Mark Tidd, Editor Part 24

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-s.h.!.+" 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 hobn.o.bbin', 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.