We had to forget about Rock for the next day, anyhow, and go to the county-seat to see about that political printing. It was two hours’ ride on the train, but we enjoyed that and made use of it planning how we’d go to work to land the business. At least Mark planned and I listened while he did it. But, somehow or other, the plans we made weren’t the ones we carried out. Not by a long shot. If they had been Mark wouldn’t have been as famous in the State as he is to-day among men that follow up politics for a living, and among newspaper men.

No, the plans we carried out were other plans altogether, and they were made in a lot less than two hours. I should say they were.

We got off the train and went up to the court-house. At the door stood a lot of men smoking and loafing and talking, and we walked up to them and wanted to know where we’d find the man that gave out the county printing to the newspapers.

A couple of them winked at each other and said we’d better see the judge of probate, who took care of orphans and lunatics and such, and I expected to hear Mark come right back at him with something hot. But he didn’t. Afterward he said to me:

“Binney, when you’re on b-business don’t let anythin’ mix up with it. If you git grudges ag’in’ folks s-s-save ’em up for some other day. Some feller may say somethin’ smart to you and git a l-lot of fun out of it. If you take him d-down off ’n his high horse it’ll sour him quick—and that very man may be the f-feller whose scalp you’re after.”

“Shucks!” says I.

“It’s easier to git what you want out of a man that’s f-f-feelin’ good,” says he, “and there hain’t no way to make a man feel g-good that beats lettin’ him think he’s awful smart. If you let him make a j-joke on you, why, he sort of feels friendly ’cause you’ve helped him show his friends what a w-w-whale of a feller he is. And then you git easier s-sailin’.”

“Maybe so,” says I; “that’s figgerin’ too far ahead for me. If somebody says somethin’ fresh to me and I kin think of somethin’ to say back, why, you can bet your hat I’m goin’ to pop it right at him.”

“And l-lose money by it,” says he.

“Money hain’t the whole thing,” says I.

“It is,” says he, “when it’s money you’re after. When you start out f-for a thing you want to git it, don’t you, whether it’s m-money or apples or f-freckles on your nose? It hain’t the money that’s important; it’s gittin’ it.”

That was Mark Tidd all over. If he made up his mind he was after a thing he stuck to it till he got it, or till it was put where it was a sure thing he couldn’t touch it. It wasn’t so much that he wanted the thing, whatever it was; it was that he was bound to do what he set out to do. He might figure and work a week to get some old thing, and then turn right around and give it to you. It was just the being able to get it that interested him.

So he didn’t say a word back to the man that joked him—that is, not a word that was smart. He just says, “We hain’t got any orphans or l-lunatics on hand this m-mornin’, but we’d like mighty well to see that printin’ feller.”

He was so all-fired polite about it that somebody spoke up and says, “There’s a couple of ’em you’ll have to deal with, sonny. Feller named Brown and another feller named Wiggins, and they hain’t what you could call friends, neither. You hain’t like to find ’em roostin’ in the same bush. Both of them’s inside somewheres. If you find a feller skinnier ’n a beanpole and along about nine feet high, with red hair on top of him, why, that’s Wiggins. If you run ag’in’ a feller equal skinny and equal tall without no hair at all, why, that’s Brown. You can’t mistake either of ’em.”

“Much obliged,” says Mark, and in we went.

We poked around quite a spell, going one place and another, but we didn’t see any tall, thin men, till we got onto the second floor and walked up to some doors that were standing open, and looked in. It was a court-room. We knew that right off because there was a high place built up for the judge in front, and a pen for the jury and lots of seats. Nothing was going on at all, and we were coming out again when we heard a sort of murmur like folks were talking low and confidential.

“’S-s-sh!” says Mark, who was always cautious till he found out where he stood. Then he craned his neck, and ’way back in the shadows were two men, one standing and the other sitting, and the standing man was so tall and thin he could have got a job in a circus. The sitting man was thin, with a bunch of carroty hair.

“Brown and Wiggins,” says Mark, drawing back quick.

“Come on in, then,” says I.

“Nix,” says he. “L-let’s think.... Man said they wasn’t friends, didn’t he, and that we wasn’t likely to f-f-find ’em together?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Then,” says he, “if folks that know ’em f-figger they wouldn’t be together, it’s sort of f-f-funny to find ’em hobnobbin’, hain’t it?”

