Mark Tidd, Editor

by Clarence Budington Kelland

  CHAPTER VI

  Next morning Mark and Tallow and Plunk and I were in the office justafter the train from the city came in. A strange man came slammingthrough the door like he figured out his errand was pretty important andhe was pretty important himself.

  "Where's the editor?" says he in about the same voice you might expectsomebody to say, "Who stole my horse?"

  "I'm h-him," says Mark, and I could see his face sort of setting like itdoes when he thinks something unpleasant is going to happen and he's gotto use his wits.

  "Huh!" says the man, looking him over. "There's enough of you, hain'tthere--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 beganto get sharp and bright. "Look out, mister," says I to myself. Markdidn'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 pieceof paper down on the counter.

  Mark picked it up and looked at it. You couldn't tell by his face whathe thought of it, though he read it pretty careful and then didn't sayanything 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 muchmanners 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 likeyou ought to, actin' d-decent, you'll be treated the same. If you've gotany b-business with me, act like a b-business man. If you can't act thatway--git out. There's the d-door. I guess whatever b-business there isto do can be done with your boss."

  The man sort of eased off a trifle and acted a little more like he was aregular 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 youthink 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 hetold me either to git the money or to shut up your shop for you. Sowhich'll it be?"

  "N-neither for a minute," says Mark. "Here you come rushin' in here witha b-b-bill for eighty-seven dollars that I hain't ever heard of. Beforeanythin' 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 everhad the money."

  "But we don't owe it," says Tallow. "We just bought this paper a fewdays 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 lookedsorry and acted sorry, but he said there wasn't anything to do but payit. "It's a shame," say she, "and you've been swindled, but it can't behelped. The old proprietor owed this money, and concealed the fact whenyou bought the paper. It isn't honest, but the people who sold the paperaren't to blame. The man who sold you the _Trumpet_ is. According to lawyou'll have to pay."

  "Um!" says Mark, tugging at his cheek like he always does when he'sthinking hard. "Eighty-seven d-d-dollars. Woosh!"

  "We 'ain't got it," says I.

  "Mister," says Mark, "you see h-how it is. 'Tain't _our_ fault this billisn't paid. Seems to me like the l-l-least you could do would be to giveus some more time."

  "It don't rest with me," says he. "I was sent here to git the money orto put you out of business. Them's orders, and I'm a man that obeys hisorders every time. You can bet on that."

  "Come b-back to the office," says Mark.

  We all went back there, and us four boys held a little meeting to seehow much cash we had. Every cent we could scrape up in the world, andthat included advertising bills that hadn't been paid, was seventy-sixdollars. We'd had to spend some for supplies and such.

  "Will you t-t-take fifty dollars," says Mark, "and wait for the rest?"

  "I'll take eighty-seven dollars," says the man.

  "F-fellers," says Mark, "we're eleven d-dollars shy. Looks like we _got_to pay. Tallow, you go out and collect in what's owin' us. Tell thef-f-folks why we got to have it. They'll p-pay. The rest of us'll getthe eleven dollars. You, mister, sit down and wait half an hour."

  Out we went, and I says to Mark, "How we goin' to git that elevendollars?"

  "I just got a s-scheme," says he, "while that man was talkin'. It'sabout Home-Comin' Week. We'll get out a s-special Home-Comin' Edition.Get the idee?"

  "I don't," says I.

  "Here it is," says he. "We'll print a p-page full of pictures of ourl-leadin' citizens, with a little piece about each of 'em. The cuts ofthe photographs'll cost about a dollar apiece, and we'll charge 'em twodollars 'n' a h-half to have 'em put in. That l-leaves a d-dollar 'n' ahalf to cover the cost of paper and p-printin'. Be a nice profit in it."

  "You won't git nobody," says I.

  "Binney," says he, "you hain't got any idee how many folks wants to seetheir picture in the p-paper. We'll git a lot."

  "Go ahead," says I, "but you'll see."

  "Got the idee so's you understand it?" says he to Plunk and me.

  We told him we guessed so.

  "Can you t-talk it?" says he.

  "We can try," says I.

  "Then," says he, "Tallow'll take the right side of Main Street, Binney,you take the left side, and don't miss anybody, clerks and all. I'llkind of s-s-skirmish around."

  I went along and talked to four people, and every one of them said theydidn't want anything to do with it, just like I told Mark, so I wentback to the corner pretty disgusted with the idea. I met Plunk there,and he was disgusted, too.

  "Knew it wouldn't work," says he.

  "Where's Mark?" says I.

  "He went that way," says he, pointing.

  "Let's find him," says I; so off we went.

