Part 4 (1/2)

”Because,” says Mark, ”I like the way your cakes smell,” and then he went ahead quick, telling the old fellow how much more money he would make if he advertised in the _Trumpet_ and told folks about his pies and his meats, and what he was going to serve for meals. Once or twice Mr.

Schmidt tried to interrupt, but Mark never gave him a chance. He ended up: ”Now, Mr. Schmidt, you board Tec.u.mseh Androcles and give him three good meals a day, and we'll advertise your place so every f-f-farmer that comes to town will want to eat here. I'll write the ads. m-myself.

I wouldn't do that for everybody. We'll give you a full column every w-w-week.”

”I don't-” began Mr. Schmidt, but Mark was at him again, and pretty soon Mr. Schmidt waved his hands in the air and says: ”Stop. Vill you stop?

Eh? Cakes I haff in dat oven. Dey schpoil. I advertise. Sure. I do anyt'ing if you go away. T'ree meal a day. You advertise a column in your paper. Iss dat it?”

”Yes,” says Mark, and waved Tec.u.mseh to a seat at a table. ”Be sure you eat a c-c-column's worth every week,” says he, and grinned at us.

That was our first stroke of business. I guess it was a good bargain.

Once I saw Tec.u.mseh eating, and I guess we didn't get much the worst of it. No, I guess Mark Tidd didn't get beaten very bad on that bargain.

We went outside and started for home. At the corner we nearly b.u.mped into a stranger. He was a small man, with the blackest eyes you ever saw, and he scowled at us as if we hadn't any right to be alive. One funny thing about him was that he had on black kid gloves.

”I don't l-like that man's looks,” says Mark, turning to stare after him. ”Wouldn't trust him with a red-hot stove, 'cause maybe his hands would be made of asbestos.”

”Did look mean,” says I. ”Wonder who he was?”

”Dunno,” says Mark, ”and don't want to.”

But he was mistaken about that. Before long Mark Tidd did want to know who he was, and wanted to know it worse than he had ever wanted to know anything in his life.

And that's how we saw the Man With the Black Gloves for the first time.

CHAPTER III

”The t-trouble with this business,” says Mark, when we were back in the office, ”is that we haven't m-much workin' capital.”

”What's workin' capital?” Plunk wanted to know.

”It's money you have to keep your b-business runnin'. Right now we have to buy ink and p-paper and things. We aren't t-takin' in enough money to do it, and to pay rent, and such like. All we've got is f-fifty dollars, and that's got to do. Ma says so. She says dad can t-throw away so much money, but not another cent; and if we can't make this p-paper pay on what we've got, why we can just up and b-bust.”

”Um!” says I. ”I guess we better get a wiggle on us, then.”

”C-can't get many subscribers before the f-first paper comes out, but we'll print f-f-five hunderd of 'em, anyhow. Cost money, but we got to do it.”

”How'll you get rid of 'em?” Tallow wanted to know.

”Sell 'em,” says Mark, sharp-like. ”We'll each take a bundle and sell 'em on the s-s-street like in the cities. Get more money out of 'em, too. Subscribers get f-f-fifty-two copies for a dollar and a quarter.

We'll sell 'em for three cents-and folks'll buy 'em, too. Won't come down with a year's subscription right off, but they'll dig up t-t-three cents just so's they can make fun of what we're doin'.”

”Got to have some news for the paper,” I says.

”Yes,” says Mark. ”We've got a start. There's the story about Henry Wigglesworth being dead, and about that boy. Probably the will will be r-r-read this week, too. But we've got to go after l-little things for p-p-personal items.”

”How d'ye know when a thing's news?” says Plunk.