“Listen,” says Mark Tidd that night.

“We’ve got to w-w-wake up and do some-thin’ with this newspaper.”

“Huh!” says I. “I thought we had been doin’ somethin’. Dunne’s I ever worked harder in my life.”

“Yes,” says he, “but what’s it g-gettin’ us? We’re p-payin’ our bills and not r-runnin’ in debt, but that’s about all. No use havin’ a b-business if you don’t make money out of it.”

“Go ahead,” says I. “I’m willin’ to make all there is.”

“I’m goin’ ahead,” says he. “I’m goin’ to start a scheme to get s-subscribers. I want a t-thousand of ’em right off. Not jest f-folks that buys the Trumpet on the street, but that p-pays their money and has it all the year. Like to git fifteen hunderd if I could.”

“Hain’t that many families in Wicksville,” says I, “and no family wants more ’n one copy of a paper, even if you do edit it,” says I.

“There’s other towns,” says he. “We got the whole county to p-play with. The Eagle Center Clarion come over here and tried to t-t-take our town away from us. Well, turn about’s fair play. Besides, there’s all the farmers and settlements and what not.”

“If you say so,” says I, “it must be so.” I was a little mite sarcastic, and he came right back at me quick.

“If I say so it’s so,” says he, “because I don’t jest let my t-t-tongue waggle like you. I don’t gen’ally say somethin’ till I got somethin’ to say, after I’ve f-figgered it out in my head. The t-trouble with you, Binney, is you do most of your t-thinkin’ with your stummick.”

I didn’t think of anything to say back to him.

“And,” says he, “you don’t do enough thinkin’ with t-t-that to give you a stummick-ache.”

“If you could think with your stummick,” says I, “you’d have some mighty big thoughts,” which was so, him having one of the biggest stummicks in town. He just grinned and said that was pretty good for me, and he had hopes I might really say something smart some day if I practised hard.

“Let’s see,” says he; “there’s folks around solicitin’ subscriptions for magazines. They must get p-p-paid somehow.”

“They do,” says I; “my aunt takes subscriptions, and she gits so much for every one she takes. They call it a commission, or somethin’ like that.”

“Wonder why we couldn’t work it ourselves,” says he. “Not reg’lar agents,” says he, “but some scheme to git a l-l-lot of folks int’rested in gittin’ subscribers for us. If we could git a woman’s missionary s-s-society to goin’ on it, it would s-stir things up a lot. Them wimmin, when they git set on anythin’, go after it all-fired hot.”

“How about the Ladies’ Lit’ry Circle,” says I, “and the Home Culture Club?”

“Binney,” says he, “that’s an idee. L-lemme think. Um! ... Have to git ’em to w-w-workin’ ag’in’ each other somehow. Git ’em into a s-squabble of some kind. That’d do it, sure. How m-many wimmin b’long to those things?”

“There’s eighteen in the Circle,” says I, “because ma b’longs, and they’re meetin’ at our house to-morrow. I know there’s eighteen, because ma was figgerin’ how much she’d have to have to feed ’em. She says two sandriches apiece would do for most clubs, but thirty-six never’d fill up the wimmin in hern. She says she wished she could find somethin’ stylish to put into those sandriches that didn’t taste good. Then, she says, she could brag about havin’ somethin’ special nice, and at the same time nobody’d be able to make hogs of theirselves eatin’ it.”

“Have her t-t-try p-p-perfumed soap,” says Mark. “That’s swell, but nobody’d g-gobble it much.”

“But,” says I, “I dunno how many’s in the Home Culture. I kin find out, though.”

I did. There was an even twenty in it.

Well, Mark he sat down and pinched his cheek awhile, and then he took to whittling, which showed plain he was going after it hard. He whittled up nigh half a cord of wood before he got it all figgered out to suit him, and then he says, “Binney, who’s boss of each of those clubs?”

“Mis’ Strubber’s president of the Circle,” says I, “and Mis’ Bobbin’s president of the Home Culturers.”

