Next afternoon late Mrs. Strubber came in with a challenge to the Home Culturers, all drawn up and ready to print. Mark had sent her picture away to have a cut made, and as soon as the challenge came in we took it right out to Tecumseh Androcles Spat to have him set it in type. He read it over once, and then he read it over twice, and then he reached for his coat.

“Where you g-g-goin’?” asks Mark.

“Far, far away,” says he, moving toward the door.

“What d’you m-mean?” says Mark.

“I’ve lost my taste for this employment,” says he. “The sweetness of the job got worn off as soon as I read that paper. I’m a peaceful man, Mark Tidd. I hain’t never carried no weapons, and I regard those that seek for warfare and strife as not havin’ the necessary quantity of brains. I’ll admit,” says he, “that I’ve participated in a couple of riots and a few fights, but it wasn’t of my own free will and accord. Furthermore, and you can take the word of Tecumseh Androcles Spat for it, the newspaper business hain’t as safe as knittin’ socks, anyhow, but when you start to call down trouble onto yourself, like this challenge will call it down, then it’s time for a man who’s set up as many almanacs as I have, and is steeped in wisdom, to go and enlist in a regiment bound to fight Injuns.”

“Mr. Spat,” says Mark, “what in the world are you talkin’ about?”

“You’ll see,” says he. “Wait till them enraged wimmin start besiegin’ this office. Wait till they jam into the place bristlin’ with hatpins and dignity. Wait till the full awfulness of what’s goin’ to happen begins to occur, and then you’ll think of Tecumseh Androcles Spat and regret you cast aside his wise words with scorn.”

“Shucks!” says Mark. “Those ladies will get us a wad of s-s-subscriptions.”

“At what a cost!” says he.

“Tecumseh Androcles Spat,” says Mark, “be you goin’ to f-f-fail us when we need you most, eh? Be you g-goin’ to desert us, carryin’ away the wisdom and experience we can’t spare? Lemme ask you, how d-d-do you s’pose we can git along without you to advise us? If t-t-trouble should come,” says he, “who would git us out of it if you was g-g-gone?”

“Hum!” says Spat.

Mark winked at me.

“See what you’ve made of this p-p-paper already,” says he. “L-look what you kin do before you’re through. D’you know how f-folks in this town speak about you, Mr. Spat? D’you know you’ve been spoke of for the State Legislature? And you’d go away and desert Wicksville and us on account of a few wimmin that couldn’t hurt a-a-anythin’.”

“Mark Tidd,” says Spat, “it seems like I’m duty bound to stay, but mark my words, which is words of experience, paid for with groans and misery, you’re goin’ to wish you was locked into a cage with ravenin’ wildcats and howlin’ hyenas before this contest is over. I’ll stay, but I’ll suffer. I’ll stay to save you boys from the results of your rashness.... Now gimme back that challenge.”

He went back to work and set it up, and more stuff Mark had written explaining all about the contest, and Mrs. Strubber’s picture was to be printed right in the middle of all of it, with some glowing and complimentary facts about her and her club. The whole thing was to be printed on the first page of the Trumpet.

While this was going on Mark and the rest of us was pretty busy getting all the news of the county fair that was going on, and the night before the Trumpet came out we had a heap of writing to do. It was my job to write little items about folks and things that happened. Mark said he wanted enough to fill a column, so I set to work, and it was work, I can tell you. I did more chawing of my pencil than writing, and it took me about a dozen times as long to do it as it took Mark to write three times as much. But I was pretty proud of what I’d done when I was through with it. I figgered it would be about the most interesting part of the paper, and it did come pretty close to being that. When I handed it to Mark I says, “There, if that hain’t perty good newspaper writin’ I hope I don’t ever git to eat another fried-cake.”

Mark read it over, and every once in a while he would look up at me and chuckle, and then he says, “Binney, if you’d done this apurpose it would be g-great.”

