Mark Tidd, Editor Part 11

"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 Tec.u.mseh 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 Tec.u.mseh 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, Tec.u.mseh 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 a.s.sociated 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 rus.h.i.+n' 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. Woos.h.!.+"

"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."