sheriff in years," says he, "and
anybody that b-beats out Bowman's got a job on his hands, eh?"
"Yes," says Wiggins.
"And f-f oiks gen'ally think you're for Bowman, don't they?".
"Yes."
"And so his side's restin' easier in their minds?"
"Some," says Wiggins.
"Well, then," says Mark, "s'posin' I was to p-print a story in my paper
sayin' that the row between you and Brown was made up, and that you and
Brown had met and hobnobbed and that you'd agreed, for some reason or
another, to wait till the convention and, when the f-fight got good and
hot, to make the d-delegates you control vote, not for Bowman, but for
Whittaker? Folks 'u'd be int'rested in that story, eh?"
"Say, kid," says Wiggins, jumping up onto his feet, "who sent you here?"
"Nobody," says Mark. "We just come after the p-printin'."
"What you say is bosh," says Wiggins.
"It's _so_," says Mark, "and we know it's so, and you know it's so.
What," says he, "if you was overheard t-talkin' up in the court-room
awhile ago?"
Mr. Wiggins sort of caved in. "You haven't told anybody?"
"Course not. Sich p'litical information hain't much good when you give
it away."
"My dad's for Whittaker, anyhow," says I.
"So's mine," says Mark, "but politics is politics. How about your
influence, Mr. Wiggins?"
"You get it," says Wiggins, sharp-like. "Go tell Brown to go up to the
court-room."
We did that, and Brown was pretty surprised, but he went. We followed
along, and there was Wiggins waiting for us. He told Brown what Mark had
said to him, and Brown began to laugh as hard as he could, and then got
serious.
"You win, kids," says he, "providin' you can keep quiet."
"We git the p-printin'?"
"You do," says Brown, "but how Wiggins and I will explain it to certain
newspaper men, particularly the Eagle Center _Clarion_, I don't know."
"Was the Eagle Center _Clarion_ goin' to git it?" says I.
"They figured on it pretty strongly," says Mr. Brown.
And that's how we landed the county printing. It was all by Mark Tidd's
using his brains. All he needed was a hint, and he reasoned the thing
right out, and it was so like he reasoned it. It made Mark pretty famous
with politicians before it was all done, for after the convention, when
Whittaker got the nomination, the story leaked out, and everybody
laughed at Brown and Wiggins, and when folks found out Mark hadn't
really heard a thing, but just jumped at conclusions and made a bluff,
they laughed harder than ever.
That was all right, but what really counted was that we got a dandy
piece of business that paid well and gave the paper a lot of reputation
and standing around the county. It got us a lot of subscribers, too,
because there are folks that have to read about the county proceedings.
Mr. Wiggins took us to dinner and made a lot of us, and didn't hold a
grudge at all. After that we caught the train and went home, feeling
like we had done a pretty good day's work.
CHAPTER XIII
The first thing we did when we got home was to hunt up Plunk and Tallow
to find out if anything had been heard of Rock, but he was still just as
missing as ever--and even more so.
"Well," says Mark, "we got to f-find him, and find him quick. We need
him in our business and he needs us in hisn."
"You hain't goin' to give him up to Jethro like you said--honest, are
you?"
"You b-b-bet I am," says Mark, and there was an end to that.
"To-morrow mornin'," says he, "you f-f-fellows be at my house at five
o'clock, and we'll git after him. I got an idee," says he.
"Five o'clock," says I. "What's the use of goin' to bed at all?"
Mark he sort of grinned and says: "This Rock business is a sort of
s-s-side issue with us. What we're doin' for a livin' is run a
newspaper--and we got to give consid'able time to it."
That was Mark Tidd all over. Business was first. He could tend to
business more and harder than any kid I ever heard of.
Next morning we were on hand when Mark said, and off we started toward
the place where we lost track of Rock. Mark was as sure as ever he was
some place close around. "Bet I can p-prove it pretty quick," says he,
"and after I've proved it I bet I can go straight to where he's asleep
this minute."
"Shucks!" says I.
"Will you eat a r-rotten apple if I can't?" says Mark.
Well, I knew him pretty well, and when he talked like that he was pretty
sure he knew what he was talking about, so I sort of backed down as easy
as I could. He didn't say anything, but just grinned aggravating.
There was just one farm out that way, and Mark headed us in the yard and
around to the barn, where Mr. Soggs was milking.
"'Mornin', Mr. Soggs," says he.