“Why,” says I, “I calc’late it is.”

“And them b-bein’ politicians, it’s f-funnier ’n ever,” says he.

“To be sure,” says I.

“Politicians,” says he, “is said to be s-s-slippery.”

“My dad says so.”

“Then,” says he, “l-lookin’ at this from all sides, a man up a t-tree would figger them fellers was up to somethin’, eh?”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” says I, “but what of it?”

“And they’ve s-sneaked off and hid to talk,” says he to himself.

“None of our business,” says I.

“Newspaper men, hain’t we?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Sellin’ advertisin’ to the county to-day?”

“Yes,” says I.

“Then,” says he, “whatever those f-fellers do is mighty int’restin’ to me.”

“All right,” says I. “What of it?”

“I’m f-figgerin’,” says he, “on how we could git to l-listen a little to what they was sayin’.”

“Eavesdroppin’,” says I, scornful-like.

“When men is up to a game and s-sneaks off to p-plan it,” he says, “it’s not eavesdroppin’ to listen. They git what’s comin’ to ’em.”

“Have it that way, then,” says I.

“But,” says he, “g-gittin’ so’s we can listen hain’t so easy. Let’s go outside and look around.”

We went, and as we walked down-stairs Mark says, “The p’litical fight in this county this fall is over the sheriff.”

“I know it,” says I.

“Then,” says he, “if two men that’s p’litical enemies is seen hobnobbin’, most likely the sheriff’s got somethin’ to do with it. Bowman’s the man that’s got the job now, and Whittaker wants to git the Republican nomination away from him. Now, takin’ for granted that pow-wow up there’s about the sheriff, why, what be they d-doin’ about it?”

“How should I know?” says I.

We stopped a minute at the door, and Mark says, “How’s the fight for sheriff gettin’ on?”

“Perty hot,” says a man—“perty almighty hot.”

“Brown’s for Bowman, hain’t he?” says Mark.

“No,” says the man; “where’d you git that idee? He’s strong for Whittaker.”

“How’s Wiggins?”

“Nobody knows, but fellers that pertends to be wise figgers he’s for Bowman—jest so’s to be for anybody Brown is against.”

“Huh!” says Mark. “What d’you calc’late ’u’d happen if Brown and Wiggins was to make up f-friends and work for the same man?”

“It couldn’t happen,” says the man, “but if it did, with the batch of delegates each one of ’em controls in the convention, the man they agreed on would have a walk-away.”

“Hum!” says Mark. “Is Brown awful strong for Whittaker?”

“Whittaker’s best friend he’s got. Why, Whittaker lent him the money to go into business first, and has always been befriendin’ him, and two year ago Brown up and married Whittaker’s sister.”

“So,” says Mark, “there hain’t much danger of his switchin’ to Bowman?”

“He jest couldn’t,” says the man.

“Hum!” says Mark. “Int’restin’ to hear. Much obliged, mister.”

We walked on, and all of a sudden Mark chuckled right out. “Binney,” says he, “we don’t need to go listenin’ to what those f-f-fellers is talkin’ about. I know.”

“Shucks!” says I.

“Wait and see,” says he. “We’ll walk around a while and then go back and see Wiggins.”

Which we did. In half an hour we went back, and after looking around a spell we found Wiggins in his office. In we went.

“Howdy-do, Mr. Wiggins!” says Mark, “I’m Mark Tidd, of Wicksville, and this is Binney Jenks.”

“Glad to meet you,” says Mr. Wiggins. “What can I do for you?”

“Why,” says Mark, “we come on b-business. I’m editor of the Wicksville Trumpet” he says, “and the Wicksville Trumpet needs some good steady advertisin’. So,” says he, “we come to see if we couldn’t git the c-county p-printin’ for the next year.”

“H’m!” says Mr. Wiggins, his eyes twinkling like he wanted to laugh. “Juvenile paper? Amateur editor?”

“Not any,” says Mark. “Reg’lar weekly,” and he showed Mr. Wiggins a copy.

“Mean to say you boys are running this?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” says Mark.

“Well,” says Mr. Wiggins, “the way this printing is given out, the papers that want it make bids telling how much the county will have to pay, and then the bids are opened and the job goes to the lowest.”

