The first thing that happened was the coming of the Man With the Black Gloves. All of a sudden we looked up and there he was standing in the door, squinting at us with his disagreeable eyes. You haven’t any idea how quiet he’d come. One second he wasn’t there; the next second there he was, and no fuss about it at all.

“Howdy!” says Mark.

“Proprietor in?” says the man, chopping off his words like he hated to use them at all.

“I’m one of t-them,” says Mark. “What can I do for you?”

“Liner ad. How much?” He didn’t throw in one extra word for good measure. After he was gone Mark says he bet he was stingy as anything. He said he guessed so because he hated to give away the cheapest thing in the world—which is talk.

“Cent a word,” says Mark.

The Man With the Black Gloves poked out a paper to Mark and says, “Head it ‘Personal.’” Then he passed over a quarter and Mark counted the words and gave back the change. The man turned and went out as quiet as he came, not even nodding good-by.

Mark stood looking after him, and when he was out of ear-shot he turned to me and said almost in a whisper, “Binney, l-l-look here!”

Something in his voice made me come quick. I took the paper out of his hand and read what was written on it. It said:

Jethro: On deck. Report. Center Line Bridge. Eight. G. G. G.

“Funny kind of an ad.,” says I.

“F-f-funny kind of a man,” says Mark. “What d’you make of it?”

“Nothin’,” says I.

“He’s up to somethin’,” says Mark.

“Huh!” says I. “Haven’t we got work enough and mysteries enough on hand without goin’ out of our way to find another?”

“But,” says Mark, “this is s-s-suspicious.”

“What of it?” says I.

“Looks to me,” says he, “like it was our d-duty as newspaper men to l-l-look into it. May be for the good of the community.”

“Rats!” says I.

“He hain’t plannin’ no good,” says Mark.

“Likely he hain’t,” says I, “but what business is it of ours?”

“Everything is a newspaper man’s b-business,” says Mark, “even things that hain’t none of his b-business.”

“That sounds crazy,” says I.

“Anyhow,” says he, “I’m goin’ to f-f-find out what’s the meanin’ of this ad.”

“Go ahead,” says I, “and if you get into trouble don’t ask me to pull you out.”

Mark looked at me and grinned, and I grinned back, for it was funny. Usually the one to get folks out of trouble wasn’t me. I was better at getting them into it. But Mark, why, he made a sort of business of jerking us out of scrapes we got into!

“Why,” says I, “would a man put in an ad. like that? Why doesn’t he go tell this Jethro instead of puttin’ it in the paper?”

“One reason,” says Mark, “is because he d-d-don’t want to be seen near where this Jethro is stayin’.”

That did sound reasonable.

“Yes,” says Mark, tugging at his ear. “Jethro’s expectin’ this feller. This Black Glove feller’s the boss, it looks to me Jethro’s either d-doin’ somethin’ or f-f-findin’ out somethin’ for Black Gloves, and this ad. tells him to report. That’s easy. He’s to do his r-r-reportin’ at the Center Line Bridge, and the ‘eight’ means eight o’clock.... But what d-day?”

“Why,” says I, “the day the paper comes out!”

“N-no,” says Mark. “I f-figger he means next day. By that time Jethro’d have time to get his p-p-paper and see the ad. Most likely he’s been told to look for his orders that way.”

“To be sure,” says I, and it did seem pretty clear after Mark reasoned it out, but I never would have got that far in six years of digging.

“So,” says Mark, “you and me will be at Center Line Bridge Friday n-n-night an hour ahead of t-t-time, so’s to hide away and overhear what’s up.”

“And probably git our backs busted,” says I.

“Hain’t n-never got ’em b-busted yet,” says he.

“All right, Mark,” I says. “Where you go I go, but one of these times neither one of us’ll be comin’ back in one piece. No, sir, we’ll be gettin’ scattered all over the county so our folks’ll have to gather us up in a basket.”

“B-b-between now and Friday,” says Mark, changing the subject, “there’s a n-newspaper to get out. Stop gabblin’ and go to work.”

Mark turned around to his desk and went to work. I stood around a minute and then, not seeing anything special to get at, I asked him what he wanted me to do.

“Go out and get some advertisin’,” says he, and went to work again.

Get some advertising, says he! I had about as much idea how to get advertising as I had how to catch eels with my bare hands—and I found out that advertisements were just about as easy to catch as eels. Yes, and maybe a little harder. If you try to catch an eel, why, he just wriggles away, but if you try to catch an advertisement the man you try to catch it from is as likely as not to kick you out of his store. I don’t see why ads. aren’t catching, like measles or mumps. It would make it a heap easier for us newspaper men.

Anyhow, all the business I managed to get was a miserable little advertisement from old man Crane, who had started to grow whiskers and wanted to trade a safety razor for a brush and comb. It was a cent a word and there were fifteen words. I didn’t see exactly how we were going to get rich at that rate.