"Up kinder early, hain't ye?" says Mr. Soggs.
"Ketchin' worms," says Mark. "Say, Mr. Soggs, been missin' anythin'
around here l-l-lately?"
"How'd you know?" says Soggs. "You boys hain't campin' out around here,
be ye? 'Cause if ye be, and it's you that's been a-pesterin' my wife,
stealin' pies off n the winder-sill and sich, I'll have the law on ye."
"Not guilty," says Mark. "What was stolen?"
"A hull apple pie 'n' a hunk of ham 'n' half a loaf of bread."
"Too bad," says Mark, but I could see a twinkle in those little eyes of
his. "Hope it didn't spoil your meal, Mr. Soggs."
"I managed," says Soggs, "I managed."
"To be sure," says Mark. "Well, we'll be movin' on. G'by, Mr. Soggs."
"G'by to ye," says he, and off we went.
"There," says Mark when we were out of hearing. "Now what you got to
say?"
"Same's ever," says I. "What's a missin' pie got to do with Rock?"
"Rock et that pie," says Mark.
"Fiddle-de-dee," says I, but I wasn't so sure about it. Mark he acted so
_certain_.
"Now," says he, "we'll go and g-get him."
He started off like he knew exactly where he was going, and we followed.
He led us along the bluff above the river for a spell, and then started
down. In a minute I saw where we were. We were just across from
Butternut Island, and right above our old cave--the cave where Mark and
Tallow hid Mr. Tidd's turbine a long while back, and where Sammy, the
half-breed Injun, used to live.
"Bet he hain't there," says I. "He couldn't ever find it."
"He must 'a' found it," says Mark, "because he's in it right now."
"How d'you know?" says I.
"Because," says he, with another aggravating grin, "there hain't no
other place for him to be."
Well, down we went, quiet-like, and peeked in the cave. It was pretty
dark there, but all the same we could see something. It looked like
somebody asleep, and Mark he grinned at me again.
"You sneaked up here and found him," says I.
"Didn't," says he; "jest figgered it out--and there he is."
He was that proud of himself just then that you couldn't touch him with
a giraffe's neck.
"Rock," he called, soft-like, "Rock."
Rock jumped up so sudden he was like to have busted his head against the
cave roof, and looked around scared.
"It's Mark Tidd and the f-f-fellers," says Mark. "Come on out."
"How'd you find me?" says Rock, after he'd got over being scared and
surprised.
"Well," says Mark, "I knew you must be somewheres around, because you
couldn't of got away. You'd be seen or somethin'. We followed you to the
river and then lost your tracks, so I knew you were perty clost to here,
hidin'. This is the only good hidin'-place for a long ways, so I
f-figgered you _had_ to be here--and here you are."
"Glad Jethro hasn't as much brains as you have, Mark."
"Why?"
"Because he'd have found me, instead of you."
"But," says Mark, "we're a-goin' to take you back to him."
Rock just looked at him.
"L-look here," says Mark, "you got to trust us if we're goin' to do you
any good. And I'll tell you this, that with you gone there hain't the
least chance of ever findin' out about you. You got to _be_ there.... I
shouldn't wonder if the Man With the Black Gloves would be t-tickled to
death, when he got to thinkin' it over, if you was to run away and he
never heard of you again. You're a-goin' back there because that's where
you can do yourself the most good and those f-fellers the most harm. See
it?"
"I see your idea," says Rock, "but it don't look very pleasant."
"Neither does l-livin' in a cave and eat'n' stolen pie look very good,"
says Mark.
"But--" says Rock.
"Either you go back with us or we quit the whole b-b-business," says
Mark. "We're goin' to let on to Jethro that we captured you, and he'll
pay us money. And he'll think you hate us, if you act right, and he'll
trust us so's we'll get a chance to nose around a little. I'm mighty
curious," says he, "about that cat that Mr. Wigglesworth wrote about,
and where it's lookin', and why; and I'd like a chance to l-l-look for
it."
"Maybe you're right," says Rock.
"Course I am," says Mark.
"All right," says Rock, "but it isn't very pleasant being shut up and
watched and treated like they've treated me."
"It won't l-l-last long," says Mark. "Come on."
We started back, with Rock looking pretty dubious over his prospects. If
he had known Mark Tidd as well as we did he wouldn't have felt so much
that way, though I'll admit _I_ wouldn't have been tickled to death if
I'd been in his place.
