Next day what Mark Tidd called the mended Wicksville Trumpet gave its first toot. It didn’t break our backs carrying to the post-office the copies we mailed to regular subscribers. The four of us boys could ’most have written out enough papers longhand to fix them up, but we did print five hundred copies altogether. The rest we were going to sell just like papers are sold in cities.

We sold them for three cents apiece, and every fellow had subscription blanks in his pocket so if anybody got so reckless as to want to subscribe we could catch him before he cooled off. You wouldn’t believe it, but before night we had raked in forty-six regular honest-to-goodness subscribers.

Folks was that interested! At first they bought our papers to see the joke, I guess, but pretty soon they were buying them because they wanted to read what was in them, and especial to read about Henry Wigglesworth and the two page advertisements from Pawl and Giddings.

The Eagle Center Clarion was on deck, too, giving away sample copies of the new Wicksville edition. But we had Spragg swamped. For every local he had we printed three, and three of the kind Wicksville folks like to read. He had only a dozen lines about Henry Wigglesworth, while we had two columns full of interesting things, and mystery, and Rock, and such like. It was the first time folks really got any clear idea of what had happened out there. At that, I guess they thought they had a clearer idea than they had. I know we editors would have given considerable to be better posted.

Ten minutes after he got his paper Mr. Pawl started out to lick Mr. Giddings. About that same minute Mr. Giddings started out to do things to Mr. Pawl, and they met in the square close to the town pump. Each of them had a Trumpet clutched in his fingers, and was waving it around like a battle flag. When they saw each other they both let out a bellow and rushed.

But neither of them was so war-like, when it came to doing regular fighting, as they were when nothing but yelling was necessary. When they got about eight feet apart they both stepped like somebody was standing up and hauling on the lines. They stopped so sudden it must have jarred them, and there they stood, shaking their fists at each other and waving their Trumpets.

Uncle Ike Bond, the ’bus driver, drew up his horses and craned his neck to listen.

“What’s trouble?” he called down.

“They’re squabblin’ about them advertisements,” said Jim Walker.

“Um! ... If I was them fellers I’d keep shet up about them ads. As I view it there was consid’able truth about both of ’em. Giddings he lets on Pawl is a skinflint and weighs his hand with every pound of butter; Pawl he gives it out that Giddings hain’t got but one honest hair in his head, and that one’s so loose at the root it’s clost to fallin’ out. I’ve dealt consid’able with both,” Uncle Ike went on, waggling his head, “and as I view it nobody hain’t been wronged.” He stopped a minute and squinted down at them.

“Be you honest figgerin’ on a fight?” he asked, “’cause if you be I’ll stop to watch, but if it hain’t nothin’ but a fist-shakin’ match I’ll move along. Hey?”

Both men looked sort of sheepish, and like they wished they was where they weren’t.

“Go on, Pawl,” said Uncle Ike, “step up and lam him one.”

Pawl backed off like the place he was standing was too hot for his feet.

“Um!” says Uncle Ike. “Well, you start it, Giddings. Somebody put a chip on Pawl’s shoulder. Giddings’ll knock it off.”

“I won’t have no chip on my shoulder,” says Pawl.

“I see somebody goin’ into my store,” says Giddings. “I got to hurry over there.”

“Both of you better hurry back,” says Uncle Ike. “I’m what you might call a man with experience and wisdom. For more years ’n I like to think about I’ve been a-drivin’ this ’bus, and the seat of a ’bus is the place to git experience. Nothin’ like it. Greatest teacher in the world. I calc’late there’s few things I hain’t capable of discussin’ if I was asked. I’m capable of offerin’ both of you belligerents advice right here and now, and this is it: You go on back to your stores and tend to business, which don’t mean puttin’ sand in the sugar, or sellin’ cold-storage eggs with a yarn that the hen is still cacklin’ that laid ’em. Jest try bein’ square with your customers, and with each other, if you kin go so far, and you won’t git made sich an idiotic spectacle of as you be now. Nobody’s profited by this here rumpus but Mark Tidd. Advertisin’! Huh! Now run along, you fellers, and advertise all over again, but advertise yourselves, and advertise honest. Try it once, and see if you don’t git a substantial profit out of it. Jest tell the plain truth in Mark’s paper, and stick to what you advertise. Bein’ as you’re who you are, ’tain’t reasonable to expect wonders of you, but you can give a sort of flickerin’ imitation of business men.... G’dap, bosses. Mooch along there.” And Uncle Ike rattled off up the street, contented with himself and almost tickled to death that he’d got a chance to jaw somebody.