While I was on my way back to the office I saw what looked like it was going to be a fight, so I stopped around to watch, but it turned out to be nothing but a squabble. It was kind of fun, though, even if nobody did anything but talk and holler. The men mixed up in it were Mr. Pawl, who owned the Emporium Grocery, and Mr. Giddings, who ran the Busy Big Market.

When I got there they were just beginning to get started good. Mr. Pawl, who was about five feet and a half tall, was reaching up in the air as far as he could reach to shake his fist under Mr. Giddings’s nose—and Mr. Giddings’s nose was so high up he couldn’t even come near it.

“You did,” says he, hollering as loud as he could yell. “You know you did, you—you yaller grasshopper. She come right over and told me. ’Tain’t the first time, neither. But it’s goin’ to be the last. No man kin say to Missis Petty that the eggs in my store was laid by a hen that was sufferin’ from ague. No, sir, nobody kin. Sufferin’ from ague, says you, so that the eggs was addled before they was laid, on account of the hen shakin’ and shiverin’ so.... That’s what you told her, you wab-blin’ old bean-pole. Tryin’ to drive away my customers, eh? I’ll show you.”

“Now, Banty,” says Mr. Giddings, calling Mr. Pawl a name that always made him mad enough to eat a barrel of nails, because he didn’t like to have folks mention his size, “now, Banty, jest keep your feet on the ground. ’Tain’t a mite worse for me to tell Missis Petty what I told her than it is for you to tell Missis Green that whenever you grease up your buggy you git a pound of my butter ’cause it’s better for the purpose than the best axle grease—but hain’t good for nothin’ else. Remember that, don’t you, you half-grown toadstool? ... Jest let me tell you, this here slanderin’ ’s been goin’ on long enough, and I’m a-goin’ to fight back. I’ll give you tit for tat, and don’t you forgit it.”

“I’ll have the law on you,” Mr. Pawl hollered.

“Law—shucks! I’ll take you acrost my knee and spank you,” says Giddings.

“I won’t muss up my hands touchin’ you,” says Pawl. “’Twouldn’t hurt you nohow, with your rhinoceros hide. Only way to git you sufferin’ is to touch your pocket-book. From now I’m a-goin’ after your business, and goin’ after it hard. I’ll bust you, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll bust you so’s you can’t be put together with glue.”

“Two kin play that fiddle,” says Mr. Giddings. “In two months there won’t be but one grocery store in Wicksville, and that one’ll be Giddings’s Busy Big Market. Now run along and sleep on that.”

Giddings walked off, leaving Pawl dancing up and down and making noises that didn’t have any sense to them. He was so mad he didn’t know if he was a man in Wicksville or a rampaging hyena in the Desert of Sahara.

I poked along to the office with my little ad. and handed it to Mark, sort of figgerin’ maybe he’d be mad because I hadn’t got more, but he wasn’t, and I might have known he wouldn’t be.

“F-f-fine,” says he. “That’s a starter. I didn’t really f-f-figger you’d get any, first time out. Bet you get to be the best advertisin’-getter in the office.”

Maybe he didn’t mean it, and maybe he was saying it just to make me feel good, but anyhow it was a good idea. If he’d growled and acted disappointed, most likely it would have taken the heart out of me, so that next time I’d have done worse. But as it was I felt, somehow, like I could go out and get a whole basketful of ads. now. That was Mark Tidd’s way of doing things. He knew how to manage fellows and how to get the most work out of them. I’ll bet you that some day he’s one of the biggest business men there is. I don’t mean big just because he’s such a whopper, but important.

I told him about the row between Pawl and Giddings, and he laughed till the fat on his cheeks wabbled like a dish of jelly. Then he got sober and began tugging his ear.

“Come on, Binney,” says he.

“Where?” says I.

“Out to git some b-b-business,” Says he.

I went following along till he came to Pawl’s Emporium and was turning in.

“Hey,” says I, “what you goin’ in here for? He’s too mad to sell things, let alone buyin’ advertisin’ space.”

“Maybe,” says Mark. “Let’s try, anyhow.”

So in we went. Mr. Pawl was behind the counter, walking up and down like a wolf in a circus cage, and every little while he would up with his fist and bang it down with all his might. I guess he imagined he was smashing Giddings.

“Come on away from here,” says I to Mark. “He may take it into his head to wallop us.”

Mark just grinned.

“Howdy, Mr. Pawl!” says he.

Mr. Pawl just glared at him and banged the counter again.

“I don’t b-b-blame you for being mad,” says Mark. “I’d be madder ’n you are if it was me.”

“If what was you?” says Mr. Pawl.

“If a competitor was t-tryin’ to get ahead of me like yours is tryin’ to get ahead of you.”

“What’s he doin’ now? What’s he doin’ now?” Mr. Pawl yelled at the top of his voice.

“I’ll tell you what I think he’s goin’ to d-d-do,” says Mark. “He’s goin’ to go after your customers hard. He’s goin’ to offer ’em b-bargains, and maybe he’ll have somethin’ to say about you.”