[Illustration: Jethro just rushed at us and grabbed a-holt of Rock,
rough-like.]
It didn't take us a great while to get back to the farm with Rock, and
there was Jethro walking up and down and growling and acting pretty
anxious. When he saw us turn in the yard with Rock he just _rushed_ at
us and grabbed a-holt of Rock, rough-like.
"Hey, there!" says Mark. "G-go easy."
Jethro looked at him a second and let right go, and then began to grin.
"I guess," says he, "that you kids have earned your money," and he
passed it over.
"Now," says he to Rock, "what you mean by runnin' off, eh? Had a perty
time of it, hain't you? Well, you let me ketch you tryin' it again, and
you'll wisht you'd been shut up in a cage like a monkey in a circus. You
bet you will."
"G-got anythin' to eat around this p-place?" says Mark.
Jethro looked Mark over and laughed right out. Not the kind of laugh a
fellow likes, but a noisy, bossy kind of a laugh. "You look like you
gen'ally got plenty," says he.
"I do," says Mark, short as could be, because he don't like to have
folks talking about his weight. Then he winked at Jethro and got him off
to one side.
"Say," he says, "that kid's goin' to slip away s-s-sure," says he, "if
he hain't watched. _You_ can't do it right, but us fellers can. What you
say to givin' us a job guardin' him? We'll see he's kept here till it's
time for him to go somewheres else."
Jethro scratched his chin and thought it over.
"How much?" says he.
"Fifty c-cents a day," says Mark. "One of us'll be here all the t-time."
"Good," says Jethro. "I'll jest take you up on that. Keep your eye on
him clost. Don't let him git out of this yard."
"Don't worry," says Mark. "Now how about s-s-somethin' to eat?"
Jethro went in and brought us out some pie and a fried-cake apiece--the
bakery kind. They weren't very good, but we managed to get away with
them, and then Jethro went about his business, having been fooled good
by Mark, and depending on him to keep his eye on Rock.
When he was gone Mark says to Rock, "Now you s-s-see why we wanted to
f-fetch you back? We got the job w-watchin' you, and we can be with you
all we want, and we can s-s-snoop around this place as much as we want
to. And I can tell you I've got a heap of snoopin' to do. And we can see
to it that nothin' happens to you, for one of us will be here all the
time."
"Mark Tidd," says Rock, "you're all right. You've got more brains in
your little finger than I have in my head."
Mark sort of threw up his head and pushed out his chest, and his little
eyes just _shone_, he was so tickled. There's nothing that pleases him
like getting praised when he knows it's coming to him.
"You kids go off and p-p-play somethin'," says he. "I want to nose
around this p-place to see if I can make any thin' out of that writin'
Mr. Wigglesworth left. Seems to me l-like it must have meant this
p-place. Don't it to you?"
"Why?" says I.
"Because," says he, "there don't seem to be anythin' about the writin'
to indicate any other p-place. This was the p-place he was always at.
This was where Rock was, and the w-writin' concerns Rock, you can bet on
that. What I got to do is f-find a cat that's always lookin' in one
d-direction, and then f-figger on from there."
"Sure," says I, "you just find me a cat that don't never turn her head,
and I'll dig up a bag of gold right under her feet. The cats I know
hain't used to actin' jest like that. Sometimes they move; anyways, they
wiggle their ears. And the cat 'u'd _starve_," says I. "How could a cat
live that didn't move around any?"
"Binney," says he, slow-like, "if you had as m-many brains in your head
as you got _words_ you'd be a wonder," and off he went, holding all
three of his chins up in the air, he was so disgusted.
"He's a funny one, isn't he?" says Rock, looking after him, "but I'll
bet he's more fun than any kid I ever saw."
"You bet he is," says I.
"What d'you s'pose he's tryin' to find?" says Rock. "It's sure he
doesn't expect to discover a _cat_ that always sits still and looks
right in one direction. He's got too much sense for that."
"Mostly," says I, "you don't get on to what Mark Tidd is up to until
he's done it."
"And then," says Tallow, "sometimes you wisht you hadn't. He'd rather
play a joke on somebody than do anything else in the world except think
up some business scheme. I'll bet he gets rich some day. Yes, sir, I'll
bet he gets richer than his pa."
"Is his father rich?" says Rock.
"Got billions," says Tallow, "and Mark got 'em for him, too. We helped
some, but Mark did most of it. Mark's father is a inventor, and some men
stole his turbine, and we fellers got it back again."