“I done it apurpose,” says I. “Think I done all that writin’ by accident, like a feller would stub his toe and accidentally skin his nose?”

“Um!” says he. “We’ll p-p-print it jest as it stands, and say, ‘By Binney Jenks,’ at the top, so everybody’ll know you d-did it. That,” says he, “may save the l-lives of some of the rest of us.”

“What you mean?” says I.

“I’ll r-read ’em to you,” says he. This was the first he read:

“‘Mr. Bud Drimple took first prize for the fattest pig at the fair.’” Mark peeked at me out of his little eyes that was twinkling like everything. “Maybe Bud Drimple was the f-f-fattest pig there and ought to have got the p-prize,” says he, “but he’ll hate to be t-told so.”

I didn’t say a word. Mark read another.

“‘Many folks asked Jacob Wester what he exhibited at the fair. He said it was a cow.’” Mark giggled. “What did it look like, Binney, if so many f-f-folks was uncertain about it? Did it resemble a l-locomotive or a sewin’ m-machine?”

“Huh!” says I. “You think you’re smart.”

“No,” says he, “I t-think you be. Here’s another: ‘Mrs. Hob Sweet was among those watching the prize Jersey cow. Many claimed she was the finest piece of live stock on the grounds.’ ... Which, Binney, the Jersey or Mis’ Sweet?”

“Anybody,” says I, “would know I meant the Jersey.”

“‘Jed Tingle,’” he read again, “‘who just got m-m-married to Myrtie Wise, bought him a new horse-whip, for which he s-s-says he’s got pressing need lately.’” Mark shook his head. “I dunno,” says he, “but we might get sued in court for accusin’ a man of thrashin’ his wife.”

“I didn’t,” says I. “That wasn’t why he had pressin’ need of that whip; it’s because, as everybody knows, he’s been stuck with a balky colt.”

“All right,” says Mark. “How about this? ‘Dave Ward made two purchases at the fair. One was a pie baked by Mrs. John Baird, and sold at the Methodist ladies’ booth. The other was a bottle of pain-killer.’”

“What’s wrong with that?” I says.

“N-nothin’,” says he. “It’s good sense. You’d know if you ever ate a pie of hern. Dave was wise, but maybe Mis’ Baird won’t like bein’ twitted with it.”

“Git out!” says I, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “You twist around everything a feller says.”

“This,” says he, “is m-mighty descriptive. ‘Crowds stood around the merry-go-round watching it go around and around.’”

I didn’t say a word. He was makin’ me mad.

There were a lot more of them, but I told Mark he needn’t bother to read me any others. I had enough. The way he read them made them sound altogether different than I had meant them, but I guess he read what I wrote, all right. Which goes to show that folks ought to be careful what they write, and be sure they mean what they are saying. I’ll bet lots of trouble gits started just that way. One fellow writes something that’s all right, but says it careless, and the fellow that reads it thinks something mean is said about him. Then, bingo!

Anyhow, Mark put them in the paper just as they were, and the paper came out. You can believe me or not, just as you want to, but the next two or three days I was pretty scarce around there, especially after Hob Sweet dropped into the office with a horse-whip and inquired after me anxious, like he was particular desirous of seeing me. I saw him coming and made up my mind that some place else would be more comfortable, so, I skinned out of the back door.

While I was making for a safe spot I almost bumped into Jed Tingle and Mrs. Baird, who were standing on a corner, each one with a Trumpet clutched in their hand, and talking mad as anything. I didn’t stop to mention anything to them, but cut out around them so as not to disturb them a mite.

Mark knew where I’d be and he sent Plunk out with a basket of grub and a warning to keep away from home till it was bedtime, and then to sneak in pretty average cautious, because, he said, there had been a procession of folks calling at my house all day to look for me, and he judged my father was some put out at being bothered that much.