“We’ll go s-s-see ’em,” says he. “We’ll give ’em all the lit’ry and all the culture they kin use in a month of Sundays.”

So he dragged me off to Mrs. Strubber’s house. Mrs. Strubber is one of them big women; not fat, you know, but big. I calc’late she’s more ’n six feet high, and she could lift a barrel of sugar without turning a hair. But she’s smart. Everybody says so, and she don’t deny it herself. Most of the fellows are sort of scairt of her, but Mark didn’t seem to be much afraid, for he marched right up to her door and rang the bell.

She came to the door, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping her hands on her apron, and when I see how strong those arms looked I sort of edged back so as to have the steps convenient if she didn’t act pleased to see us.

“Well, boys?” says she in a voice perty near as big as she was.

“Mis’ S-s-strubber,” says Mark, “we’ve come to ask some advice from you. Everybody says you’re the smartest woman in this t-t-town, so we wouldn’t go to anybody else with an important t-thing like this.”

Well, you should have seen her grin. My! but she was tickled. “Come right in,” says she. “I was jest in the middle of a batch of fried-cakes, but I calc’late Milly kin finish ’em up. Like fresh fried-cakes?” says she.

“Not g-gen’ally,” says Mark, “but I’ve heard a lot about yourn. Folks says they melt in your mouth.”

“A-hum!” says Mrs. Strubber, perducing some of them fried-cakes. “You’re a onusual p’lite young man, Mark Tidd. I wisht other boys would pattern after you.”

“Yas’m,” says Mark, his mouth full of fried-cake.

“What kin I do for you?” says she. “Don’t hurry. Eat them cakes and don’t try to talk till you’re done. You might strangle,” says she.

“Mis’ Strubber,” says Mark, “I’ve heard some argimint in Wicksville over these t-t-two wimmin’s clubs—the Circle,” he says, “and the Home Culturers.”

“A-hum!” says Mrs. Strubber, drawing herself up like a rooster looking for trouble—not a banty rooster. No, sir, one of them great big Barred Rocks.

“Yes,” he says, “there’s some t-talk, and I figger it ought to be s-settled once for all. ’Course most folks agrees that you’re the smartest woman the’ is, but a few hain’t got sense enough to own up to it. But quite a few f-folks is divided over which of the two clubs is the brainiest, and which does the m-most good here, and all that. Now, for me, there hain’t any doubt at all. But it ought to be s-s-settled, and I f-figger the Wicksville Trumpet ought to t-take a hand, it bein’ literature, kind of.”

“A-hum!” says she, scowling as black as a pail of axle grease.

“So,” says he, “I got to t-thinkin’ it over,” he says, “and it l-l-looked like the public demanded that question should get settled once for all. Now, if you kin see your way clear to come in with me, the Trumpet’ll announce a contest between the clubs, and the thing’ll be decided forever. Not only,” says he, “as to b-brains, but as to c-cookin’.”

“If them Home Culturers,” says Mrs. Strubber, “got the nerve,” she says, “to come into a contest ag’in’ us, I guess we got the self-respect to give ’em the come-down that’s due ’em.”

“Good,” says Mark. “I f-figgered you’d think that way.”

“What kind of a contest?” says she.

“Sev’ral kinds,” says he, “endin’ with a big display of all kinds of cookin’, and two nights with big dinners, one to be served by each club. There’ll be the argimint contest, and it’s always p-practical results that shows there, hain’t it, Mis’ Strubber?”

“You bet it is,” says she.

“So,” says he, “I kind of reasoned out that we’d let results tell. Now,” he says, “the kind of argimints that counts is sellin’ argimints. And you got to sell somethin’ hard to sell, and everybody’s got to sell the same thing.”

“Mark Tidd,” says she, “that’s a splendid idee.”

“I was wonderin’ what you could t-tackle,” says he. “It ought to be somethin’ havin’ to do with b-brains.”