"Say," says I, "let's pester him a little to see what he'll do--about
that cat, I mean."
"Better not," says Tallow.
"Go on," says Plunk. "Maybe we can get the best of him for once. Tell
you what let's do. Let's make up a poem about a cat that don't move, and
recite it to him. It'll tease him to beat the band, because he hates
poetry."
"Go ahead," says I. "I hain't no poet. It keeps me busy talkin' ordinary
grammar."
"Keeps you more 'n busy," says Plunk. "If I talked as bad grammar as you
do I'd git special lessons off'n the teacher."
"Huh!" says I. "I guess I make folks understand what I'm talkin' about,
anyhow. Git at that poem."
They sat still, thinking about it, and pretty soon Tallow says, "How'd
this do for a first line?
"There was a boy and he was fat.
He went and hunted for a cat."
"Fine," says I. "Go ahead."
After a while Plunk scratched around in his head and dug up another
line:
"It was a cat that didn't stir,
And probably it didn't purr."
"Rotten," says I, "but what can you expect of sich a crowd?"
"See what _you_ can do, then," says Plunk. "All right," says I. "Listen
to this:
"That was a funny kind of cat;
The boy was talking through his hat."
"Good stuff," says Tallow. "Best yet. Be careful, Binney, or you'll git
somethin' printed if you don't watch out."
"Here he comes," says Rock, and, sure enough, there was Mark coming
toward us slow, waddling like a duck just before Thanksgiving. He came
and sat down without saying a word, and anybody could see he was
discouraged. Why, discouragement just oozed out of him. We snickered.
"Say, Mark," says I, "we been improvin' our time while you was gone. We
made up a poem. Like to hear it?"
"Go ahead," says he. "I guess I can s-s-stand 'most any thin' to-day."
"Here it is," says I:
"There was a boy and he was fat.
He went and hunted for a cat.
It was a cat that didn't stir,
And probably it didn't purr.
That was a funny kind of cat;
The boy was talking through his hat."
Mark didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, and we knew we had
him. At last we had stung him good, and he couldn't think of anything to
say. I was that tickled I reached over and poked Tallow in the ribs.
Mark looked at me sad-like, and then says: "I got a l-l-little to add to
that poem. How's this?
"He h-hunted for it all alone,
Because the f-f-fellers' heads was bone,
And found a cat made out of _s-stone_!"
He almost yelled that last word, and looked so tickled and excited I
knew in a second that he had the best of us again.
"What's that?" says I.
"Come and see," says he, and up we got and followed him. He led us down
the yard a piece where we could see all those carved animals, and then
he took us around a clump of bushes and pointed down. There was a _cat_!
It was a stone cat.
"Guess she don't move frequent, d-does she?" says he.
"For cat's sake!" says Tallow.
Mark grinned. "You said it t-that time. 'The boy was talkin' through his
hat,'" he quoted from our poem. "Maybe he was--and maybe not. I was
lookin' for somethin' like this. Now, how about cats that don't stir,
eh? Guess this cat looks the same way all the time. Don't it?"
"Mark," says I, "how did you ever think of it?"
"It _had_ to be this kind of a c-c-cat," says he; "that was p-plain
enough."
"Where she looks she walks," says Plunk. "Let's walk."
"Nix," says Mark. "Jethro might be l-l-lookin'. We want to foiler out
this thing on the quiet--and we'll do it, you bet. We know where to
start from, and that's the hardest part of it." He turned to Rock, "I
guess we're goin' to haul you out of this scrape," says he, "sooner or
later.... Now we got to git for h-home. I got work to do."
CHAPTER XIV
"Listen," says Mark Tidd that night.
"We've got to w-w-wake up and do some-thin' with this newspaper."
"Huh!" says I. "I thought we _had_ been doin' somethin'. Dunne's I ever
worked harder in my life."
"Yes," says he, "but what's it g-gettin' us? We're p-payin' our bills
and not r-runnin' in debt, but that's about all. No use havin' a
b-business if you don't make money out of it."
"Go ahead," says I. "I'm willin' to make all there is."
"I'm goin' ahead," says he. "I'm goin' to start a scheme to get
s-subscribers. I want a t-thousand of 'em right off. Not jest f-folks
that buys the _Trumpet_ on the street, but that p-pays their money and
has it all the year. Like to git fifteen hunderd if I could."
