“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.

“Hey, Mark,” says I, “we’re up against it again. Seems like we’re always runnin’ up against it. Folks won’t let us have peace.”

“N-n-now what?” says he.

“Eagle Center Clarion’s goin’ to print a special Wicksville edition,” says I. “They’ve got an editor here, and he says he’s goin’ to put us out of business.”

“Um!” says Mark, and turned around so his face was toward the window. “S-s-special edition, eh?” Then he began tugging at his ear like he always does when there’s a problem to figure out or some sort of difficult thing to overcome. “Well,” says he in a minute, “I don’t see how we can s-s-stop ’em. But we’ll let ’em know they’ve got competition, eh, Binney?”

“You bet,” says I.

“Got to m-m-make our first paper a hummer,” says he, “so folks’ll talk about it and wonder what the dickens we’ll p-p-print next week.”

“Fine,” says I. “How’ll we get about it.”

“Best way,” says he, “is to take a chance of gettin’ licked.”

“Sounds good,” says I.

“We’ll p-p-print some real news,” says he, “and we’ll have a c-c-couple of typographical errors that h-happen on purpose.”

“Dunno what they be,” says I, “but they sound int’restin’.”

“They will be,” says he. “I’ll m-m-make ’em myself.”

“Kind of discouragin’ to have another paper crowdin’ in here right at the start,” says I.

“Shucks!” says he. “Just m-m-makes more work and more f-f-figgerin’. ’Tain’t any fun to do a thing that’s easy. Anybody can do an easy thing. Where the fun comes in is havin’ to f-f-fight for it.”

“Maybe,” says I, “but that’s where the worry comes, too.”

“Keep so b-busy you won’t have time to worry,” says he, “and first l-let’s go find your Mister Spragg.”

“Come on,” says I, and off we went to the hotel.

Mr. Spragg was still leaning against the same hitching-post. If he wasn’t going to do anything but hold up a post, I thought to myself, maybe we won’t have such a hard time of it, after all.

“Mister Spragg,” says I, “let me introduce the editor of the Wicksville Trumpet.”

“Him?” says Mr. Spragg, staring at Mark.

“Him,” says I.

Then Mr. Spragg did something he hadn’t ought to have done—not if he was wise. He busted right out laughing in Mark’s face.

“Him the editor!” says Mr. Spragg. “Oh, my goodness! Thought I was up against some kind of a man, but nothin’ but an over-fed kid that’s so fat he can’t hardly waddle. Oh! Oh!”

I kept my eyes on Mark, but he didn’t turn a hair. You would have thought he didn’t even hear what Spragg said, for he just waited for the man to get through laughing, and then he said, quiet-like:

“Glad to meet you, Mister S-s-spragg.”

“Go along, fatty,” says Spragg, “and don’t bother me.”

“I d-d-don’t want to bother you unless I have to,” says Mark, as calm and quiet as a china nest egg. “I figgered maybe you’d like to t-t-talk things over a bit.”

“With you?” says Spragg, as scornful as anything. “No time to bother with kids.”

“All right,” says Mark, still polite as peas. “I j-just wanted to give you the chance, that was all. I don’t b’lieve in sailin’ into a f-feller till there’s some reason for it, and if there’s a chance to be f-friends and keep out hard feelin’, I’m the one to do all I can.”

“Don’t be scairt of me, sonny. I hain’t goin’ to hurt you any—that is, outside of bustin’ up that paper you’re playin’ with.”

“Oh,” says Mark, “you’re aimin’ to do that, eh? I didn’t have any right to complain when you came in here with your p-p-paper. You had a right to if you wanted to. And you had a r-r-right to take away my subscribers and advertisers if you could get ’em—by fair, b-b-business-like means. But you didn’t have a right to come in here d-d-deliberately intendin’ to bust up our business. That hain’t fair or honest.”

He stopped and looked Mr. Spragg over from head to toes.

