Mark Tidd, Editor Part 33

Strubber pretended to look at Bobbin careful, and then he laughed out loud. "Folks tells me," says he, "that you really eat the stuff Mrs.

Bobbin cooks."

"You bet I do," says Bobbin.

"Lookin' at you," says Strubber, "I'm prepared to admit it. Nothin' else would make you look that way. I always wondered what made you sich a peeked, ornery, yaller-complected, funny-lookin' little runt like you be. You must 'a' had a tough const.i.tution when you got married, or you wouldn't never have survived all these years-if what you _be_ can be called survivin'. As for me, I guess I'd rather not 'a' survived at all as to be what that cookin' has made of you."

"Huh!" says Bobbin. "I hain't no tub of lard like _you_ be. What I git is good wholesome food that makes muscles and brain. You get fed on sloppy stuff to fatten you. You know what we feed hogs, don't you, eh?

Gather it up out of pails at folks' back doors. It fats up the hogs, too. Well, Mrs. Strubber, she uses that same method on you."

"Be you comparin' my wife's cookin' to _swill_?" yelled Strubber, wabbling all over like a bowl of jelly he was that mad.

"Not comparin'," says Bobbin. "And what goes for Mrs. Strubber goes for all the rest of them Lit'ry Circle wimmin."

"Eh? What's that?" bellowed another man from the crowd. "I want you should know _my_ wife b'longs to that Lit'ry Circle, and the finest wimmin in town does. Wimmin b'longs to that that would be ashamed to be one of them Home Culturers. Why, n.o.body b'longs to the Home Culturers but folks the Lit'ry Circle wimmin wouldn't have nothin' to do with."

"Is that _so_?" another fellow shouted, and began working close to the row. "My wife's a Home Culturer, and if you think I'll stand by to let a spindle-shanked, knock-kneed, bald-headed, squint-eyed wampus like you say sich things, why, you're mighty badly mistook. Listen here. 'Tain't doin' no good to stand here fightin' about our wives. There's a contest on to see which ones is the best. I don't need no contest to tell _me_.

But us men better shut up and let the contest go ahead. Then you Lit'ry Circle fellers will have to hunt your holes. Why, doggone you, them Home Culturers will git two subscriptions to your one. Hear _me_. And when it comes to cookin' and gittin' up a meal of vittles-well, jest wait, that's all I got to say."

He turned around and began to push out of the crowd, and so did the other men. I guess they judged they was gettin' perty close to a fight, and that jest talking wouldn't answer the purpose much longer. I notice that men is willing to stand and rave and tear and talk jest so long as it hain't likely to go any farther. But the minute things begins to look like business, and spectators is all keyed up to see a fight, why, the talking stops and the folks that started it all begins to disappear fast. Mostly a man that talks won't fight, and a man that fights keeps his mouth tight shut.

Mark and I went along toward the office.

"L-l-looks to me," says he, grinning like all git out, "as if f-folks was beginnin' to git a bit het up over the contest."

"Yes," says I. "I hope both sides don't turn to and get het up at us. If they do," says I, "the South Pole is about the only place we'll be safe, and maybe not there."

"I don't care," says he, "as long as it gits us s-s-subscriptions."

Which was just exactly like him. Results was what counted.

CHAPTER XVII

Next morning Mark and Plunk and I went out to the Wigglesworth farm to see Rock. We walked right into the yard like we always do, now that Jethro thinks we're working for him, but Rock wasn't in sight. Jethro was, though. He was fussing around the side yard and we walked over to where he was.

"Howdy, Jethro!" says Mark, and Jethro turned his face toward us. He had one of the biggest and best black eyes I ever saw. It was a regular socdolager of a black eye-one of the kind that runs way down on your cheek and that starts to wiggling and twitching every once in a while like a blob of jelly.

"Howdy!" says Jethro, short-like.

"Run into somethin'?" says I.

"Yes," says he, and felt of his eye.

"I run into one of them things once," says Plunk, who talks sometimes when he ought to keep his mouth shut. "There was a boy on the other end of it, and he was mad at me."

"There wasn't no boy on the other end of this," says Jethro.

"Where's Rock?" says Mark.

"Around the house somewheres," says Jethro. "Yell and he'll come."

So we left Jethro and went around back of the house and yelled for Rock.

In a minute he came, and you could see right off that he was either sick or something. He wasn't exactly pale, but he looked like he'd like to be pale. His eyes was kind of big and hollow like he hadn't slept much.

"Never was so glad to see anybody in my life," says he, and he said it like he meant it.

"How d-d-did Jethro git his b-black eye?" says Mark.

"I don't know," says Rock, and he s.h.i.+vered a little. "Something has been happening. I don't know what. I'm scared, and I'm not ashamed to own it up. Last night, just after I went to bed, somebody came to the door.

After that I heard voices down-stairs, and then a whopping racket like somebody was smas.h.i.+ng the furniture. Then there was a noise like a man was dragging a bag of flour up-stairs-way up into the third story. I didn't dare sneak out to see what it was, but I couldn't get to sleep.

In about an hour I heard something moving around over my head somewhere.

And then somebody began to thump on a door and yell, 'Hey, there. Lemme out of here. Lemme out of here.'"

"Yes," says Mark, eager-like.

"Then Jethro went banging up-stairs and there was a lot of yelling and banging, and then Jethro came down again. Since then I've heard somebody moving around up there. Every once in a while, whoever it is, takes a crack at the door and yells a little."

"Um!" says Mark. "T-that's what Jethro run into, Plunk. It was a f-feller's fist, which is what causes most black eyes. I've heard of folks gittin' 'em by f-fallin' out of bed, and by runnin' into a d-d-door in the dark, and by havin' a bird fly into their face, and by stoopin' over quick and b.u.t.tin' their own knee. I've heard of all those ways, but when you come to git the f-f-facts, most gen'ally you find out it was a fist they run into. I f-figgered it was that way with Jethro, and I guess I kin n-name the fist."

"Go on," says Plunk.

"It b'longed to a f-feller named Pekoe," says Mark.

"_Pekoe!_" says Rock.

"That's the f-feller."

"He's the man that brought me here," says Rock.

"Jest so," says Mark.

"What is he back for? And why did Jethro shut him up?" says Rock.

"That," says Mark, "is what it's our b-b-business to find out."

"Easy," says I. "Jest go up to his door and ask."

"Sure," says Plunk. "Jethro's out in the yard."

"M-maybe," says Mark, with a sort of grin, "we might try."

We went to the back door and started in, but just as, we opened the door Jethro came into the kitchen and looked at us, standing between us and the door toward the front of the house.

"Better play outdoors to-day," says he. "I'm goin' to clean house, and I don't want you kids underfoot."

So out we went.