"Hain't that many families in Wicksville," says I, "and no family wants
more 'n one copy of a paper, even if you do edit it," says I.
"There's other towns," says he. "We got the whole county to p-play with.
The Eagle Center _Clarion_ come over here and tried to t-t-take our town
away from us. Well, turn about's fair play. Besides, there's all the
farmers and settlements and what not."
"If you say so," says I, "it must be so." I was a little mite sarcastic,
and he came right back at me quick.
"If I say so it's so," says he, "because I don't jest let my t-t-tongue
waggle like you. I don't gen'ally say somethin' till I got somethin' to
say, after I've f-figgered it out in my head. The t-trouble with you,
Binney, is you do most of your t-thinkin' with your stummick."
I didn't think of anything to say back to him.
"And," says he, "you don't do enough thinkin' with t-t-that to give you
a stummick-ache."
"If you could think with your stummick," says I, "you'd have some mighty
big thoughts," which was so, him having one of the biggest stummicks in
town. He just grinned and said that was pretty good for me, and he had
hopes I might really say something smart some day if I practised hard.
"Let's see," says he; "there's folks around solicitin' subscriptions for
magazines. They must get p-p-paid somehow."
"They do," says I; "my aunt takes subscriptions, and she gits so much
for every one she takes. They call it a commission, or somethin' like
that."
"Wonder why we couldn't work it ourselves," says he. "Not reg'lar
agents," says he, "but some scheme to git a l-l-lot of folks int'rested
in gittin' subscribers for us. If we could git a woman's missionary
s-s-society to goin' on it, it would s-stir things up a lot. Them
wimmin, when they git set on anythin', go after it all-fired hot."
"How about the Ladies' Lit'ry Circle," says I, "and the Home Culture
Club?"
"Binney," says he, "that's an idee. L-lemme think. Um! ... Have to git
'em to w-w-workin' ag'in' each other somehow. Git 'em into a s-squabble
of some kind. That'd do it, sure. How m-many wimmin b'long to those
things?"
"There's eighteen in the Circle," says I, "because ma b'longs, and
they're meetin' at our house to-morrow. I know there's eighteen, because
ma was figgerin' how much she'd have to have to feed 'em. She says two
sandriches apiece would do for most clubs, but thirty-six never'd fill
up the wimmin in hern. She says she wished she could find somethin'
stylish to put into those sandriches that didn't taste good. Then, she
says, she could brag about havin' somethin' special nice, and at the
same time nobody'd be able to make hogs of theirselves eatin' it."
"Have her t-t-try p-p-perfumed soap," says Mark. "That's swell, but
nobody'd g-gobble it much."
"But," says I, "I dunno how many's in the Home Culture. I kin find out,
though."
I did. There was an even twenty in it.
Well, Mark he sat down and pinched his cheek awhile, and then he took to
whittling, which showed plain he was going after it hard. He whittled up
nigh half a cord of wood before he got it all figgered out to suit him,
and then he says, "Binney, who's boss of each of those clubs?"
"Mis' Strubber's president of the Circle," says I, "and Mis' Bobbin's
president of the Home Culturers."
"We'll go s-s-see 'em," says he. "We'll give 'em all the lit'ry and all
the culture they kin use in a month of Sundays."
So he dragged me off to Mrs. Strubber's house. Mrs. Strubber is one of
them big women; not fat, you know, but _big_. I calc'late she's more 'n
six feet high, and she could lift a barrel of sugar without turning a
hair. But she's smart. Everybody says so, and she don't deny it herself.
Most of the fellows are sort of scairt of her, but Mark didn't seem to
be much afraid, for he marched right up to her door and rang the bell.
She came to the door, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping her hands on
her apron, and when I see how strong those arms looked I sort of edged
back so as to have the steps convenient if she didn't act pleased to see
us.
"Well, boys?" says she in a voice perty near as big as she was.
"Mis' S-s-strubber," says Mark, "we've come to ask some advice from you.
Everybody says you're the smartest woman in this t-t-town, so we
wouldn't go to anybody else with an important t-thing like this."
Well, you should have seen her grin. My! but she was tickled. "Come
right in," says she. "I was jest in the middle of a batch of
fried-cakes, but I calc'late Milly kin finish 'em up. Like fresh
fried-cakes?" says she.
"Not g-gen'ally," says Mark, "but I've heard a lot about yourn. Folks
says they melt in your mouth."