As for us fellows, we went to selling papers as hard as we could, and would you believe it, before noon we were cleaned out. Yes, sir, we’d sold every single solitary one.

“Don’t get s-s-set up,” says Mark. “Tain’t goin’ to be as easy all the t-t-time. Folks is buyin’ to-day out of curiosity. Next week we’ll have harder sleddin’.”

“Bet we don’t,” says Plunk. “Bet it’ll be easier to run this old paper than it is to slide down-hill. I don’t see anythin’ hard about it.”

“Huh!” says Mark, and not another word.

Mark and I walked past the hotel, and there stood Spragg. He scowled at us over the top of one of our papers that he had paid three real cents for.

“Well,” says I, “what do you think of it?”

“Kid paper,” says he.

“Those page ads. are k-k-kid ads., ain’t they?” says Mark.

“Luck,” says Spragg. “I’ll have ’em next week.”

“Wigglesworth story was a kid story?” says Mark.

“Nothin’ to it,” says Spragg. “I’ve asked folks. I’m a newspaper man, and if there was a story I’d get it. It wouldn’t be you young ones.”

“You g-go on thinkin’ so,” says Mark. “We couldn’t ask anythin’ b-better.”

We went on, and when we were out of earshot Mark says: “That reminds me, I want to go up to Lawyer Jones. I w-w-want to know about Mr. Wigglesworth’s w-w-will. Folks’ll want to know in the next Trumpet, t-too.”

“All right,” says I. “I don’t mind sayin’ I’m a mite curious, myself.”

So up we went.

“Ah,” says Lawyer Jones, “what can I do for you, my young friends? Are you—ah—representing the press to-day?”

“Y-yes,” says Mark. “We came to find out if there was anything new to the Wigglesworth b-business. Or if you’d tell us about the w-w-will.”

“Nothing new,” says Lawyer Jones. “I can’t find out a thing about that boy, and he can’t tell me anything that will throw the least light on why he was in Henry Wigglesworth’s house. Seems he’s been kept alone most of his life—without folks, anyhow. Pretty well looked after, I guess, though. Been to one boarding-school after another ever since he can remember—cheap ones. Didn’t know who paid his bills. Lonely little customer. Not a coul in the world ever stood to him in the position of father or guardian.”

“Interestin’,” says Mark. “Who’s stayin’ there with the boy?”

“Mr. Wigglesworth’s man-of-all-work. Jethro’s his name.”

“What?” says Mark in a tone that made me jump.

“Jethro,” repeated Mr. Jones, sort of surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, nothin’,” says Mark. “Kind of a f-f-funny name.”

“About the will,” says Mr. Jones, “I guess there’s nothing to prevent me from reading it to you. It’s sort of queer, like everything else that has happened since Mr. Wigglesworth died. I don’t know just what to do.”

“Will it d-d-do any harm if we p-print it?” says Mark.

Mr. Jones hesitated a moment, like lawyers always do, just for effect, I guess, then he said, “Wa-al, I dunno’s it would do any harm.”

“And it’ll do a h-h-heap of good,” says Mark, with a grin. “There’s a lot of curiosity itchin’ f-f-folks that readin’ what that will says will c-cure.”

“And that sells newspapers,” says Lawyer Jones. “Well, I’m glad to help you all I can.” So he went to his safe and came back with the will. We could understand it, all right, though for the life of me I can’t see why it wasn’t written out plain without so many “whereases” and “theretofores” and “devises,” and such like.

Anyhow, the gist of it was that Henry Wigglesworth claimed his mind was as good as new and that this was his regular will, and no other one was worth a cent. Then he said his debts had to be paid, which they would have had to be, whether he said it or not, I guess. Then he “gave, devised, and bequeathed,” whatever that means, all the “rest, residue, and remainder” of his property to “any heir or heirs in direct line of descent from myself, if such exist or can be found.”

