Part 11 (1/2)

”Gets queerer every minute,” says Mark.

”Well,” says I, ”we can't sit here figgerin' about it. We got work to do.”

”Sometimes,” says Mark, ”sittin' and figgerin' is the most valuable work there is.”

”Maybe sometimes,” says I, ”but this hain't one of 'em. We've got ink and paper to buy and Tec.u.mseh Androcles Spat to feed, and rent, and a heap of things. And you said yourself we didn't have any workin'

capital. Since we ran that bazaar I've had a heap of respect for workin'

capital.”

”Me too,” says Mark. ”And there's no chance of g-g-gettin' more money from dad. Ma set her foot down hard. She says we can waste what was put into this paper, but she won't see another cent go after it, and when ma says it like that there hain't any use arguin'. We got to sink or swim all by ourselves.”

”Well,” says I, ”I guess we made a profit on this week's _Trumpet_, anyhow.”

”Yes,” says Mark, ”but there's other weeks a-comin'.”

We thanked Lawyer Jones and started to go.

”Come again,” says he. ”If you get any libel suits on your hands I'll take care of them for you at cost, so to speak. Glad to see you any time.”

When we were outside I says to Mark, ”Now don't go gettin' all het up about this mystery. We got enough on our hands now. We can't run a paper on nothin' and find missin' heirs and investigate mysterious liner advertis.e.m.e.nts put in the paper by men with black gloves, and a dozen other things. We got to settle down to this paper job.”

”Sure,” says Mark. ”That's what I'm doin'. Hain't gettin' news about the biggest thing a newspaper has to do?”

”No,” says I, ”gettin' money is.”

He grinned like he does sometimes when he's ready to admit he's getting the worst of an argument.

”Maybe you're r-r-right, Binney,” says he, ”and then again, maybe this heir-huntin' and mystery-piercin' will help to get that money. Never can tell.”

”I wouldn't depend on it,” says I.

”I sha'n't,” says he. ”Come on to the office.”

Plunk and Tallow were there, and so was Tec.u.mseh Androcles. He was standing up, making a speech to the fellows.

”Ah,” says he, when we came in, ”here is the editor and another of the staff. I, Tec.u.mseh Androcles Spat, wish to congratulate you on the first issue of the rejuvenated _Trumpet_. It was an achievement. On your part, you have filled the paper with pertinent reading-matter and with lucrative advertising. On my part, I have put it in type in such a manner as to cause favorable comment, even from the metropolitan press.

I am proud to be a.s.sociated with you. I hope the relation will long continue and that the progress of this deserving paper will be marked and rapid.”

”Good for you,” says Mark, ”but one swallow don't make a summer. Wait till we see what happens next week. See how many new subscribers we can gaffle on to, and how m-m-many advertis.e.m.e.nts we can get. Likewise, let's not forget the job-printin' end of it. Now, let's buckle down f'r the n-n-next issue.”

Which we did.

CHAPTER VI

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?”