"A-hum!" says Mrs. Strubber, perducing some of them fried-cakes. "You're
a onusual p'lite young man, Mark Tidd. I wisht other boys would pattern
after you."
"Yas'm," says Mark, his mouth full of fried-cake.
"What kin I do for you?" says she. "Don't hurry. Eat them cakes and
don't try to talk till you're done. You might strangle," says she.
"Mis' Strubber," says Mark, "I've heard some argimint in Wicksville over
these t-t-two wimmin's clubs--the Circle," he says, "and the Home
Culturers."
"A-hum!" says Mrs. Strubber, drawing herself up like a rooster looking
for trouble--not a banty rooster. No, sir, one of them great big Barred
Rocks.
"Yes," he says, "there's some t-talk, and I figger it ought to be
s-settled once for all. 'Course most folks agrees that _you're_ the
smartest woman the' is, but a few hain't got sense enough to own up to
it. But quite a few f-folks is divided over which of the two clubs is
the brainiest, and which does the m-most good here, and all that. Now,
for me, there hain't any doubt at all. But it ought to be s-s-settled,
and I f-figger the Wicksville _Trumpet_ ought to t-take a hand, it bein'
literature, kind of."
"A-hum!" says she, scowling as black as a pail of axle grease.
"So," says he, "I got to t-thinkin' it over," he says, "and it
l-l-looked like the public demanded that question should get settled
once for all. Now, if _you_ kin see your way clear to come in with me,
the _Trumpet_'ll announce a contest between the clubs, and the thing'll
be decided forever. Not only," says he, "as to b-brains, but as to
c-cookin'."
"If them Home Culturers," says Mrs. Strubber, "got the _nerve_," she
says, "to come into a contest ag'in' us, I guess we got the self-respect
to give 'em the come-down that's due 'em."
"Good," says Mark. "I f-figgered you'd think that way."
"What kind of a contest?" says she.
"Sev'ral kinds," says he, "endin' with a big display of all kinds of
cookin', and two nights with big dinners, one to be served by each club.
There'll be the argimint contest, and it's always p-practical results
that shows there, hain't it, Mis' Strubber?"
"You bet it is," says she.
"So," says he, "I kind of reasoned out that we'd let results tell. Now,"
he says, "the kind of argimints that counts is _sellin'_ argimints. And
you got to sell somethin' hard to sell, and everybody's got to sell the
same thing."
"Mark Tidd," says she, "that's a splendid idee."
"I was wonderin' what you could t-tackle," says he. "It ought to be
somethin' havin' to do with b-brains."
"Sure thing," says she.
"Books, maybe," says he. "Or maybe s-somethin' that would be harder 'n
books."
"My husband's sister's second daughter," says she, "sells magazine
subscriptions. She says it's the hardest thing there is--except
newspaper subscriptions. She tackled that, but she says it was too much
for her."
"Um!" says Mark. "I bet it wouldn't be too hard for _you_."
"A-hum!" says Mrs. Strubber. "I calc'late I could do it on a pinch."
"Then," says Mark, "let's settle on that-sellin' n-n-newspaper
subscriptions. But what p-paper can you git to let you? It'll be p-perty
hard, won't it?"
She thought quite a spell and guessed it would be. Then all of a sudden
she bust right out and clapped her hands together, "Why," she says,
"you're int'rested in this, and you got a paper. Couldn't we git you to
let us use the _Trumpet_?"
Mark he sat back and frowned and sort of shook his head, but after a
minute he says, deliberate-like, "Well," says he, "I guess I'd be
willin' to do that for a cause of this kind. But," says he, "it's
concedin' consid'able."
"Oh," says she, "thank you, Mark! It's awful good of you to let us do
that. But what's the rest of your scheme?"
"Why," says he, "every year's subscription you sell will mean ten votes,
and the side sellin' the most will be showed to be the smartest arguers,
and the smartest arguers, everybody admits, is the smartest f-folks all
around. Then, at the end, there'll be a dinner served by the Circle, and
one served by the Home Culturers, that nobody can go to but subscribers
to the _Trumpet_. That'll help sell the s-s-subscriptions. The night
after the second dinner'll be the cookin' show, admission included when
you sell a s-subscription, and every subscriber'll have one vote as to
which club's wimmin is the b-best cooks. That'll about shut up every
argimint as to which is the s-smartest and usefulest. 'Cause," says he,
"the ones that win both them things will p-prove it so nobody kin say a
word."
