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.