“Sure,” says Mark, “that’s the gen’ral idee of it, but,” he says, “most gen’ally the f-feller gits it that’s got the most p’litical pull, don’t he, honest Injun?”

Mr. Wiggins laughed. “Well,” he said, “maybe politics does have something to do with it. If you think that, what made you come?”

“Because,” says Mark, “Binney and me is p-politicians, and we got pull.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Wiggins. “What influence have you to bring to bear?”

“Why,” says Mark, “we sort of f-f-figger on yours, and on Mr. Brown’s.”

Mr. Wiggins laughed right out. “Don’t you know,” says he, “that Brown and I don’t live in the same nest at all? You couldn’t get the two of us to agree on anything to save your life. And, besides, I never saw you or heard of you before. How do you figure you have my influence?”

“Because,” says Mark, “we calc’late to be reg’lar p-politicians and see farther into what’s goin’ on than m-most folks, and because you want us on your side a l-little worse ’n you want ’most anybody else in the county.”

“Now look here, sonny,” says Mr. Wiggins, “I’m pretty busy, and, while I like boys and am willing to fool with ’em, to-day I’m short of time. Come in some other day.”

“Wait a m-minute,” says Mark, “till we tell you how we size up this here sheriff fight.” He didn’t wait for Wiggins to say he could, but jumped right into it.

“This here is the hardest f-f-fight for sheriff in years,” says he, “and anybody that b-beats out Bowman’s got a job on his hands, eh?”

“Yes,” says Wiggins.

“And f-f oiks gen’ally think you’re for Bowman, don’t they?”.

“Yes.”

“And so his side’s restin’ easier in their minds?”

“Some,” says Wiggins.

“Well, then,” says Mark, “s’posin’ I was to p-print a story in my paper sayin’ that the row between you and Brown was made up, and that you and Brown had met and hobnobbed and that you’d agreed, for some reason or another, to wait till the convention and, when the f-fight got good and hot, to make the d-delegates you control vote, not for Bowman, but for Whittaker? Folks ’u’d be int’rested in that story, eh?”

“Say, kid,” says Wiggins, jumping up onto his feet, “who sent you here?”

“Nobody,” says Mark. “We just come after the p-printin’.”

“What you say is bosh,” says Wiggins.

“It’s so,” says Mark, “and we know it’s so, and you know it’s so. What,” says he, “if you was overheard t-talkin’ up in the court-room awhile ago?”

Mr. Wiggins sort of caved in. “You haven’t told anybody?”

“Course not. Sich p’litical information hain’t much good when you give it away.”

“My dad’s for Whittaker, anyhow,” says I.

“So’s mine,” says Mark, “but politics is politics. How about your influence, Mr. Wiggins?”

“You get it,” says Wiggins, sharp-like. “Go tell Brown to go up to the court-room.”

We did that, and Brown was pretty surprised, but he went. We followed along, and there was Wiggins waiting for us. He told Brown what Mark had said to him, and Brown began to laugh as hard as he could, and then got serious.

“You win, kids,” says he, “providin’ you can keep quiet.”

“We git the p-printin’?”

“You do,” says Brown, “but how Wiggins and I will explain it to certain newspaper men, particularly the Eagle Center Clarion, I don’t know.”

“Was the Eagle Center Clarion goin’ to git it?” says I.

“They figured on it pretty strongly,” says Mr. Brown.

And that’s how we landed the county printing. It was all by Mark Tidd’s using his brains. All he needed was a hint, and he reasoned the thing right out, and it was so like he reasoned it. It made Mark pretty famous with politicians before it was all done, for after the convention, when Whittaker got the nomination, the story leaked out, and everybody laughed at Brown and Wiggins, and when folks found out Mark hadn’t really heard a thing, but just jumped at conclusions and made a bluff, they laughed harder than ever.

That was all right, but what really counted was that we got a dandy piece of business that paid well and gave the paper a lot of reputation and standing around the county. It got us a lot of subscribers, too, because there are folks that have to read about the county proceedings.

Mr. Wiggins took us to dinner and made a lot of us, and didn’t hold a grudge at all. After that we caught the train and went home, feeling like we had done a pretty good day’s work.