Next morning Mark and Tallow and Plunk and I were in the office just after the train from the city came in. A strange man came slamming through the door like he figured out his errand was pretty important and he was pretty important himself. “Where’s the editor?” says he in about the same voice you might expect somebody to say, “Who stole my horse?” “I’m h-him,” says Mark, and I could see his face sort of setting like it does when he thinks something unpleasant is going to happen and he’s got to use his wits. “Huh!” says the man, looking him over. “There’s enough of you, hain’t there—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 began to get sharp and bright. “Look out, mister,” says I to myself. Mark didn’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 piece of paper down on the counter. Mark picked it up and looked at it. You couldn’t tell by his face what he thought of it, though he read it pretty careful and then didn’t say anything 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 much manners 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 like you ought to, actin’ d-decent, you’ll be treated the same. If you’ve got any b-business with me, act like a b-business man. If you can’t act that way—git out. There’s the d-door. I guess whatever b-business there is to do can be done with your boss.” The man sort of eased off a trifle and acted a little more like he was a regular 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 you think 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 he told me either to git the money or to shut up your shop for you. So which’ll it be?” “N-neither for a minute,” says Mark. “Here you come rushin’ in here with a b-b-bill for eighty-seven dollars that I hain’t ever heard of. Before anythin’ 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 ever had the money.” “But we don’t owe it,” says Tallow. “We just bought this paper a few days 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 looked sorry and acted sorry, but he said there wasn’t anything to do but pay it. “It’s a shame,” say she, “and you’ve been swindled, but it can’t be helped. The old proprietor owed this money, and concealed the fact when you bought the paper. It isn’t honest, but the people who sold the paper aren’t to blame. The man who sold you the Trumpet is. According to law you’ll have to pay.” “Um!” says Mark, tugging at his cheek like he always does when he’s thinking 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 bill isn’t paid. Seems to me like the l-l-least you could do would be to give us some more time.” “It don’t rest with me,” says he. “I was sent here to git the money or to put you out of business. Them’s orders, and I’m a man that obeys his orders 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 see how much cash we had. Every cent we could scrape up in the world, and that included advertising bills that hadn’t been paid, was seventy-six dollars. 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 the f-f-folks why we got to have it. They’ll p-pay. The rest of us’ll get the 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 eleven dollars?” “I just got a s-scheme,” says he, “while that man was talkin’. It’s about 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 our l-leadin’ citizens, with a little piece about each of ’em. The cuts of the photographs’ll cost about a dollar apiece, and we’ll charge ’em two dollars ’n’ a h-half to have ’em put in. That l-leaves a d-dollar ’n’ a half 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 see their 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’ll kind of s-s-skirmish around.” I went along and talked to four people, and every one of them said they didn’t want anything to do with it, just like I told Mark, so I went back 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’s yard. “What’s he goin’ in there for?” Tallow says. “Can’t be figgerin’ on gettin’ anythin’ out of Ol’ Hans Richter.” “Let’s find out,” says I, and we went along and followed Mark right back into Richter’s barn. Richter was standing in the barn door with a milk-pail over each arm, and Mark was talking to him. Just as we got there Old Hans says: “Mein picture in your baber, eh? Ho! What for does Ol’ Hans want mit a picture in the baber?” “It isn’t what you w-w-want,” says Mark, “it’s what the f-f-folks in town want. Why, Mr. Richter, this thing won’t be worth a cent if you ain’t in it! What kind of a p-page of prominent citizens of Wicksville would it b-be if you wasn’t there? No good. Folks ’u’d say, ‘Where’s Hans Richter? Where’s the man that’s been f-fetchin’ our milk for twenty year?’ That’s what they’d say. And folks comin’ from out of t-t-town would want to know what b-business we had printin’ other men’s pictures and 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 to have 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 I do 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, and I’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 in mein vedding coat a year ago. Dot coat iss yet as goot as new, and fourt-one year old it iss. Ya. Fourt-one year.” “Fine,” says Mark, and in a minute Old Hans gave him the picture and Mark 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 the Civil War, and Grandad Jones, that crossed the plains in a p-prairie schooner, and Uncle Ike Bond.” “I surrender,” says I. “If you kin git them old coots you kin git anybody. I’m through. Nobody’ll listen to me or Plunk. You sail in and git ’em.” He grinned the way he does when he’s tickled with himself and when he knows folks are appreciating what a brainy kid he is. “It’s easy,” says he. “Just m-make ’em feel how important they are. You f-fellows go and see what news you can p-pick up. I’ll git in these pictures.” And I’ll be kicked hard if he didn’t. In an hour he came to the office with ten photographs and twenty-two dollars and a half. He handed over to the collector man what was due him, for Tallow had got in most of the collections, 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 he was disappointed. “Well,” says Mark, “we s-s-scrambled out of that hole, didn’t we? But we got to do some harder s-scramblin’ now. I’m goin’ after more photographs.” He took most of the day at it, and when night come around how many do you think he’d grabbed on to? Forty-one. Yes, sir. And he had the cash money for every one of them. That left us with just exactly ninety-one dollars and a half in the treasury, and so we were really some better off than we had been before the collector came around. “Fiddlesticks!” says Tallow. “Wisht the collector hadn’t showed up. We’d almost be rich.” “If he hadn’t s-s-showed up,” says Mark, “we wouldn’t have thought up this s-scheme. It’s havin’ to do things that makes folks do their best. Bein’ necessary is one of the best things can happen to a f-f-fellow.” Wasn’t that just like him! And you’ll notice he didn’t grab all the credit 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 do anything with, because he kept you feeling good. All the time you knew he was the one that was thinking up things and doing them. All we did was trail around and help. But just the same, he made us feel we had as much to do with it as he did. I expect we worked all the harder because of that. Do you know, I shouldn’t wonder if that was a pretty good way for all folks that has other folks working for them to act. The working folks would work harder and take more pleasure in it. I expect Mark had it all figured out that way. |