Well, that blew over after a while. Folks sort of forgot it in the excitement of the battle between the Literary Circle and the Home Culturers. No sooner had that challenge got around than Mrs. Bobbin rushed into the office with an answer to it and her picture. And her answer wasn’t what you’d call diplomatic. Well, Mrs. Strubber’s challenge wasn’t as gentle as it might have been.

Mrs. Bobbin’s paper says:

The members of the Home Culture Club has read the challenge put out by Mrs. Strubber and them other wirnmin that calls themselves the Literary Circle, and the idea of their being smarter than the Home Culturers made us all laugh till we was sick.

We’re tickled to death to contest with them in any kind of a contest from washing dishes to building a house. If they can do a single thing that we can’t do a heap better, why, now’s the time to show us. We’re going into this thing, and when we’re through somebody in this town is going to be made to look mighty foolish—which is their natural way of looking.

There was more of it, but that’s enough to show how friendly it was and what a pleasant and sociable little contest it was going to be.

But what Mrs. Bobbin said was singing a baby to sleep when you come to compare it with what was said later and what was done later. The town took sides, and there was more bitter feelings than there was before the election when we voted on local option. Yes, sir, and more fight, too, because every husband of a club-woman figured he had to let on he was certain his wife was smartest and the best cook and the whole bag of tricks, and some of them men didn’t have any arguments to offer except what they could double up in their fists. Why, you could go down back of the fire-hall and see a fight almost any time of day!

The contest was to run two weeks, ending up with those two dinners and the exhibit of cooking, but before twenty-four hours was gone by it looked like maybe there wouldn’t be enough folks left undamaged to be in at the finish.

Folks didn’t dare stick their heads out of doors for fear of bumping into a woman after their subscription to the Trumpet. They just dug in like it was a matter of life and death. Mark watched it and grinned, for, says he, if there’s a man, woman, child, cat, dog, or parrot in Wicksville that hain’t a subscriber for our paper before this thing is over, it’s because he’s up so high in a balloon that nobody can reach him.

As for Tecumseh Androcles Spat, he worked with a baseball bat right beside him, and the way to both doors barricaded with packing-boxes so nobody could get to him. And when he went out he pulled up the collar of his coat and he jerked his hat down over his eyes so nobody would recognize him. He said, as far as he was concerned, he’d a heap rather have a whole skin and no excitement than to be having all the fun in the world, but obliged to see it out of a bed in the hospital.

Some of us had to be in the office all the time these days, and we drew sticks to see who it would be every morning. I lost three days hand running, so I didn’t get out to see Rock, nor out to the bridge when Jethro and G. G. G. met there the night that was set. No, I just hung around the office and took in subscriptions that the women brought in, and gave them out receipts, and talked to them, and kept both sides happy, like Mark told me to do. He said I was to do what I could to make both parties sure they was winning, but not to give out any real facts about how many subscribers was got. Which I did as good as I could.

Mark and Tallow went to the bridge, and it seemed from what G. G. G. told Jethro that the man called Pekoe, who had brought Rock to Wicksville, was doing something that hadn’t been expected of him, and that G. G. G. was startled over it and wanted Jethro to take extra pains to see that Pekoe didn’t get to see Rock. From what Mark and Tallow could gather, this Pekoe was coming to see Rock, but they didn’t know why—G. G. G. and Jethro didn’t.

“What he’s up to I don’t know,” G. G. G. told Jethro. “He don’t know anything. He can’t tell the boy anything. But something’s in the air. You keep them apart.”

“You bet I will,” says Jethro.

When Mark and Tallow came back, Mark says, “F-fellers, keep your eyes p-peeled for a strange man. We want to know it the m-minute this Pekoe strikes Wicksville.”

So, not having anything else to do but run a paper, and dodge folks that wanted to lick me, and help with the contest, and do the chores at home, and play some, and a few other little things, I had to help keep my eye open to find a man I’d never saw and didn’t have any idea what he looked like. Mark was always reasonable about what he wanted you to do. He never asked anybody to do more than twict as much as it was humanly possible for anybody to manage.