Mark Tidd, Editor Part 4

"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 Tec.u.mseh 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 Tec.u.mseh 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 Tec.u.mseh 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 b.u.mped 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 n.o.body 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. n.o.body-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-cla.s.s 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."

Tec.u.mseh 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."