All that meant, Lawyer Jones explained, was that he wanted his property to go to his sons or daughters, or his grandsons or granddaughters or great-grandsons or great-granddaughters, if he had any.

Then the will said if nobody could find any of these direct heirs the property was to go to George Gardener Grover, only son of Mr. Wigglesworth’s only sister. And there you are.

“Um!” says Mark when Lawyer Jones was through. “’Tis f-f-funny, hain’t it? These heirs, now. Why didn’t he up and name ’em by n-name?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Lawyer Jones.

“He acts,” says I, “like he wasn’t sure whether he had any or not.”

Mark looked at me with a squint, his little eyes twinkling like everything. “Binney,” says he, “that’s a g-good shot. I’ll bet that’s it. Anyhow, we’ll m-make b’lieve it is till we find out different. Got to have s-somethin’ to start on.”

“To start what on?” says I.

“Why,” says he, “the job of f-f-findin’ these heirs, or of findin out there hain’t any.” Then he turned to Mr. Jones. “Mr. Wigglesworth must ’a’ had a son or daughter or s-somethin’,” says he, “or he wouldn’t be s-suspectin’ he had grandchildern or great-grandchildern.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Mr. Jones.

“Ever hear of any?” says Mark.

“In the years Mr. Wigglesworth has been here,” said Mr. Jones, “he has never mentioned a relative to me. No, I never heard that he had a child or a wife. Somehow I had always supposed he was an old bachelor.”

“Gets queerer every minute,” says Mark.

“Well,” says I, “we can’t sit here figgerin’ about it. We got work to do.”

“Sometimes,” says Mark, “sittin’ and figgerin’ is the most valuable work there is.”

“Maybe sometimes,” says I, “but this hain’t one of ’em. We’ve got ink and paper to buy and Tecumseh Androcles Spat to feed, and rent, and a heap of things. And you said yourself we didn’t have any workin’ capital. Since we ran that bazaar I’ve had a heap of respect for workin’ capital.”

“Me too,” says Mark. “And there’s no chance of g-g-gettin’ more money from dad. Ma set her foot down hard. She says we can waste what was put into this paper, but she won’t see another cent go after it, and when ma says it like that there hain’t any use arguin’. We got to sink or swim all by ourselves.”

“Well,” says I, “I guess we made a profit on this week’s Trumpet, anyhow.”

“Yes,” says Mark, “but there’s other weeks a-comin’.”

We thanked Lawyer Jones and started to go.

“Come again,” says he. “If you get any libel suits on your hands I’ll take care of them for you at cost, so to speak. Glad to see you any time.”

When we were outside I says to Mark, “Now don’t go gettin’ all het up about this mystery. We got enough on our hands now. We can’t run a paper on nothin’ and find missin’ heirs and investigate mysterious liner advertisements put in the paper by men with black gloves, and a dozen other things. We got to settle down to this paper job.”

“Sure,” says Mark. “That’s what I’m doin’. Hain’t gettin’ news about the biggest thing a newspaper has to do?”

“No,” says I, “gettin’ money is.”

He grinned like he does sometimes when he’s ready to admit he’s getting the worst of an argument.

“Maybe you’re r-r-right, Binney,” says he, “and then again, maybe this heir-huntin’ and mystery-piercin’ will help to get that money. Never can tell.”

“I wouldn’t depend on it,” says I.

“I sha’n’t,” says he. “Come on to the office.”

Plunk and Tallow were there, and so was Tecumseh Androcles. He was standing up, making a speech to the fellows.

“Ah,” says he, when we came in, “here is the editor and another of the staff. I, Tecumseh Androcles Spat, wish to congratulate you on the first issue of the rejuvenated Trumpet. It was an achievement. On your part, you have filled the paper with pertinent reading-matter and with lucrative advertising. On my part, I have put it in type in such a manner as to cause favorable comment, even from the metropolitan press. I am proud to be associated with you. I hope the relation will long continue and that the progress of this deserving paper will be marked and rapid.”

“Good for you,” says Mark, “but one swallow don’t make a summer. Wait till we see what happens next week. See how many new subscribers we can gaffle on to, and how m-m-many advertisements we can get. Likewise, let’s not forget the job-printin’ end of it. Now, let’s buckle down f’r the n-n-next issue.”

Which we did.