“Sure thing,” says she.

“Books, maybe,” says he. “Or maybe s-somethin’ that would be harder ’n books.”

“My husband’s sister’s second daughter,” says she, “sells magazine subscriptions. She says it’s the hardest thing there is—except newspaper subscriptions. She tackled that, but she says it was too much for her.”

“Um!” says Mark. “I bet it wouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“A-hum!” says Mrs. Strubber. “I calc’late I could do it on a pinch.”

“Then,” says Mark, “let’s settle on that-sellin’ n-n-newspaper subscriptions. But what p-paper can you git to let you? It’ll be p-perty hard, won’t it?”

She thought quite a spell and guessed it would be. Then all of a sudden she bust right out and clapped her hands together, “Why,” she says, “you’re int’rested in this, and you got a paper. Couldn’t we git you to let us use the Trumpet?”

Mark he sat back and frowned and sort of shook his head, but after a minute he says, deliberate-like, “Well,” says he, “I guess I’d be willin’ to do that for a cause of this kind. But,” says he, “it’s concedin’ consid’able.”

“Oh,” says she, “thank you, Mark! It’s awful good of you to let us do that. But what’s the rest of your scheme?”

“Why,” says he, “every year’s subscription you sell will mean ten votes, and the side sellin’ the most will be showed to be the smartest arguers, and the smartest arguers, everybody admits, is the smartest f-folks all around. Then, at the end, there’ll be a dinner served by the Circle, and one served by the Home Culturers, that nobody can go to but subscribers to the Trumpet. That’ll help sell the s-s-subscriptions. The night after the second dinner’ll be the cookin’ show, admission included when you sell a s-subscription, and every subscriber’ll have one vote as to which club’s wimmin is the b-best cooks. That’ll about shut up every argimint as to which is the s-smartest and usefulest. ’Cause,” says he, “the ones that win both them things will p-prove it so nobody kin say a word.”

“Mark Tidd,” says she, “you’re a smart boy.”

“Like the idee?” says he, looking tickled to death.

“You bet,” says she. “How’ll we start it?”

“Why,” says he, “you have a m-meetin’ of your club and git up a challenge to them Home Culturers, darin’ ’em to contest that way ag’in’ you. I’ll p-publish it in the Trumpet, and it bein’ public that way, they won’t dast to refuse, and you’ll have ’em. See? And,” says he, “as a example of p-public spirit,” he says, “the Trumpet will give a p-prize to the winners equal to t-t-ten per cent.,” he says, “of all the subscriptions taken. It’ll be,” says he, “a set of books, real brainy books, for the winnin’ club always to have in its l-l-library.”

“Mark,” says she, “you’re that generous!”

“Generous!” I thought to myself, for I knew mighty well Mark would be tickled to pay near twice that much to git subscriptions.

“I’ll call that meetin’ for to-morrow,” says she, “and have the challenge ready so’s you can publish it in the next paper.”

“Got a picture of you?” says he. “I’d like to p-print it the day the challenge comes out.”

Well, the way she jerked one out of the plush album and gave it to him would have made you scairt. She jest tore it out of the page without waiting to draw it out of the slits.

“Mark Tidd,” says she, “the club’ll give you a special vote of thanks for this,” she says.

Mark he said something sugary to her and then we left, and he kept his face straight till we got around the corner. Then he just leaned up against a tree and shook like a plate of jelly. I don’t know as I ever saw him laugh harder, and I laughed, too, though it wasn’t so funny to me, for I was thinking what a slick way he had about him. My goodness! I’d hate to have Mark Tidd want me to do something I didn’t want to, because, before I knew it, he’d have me all through with it.

We went back to the office, where Plunk and Tallow were keeping shop, and who should be there but the Man With the Black Gloves. Yes, sir, he just went in ahead of us, and he was writing another advertisement to be put in the paper. It went like this:

“Well,” says Mark, when he had gone out, “I guess we got to m-make another t-trip to that bridge.”