"Mark Tidd," says she, "you're a smart boy."
"Like the idee?" says he, looking tickled to death.
"You bet," says she. "How'll we start it?"
"Why," says he, "you have a m-meetin' of your club and git up a
challenge to them Home Culturers, darin' 'em to contest that way ag'in'
you. I'll p-publish it in the _Trumpet_, and it bein' public that way,
they won't dast to refuse, and you'll have 'em. See? And," says he, "as
a example of p-public spirit," he says, "the _Trumpet_ will give a
p-prize to the winners equal to t-t-ten per cent.," he says, "of all the
subscriptions taken. It'll be," says he, "a set of books, real brainy
books, for the winnin' club always to have in its l-l-library."
"Mark," says she, "you're that generous!"
"Generous!" I thought to myself, for I knew mighty well Mark would be
tickled to pay near twice that much to git subscriptions.
"I'll call that meetin' for to-morrow," says she, "and have the
challenge ready so's you can publish it in the next paper."
"Got a picture of you?" says he. "I'd like to p-print it the day the
challenge comes out."
Well, the way she jerked one out of the plush album and gave it to him
would have made you scairt. She jest _tore_ it out of the page without
waiting to draw it out of the slits.
"Mark Tidd," says she, "the club'll give you a special vote of thanks
for this," she says.
Mark he said something sugary to her and then we left, and he kept his
face straight till we got around the corner. Then he just leaned up
against a tree and shook like a plate of jelly. I don't know as I ever
saw him laugh harder, and I laughed, too, though it wasn't so funny to
me, for I was thinking what a slick way he had about him. My goodness!
I'd hate to have Mark Tidd want me to do something I didn't want to,
because, before I knew it, he'd have me all through with it.
We went back to the office, where Plunk and Tallow were keeping shop,
and who should be there but the Man With the Black Gloves. Yes, sir, he
just went in ahead of us, and he was writing another advertisement to be
put in the paper. It went like this:
Jethro: Same time. Same place. Important. G. G. G.
"Well," says Mark, when he had gone out, "I guess we got to m-make
another t-trip to that bridge."
CHAPTER XV
Next afternoon late Mrs. Strubber came in with a challenge to the Home
Culturers, all drawn up and ready to print. Mark had sent her picture
away to have a cut made, and as soon as the challenge came in we took it
right out to Tecumseh Androcles Spat to have him set it in type. He read
it over once, and then he read it over twice, and then he reached for
his coat.
"Where you g-g-goin'?" asks Mark.
"Far, far away," says he, moving toward the door.
"What d'you m-mean?" says Mark.
"I've lost my taste for this employment," says he. "The sweetness of the
job got worn off as soon as I read that paper. I'm a peaceful man, Mark
Tidd. I hain't never carried no weapons, and I regard those that seek
for warfare and strife as not havin' the necessary quantity of brains.
I'll admit," says he, "that I've participated in a couple of riots and a
few fights, but it wasn't of my own free will and accord. Furthermore,
and you can take the word of Tecumseh Androcles Spat for it, the
newspaper business hain't as safe as knittin' socks, anyhow, but when
you start to call down trouble onto yourself, like this challenge will
call it down, then it's time for a man who's set up as many almanacs as
I have, and is steeped in wisdom, to go and enlist in a regiment bound
to fight Injuns."
"Mr. Spat," says Mark, "what in the world are you talkin' about?"
"You'll see," says he. "Wait till them enraged wimmin start besiegin'
this office. Wait till they jam into the place bristlin' with hatpins
and dignity. Wait till the full awfulness of what's goin' to happen
begins to occur, and then you'll think of Tecumseh Androcles Spat and
regret you cast aside his wise words with scorn."
"Shucks!" says Mark. "Those ladies will get us a wad of
s-s-subscriptions."
"At what a cost!" says he.
"Tecumseh Androcles Spat," says Mark, "be you goin' to f-f-fail us when
we need you most, eh? Be you g-goin' to desert us, carryin' away the
wisdom and experience we can't spare? Lemme ask you, how d-d-do you
s'pose we can git along without you to advise us? If t-t-trouble should
come," says he, "who would git us out of it if you was g-g-gone?"
"Hum!" says Spat.
Mark winked at me.
"See what you've made of this p-p-paper already," says he. "L-look what
you kin do before you're through. D'you know how f-folks in this town
speak about you, Mr. Spat? D'you know you've been spoke o
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