“What d’you mean? How’ll he offer bargains? Where’ll he say anythin’ about me?”

“I think,” says Mark, “he’s goin’ to p-p-put a big advertisement in the p-p-paper. If he does he’ll tell f-f-folks about some whoppin’ bargains. And I guess maybe he’ll compare his store with yours, and his b-bargains with yours, and your stuff won’t get p-praised much. D’you f-figger it will?”

“Advertise, will he? Thinks he can git ahead of me, does he? Go spatterin’ printer’s ink, eh? Well, he better not. I’ll have the law on him, so I will. I’ll make him wish his name wasn’t Giddings ’fore I’m through with him.”

“I know what I’d do if I was you,” says Mark.

“What ’u’d you do?” growled Mr. Pawl.

“I’d b-b-beat him at his own game,” says Mark. “I wouldn’t let on I f-f-figgered he was goin’ to advertise, but I’d advertise myself, and wouldn’t I offer b-bargains! I’ll bet I’d put things in the paper that would start a reg’lar p-p-procession into this store. And if I could think of anythin’ to say, I guess I’d sort of allude to competitors and their way of d-d-doin’ business, and such.”

“If I could think of anythin’!” yelled Mr. Pawl. “You bet I kin think of somethin’. How big a advertisement d’you figger he’ll print?”

“Prob’ly all of half a p-page,” says Mark.

“I’ll have a page, a whole blinged page. I’ll show him! That’s the way we do business in the Emporium. No half-pages for us. We go the whole hog when we go.... Now git out of here, you kids. I’m goin’ to be busy. I’ve got to rig up a whole-page ad. for that paper, and I got to do it quick to beat that raker-handle of a Giddings.... When’s the paper come out?”

“To-morrow,” says Mark. “Better get your ad. in this afternoon.”

“You bet I will,” says Mr. Pawl, and while we were going out he was already writing on it.

Mark looked at me and grinned. “F-f-funny he didn’t kick us out,” says he.

“Mark Tidd,” says I, “I take off my hat. Talk about grabbin’ a opportunity when it’s passin’! Well, I guess maybe you didn’t grab this one.”

“You lugged in the opportunity,” says Mark, giving me credit like he always does, even though I didn’t deserve much of it. “But we hain’t quite through grabbin’ yet,” says he. “We got to see Mr. Giddings.”

We went catercorner across the street to the Busy Big Market, and there was Mr. Giddings in the door, with a grin on his face, looking down at a crate of eggs. On the crate he had just stuck a sign, which read:

Mark started in to laugh and nudged me with his elbow.

“Laugh, you chump,” says he, “l-l-laugh.”

So I set in to laughing with all my might. Mr. Giddings looked at us and grinned.

“Perty good, eh?” says he.

“You bet,” says Mark, “but I hear tell Mr. Pawl’s goin’ to have even that sign beat.”

“He is, is he?” says Mr. Giddings. “How is he, I’d like to know? He better not start in on anythin’. What’s the leetle weasel up to now?”

“Advertisin’,” says Mark. “He’s goin’ to advertise such b-b-bargains as Wicksville ’ain’t ever seen before. I got wind of somethin’ else, too. I hear he’s goin’ to allude to his competitors in his advertisement, and sort of lambaste ’em and their goods.”

“He is, eh? When? How?”

“To-morrow, in the Wicksville Trumpet,” says Mark. “He’s g-g-goin’ to have a full-page ad., and I’ll bet he’ll say some mean things in it, too.”

“Think so?” says Mr. Giddings, eager-like. “Well, now, I’ll fool the little flea. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll have a page ad., too, and if he can offer better bargains than I do, or say more cuttin’ things, then I’ll go out of business. Paper comes out to-morrow, don’t it?”

“Yes,” says Mark. “Better have your page in the office this afternoon. It’ll have to be set up in a hurry.”

“You bet I will,” says Mr. Giddings, “and I’ll say things in it so hot your compositor’ll burn his fingers settin’ ’em in type.”

We went hustling back to the office and told Tecumseh Androcles Spat that he had a night’s work ahead of him that would come close to taxing even his ability.

“What is it?” says he.

“Two page ads.,” says Mark.

“Huh!” says Tecumseh Androcles. “I’ll have them ready. And they will not be mere ads. They will be works of art. I will bring to the setting of them all my skill and knowledge, to say nothing of the genius with which nature has endowed me. Young sirs, this town will see two page ads. such as it has never dreamed of.”

“Fine,” says Mark, and we went back into the office.

“I’ll bet,” says Mark, “that Tecumseh Androcles was right about one t-t-thing. Wicksville hain’t ever dreamed of two page advertisements like those’ll be.”

“I only hope,” says I, “that there won’t be no bloodshed.”

Mark grinned, happy-like. “Business is p-p-pickin’ up. Wonder how many page advertisements Spragg has p-p-picked up for the Eagle Center Clarion?”