  Pretty soon we saw him come around the corner and go into the milkman'syard.

  "What's he goin' in there for?" Tallow says. "Can't be figgerin' ongettin' anythin' out of Ol' Hans Richter."

  "Let's find out," says I, and we went along and followed Mark right backinto Richter's barn. Richter was standing in the barn door with amilk-pail over each arm, and Mark was talking to him. Just as we gotthere Old Hans says:

  "Mein picture in your baber, eh? Ho! What for does Ol' Hans want mit apicture in the baber?"

  "It isn't what you w-w-want," says Mark, "it's what the f-f-folks intown want. Why, Mr. Richter, this thing won't be worth a cent if youain't in it! What kind of a p-page of prominent citizens of Wicksvillewould it b-be if you wasn't there? No good. Folks 'u'd say, 'Where'sHans Richter? Where's the man that's been f-fetchin' our milk for twentyyear?' That's what they'd say. And folks comin' from out of t-t-townwould want to know what b-business we had printin' other men's picturesand leavin' yours out. Why, Mr. Richter, we _d-dassen't_ leave you out!"

  "You t'ink dot?"

  "You bet I do. We just _got_ to have you. You don't think we want tohave to print Jim Withers's picture, do you? He hain't been p-peddlin'milk here more 'n two years."

  "Jim Withers, iss it? Ho! You print his picture in your baber if mine Ido not give? Eh?"

  "We'd have to, but we don't _want_ to."

  "By yimminy, you don't haff to. Nein. Shall der people be cheated? Nein.Dey shall haff Hans Richter's picture, and not any other. Jim Withers!Whoosh! He iss a no-goot milkman. How much you said dot vass?"

  "Two d-dollars 'n' a half," says Mark.

  Old Hans dug down into his back pocket and pulled out a leather bag, andI'm going to turn as black as a crow if he didn't give Mark the money.

  "Now," says he, "I giff you dot picture, eh? Vun I got w'ich was took inmein vedding coat a year ago. Dot coat iss yet as goot as new, andfourt-one year old it iss
. Ya. Fourt-one year."

  "Fine," says Mark, and in a minute Old Hans gave him the picture andMark turned around to where we were.

  "How you comin'?" says he.

  "Poor," says I.

  "How about you?" says Plunk.

  "P-perty good," says Mark. "I got four."

  "_Four_," says I. "So quick! How'd you do it, and who be they?"

  "Well, there's Richter, and old man Meigs, our leadin' veteran of theCivil War, and Grandad Jones, that crossed the plains in a p-prairieschooner, and Uncle Ike Bond."

  "I surrender," says I. "If you kin git them old coots you kin gitanybody. I'm through. Nobody'll listen to me or Plunk. You sail in andgit 'em."

  He grinned the way he does when he's tickled with himself and when heknows folks are appreciating what a brainy kid he is.

  "It's easy," says he. "Just m-make 'em feel how important they are. Youf-fellows go and see what news you can p-pick up. I'll git in thesepictures."

  And I'll be kicked hard if he didn't. In an hour he came to the officewith ten photographs and twenty-two dollars and a half. He handed overto the collector man what was due him, for Tallow had got in most of thecollections, and had enough left to pay for the cuts of the photographs.The man signed a receipt for the money and went away, looking like hewas disappointed.

  "Well," says Mark, "we s-s-scrambled out of _that_ hole, didn't we? Butwe got to do some harder s-scramblin' now. I'm goin' after morephotographs."

  He took most of the day at it, and when night come around how many doyou think he'd grabbed on to? Forty-one. Yes, sir. And he had the cashmoney for every one of them. That left us with just exactly ninety-onedollars and a half in the treasury, and so we were really some betteroff than we had been before the collector came around.

  "Fiddlesticks!" says Tallow. "Wisht the collector hadn't showed up. We'dalmost be _rich_."

  "If he hadn't s-s-showed up," says Mark, "we wouldn't have thought upthis s-scheme. It's _havin'_ to do things that makes folks do theirbest. Bein' necessary is one of the best things can happen to af-f-fellow."

  Wasn't that just like him! And you'll notice he didn't grab all thecredit himself, though, goodness knows, he was entitled to it. No, sir,he says, "we" thought up the scheme. He was the real kind of a kid to doanything with, because he kept you feeling good. All the time you knewhe was the one that was thinking up things and doing them. All we didwas trail around and help. But just the same, he made us feel we had asmuch to do with it as he did. I expect we worked all the harder becauseof that. Do you know, I shouldn't wonder if that was a pretty good wayfor all folks that has other folks working for them to act. The workingfolks would work harder and take more pleasure in it. I expect Mark hadit all figured out that way.