“Come to t-think of it,” says he, “I don’t b’lieve I like your l-looks. You look like a bluffer to me, and your eyes are too close t-together for folks to be warranted in t-trustin’ you far. So I sha’n’t.... That’s about all. I wanted to be d-d-decent about it, but I guess that hain’t your way of doin’. So I’ll issue a little warnin’. Go as far as you kin to get business. Go after my business as hard as you can m-m-manage—but do it fair and above-board and the way d-decent business men do. As l-long as you stick to the rules there won’t be any trouble. But the f-first time I catch you t-t-tryin’ to do anythin’ underhand or shysterin’ you’ll think you sat down unexpected on to a nest of yaller-jackets. Jest f-f-fix that in your mind, Mister Spragg.... Good-by.”

For a minute Spragg stood looking at Mark bug-eyed. He was ’most strangled with astonishment, I guess. We turned and walked off, and we’d gone fifty feet before he came to himself enough to say a word. Then he yelled:

“Hey, come back here! Hey, you! What you mean talkin’ like that?” And he started after us. But just then Billy Green, the hotel clerk, came out.

“What’s matter?” says he, and then he saw Mark and me. “Hain’t been goin’ up against Mark Tidd, have you?” says he to Spragg.

“That fat kid was sassin’ me,” says he.

“Thank your stars,” says Billy, “that’s all he done to you. Take my advice and forgit it.”

Mark didn’t miss a word of it, and I could see his ears getting pink with pleasure. He wasn’t swell-headed, and I guess I’ve said so before, but he did like to hear nice things said about himself, and more than anything else he liked to know that folks figured he wasn’t the sort you could take advantage of. Mark was different from most fellows. He’d rather have the sharpest brain in town than to win the most events in the Olympic Games. And you could tickle him more by praising something he’d thought up than by praising something he’d just done.

Mark didn’t say anything while we walked a couple of blocks, but a man with one eye, and that one under a patch, could have seen he was studying and studying.

“Well,” says I, “what’s the word?”

“Wisht he hadn’t showed up so s-s-soon,” says Mark, “I was perty busy before. I wanted t-t-time to think and study on somethin’ else for a while. Now I’ll have to think and s-s-study about how to stop Spragg from gettin’ the best of us, and how to get the b-best of him. Only we’ve got to be fair.”

“Sure,” says I, “but what else did you want to figger on?”

“The Wigglesworth business,” says he. “I wanted to p-p-puzzle out what’s goin’ on, and I wanted to s-sneak out and see that boy and t-talk to him. I bet he knows things Lawyer Jones didn’t get out of him. Boys don’t always tell men all they know.... Well, I’ll just have to f-f-find time to do both.”

“We’ll help all we can,” says I. “Maybe we’ll be some good.”

“Now don’t go gettin’ sore,” says Mark. “I hain’t ever slighted you yet, have I? Eh? When anythin’ was g-goin’ on you got plenty to do, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Well,” says he, “more l-likely you’ll get more ’n you want to do this time.... I do wisht I could figger out where that boy comes in. Rock’s his name. What’s he got to do with Henry Wigglesworth? Why didn’t Mr. Wigglesworth speak to him at all? Remember Lawyer Jones said he didn’t. Then what m-m-made Mr. Wigglesworth come s-sneakin’ in at night to look at him? That’s the hardest of all. He could see the b-boy all day. What for did he want to be p-p-prowlin’ in with a lamp to look at him at night? It’s all mixed up. But you can bet there’s s-somethin’ behind it all that’ll m-make a dandy newspaper story when we get to the b-b-bottom of it.”

“Maybe we won’t,” says I.

He turned on me quick. “We will,” says he, “or bust.”

“Huh!” says I. “We can’t always come out on top.”

“We can always if we t-t-try hard enough. The reason some folks is always f-f-failin’ is because they don’t think hard enough and work hard enough. Laziness makes more f-f-failures than bad luck.”

“Maybe,” says I, “but this looks like it was too tough a job for just kids.”

“Wait and see,” says he.

“I’ll help you,” says I.

Lots of fellows would have told me to mind my own business, or maybe laughed at me and said I wasn’t smart enough to help, but not Mark.

“All right,” says he, “two heads is b-better than a sack of meal. What I m-miss you may see, and what you don’t catch on to may stick out plain to me. Let’s get at it.”