Part 11 (2/2)

”I'm h-him,” says Mark, and I could see his face sort of setting like it does when he thinks something unpleasant is going to happen and he's got to use his wits.

”Huh!” says the man, looking him over. ”There's enough of you, hain't there-except so far as age is concerned.”

Now, if there's one thing Mark hates to be twitted about it's his size; it riles him to have anybody make fun of it, and his little eyes began to get sharp and bright. ”Look out, mister,” says I to myself. Mark didn't say anything, though, except, ”What can I d-do for you.”

”You can hand over the cash for _that_,” says the man, throwing a piece of paper down on the counter.

Mark picked it up and looked at it. You couldn't tell by his face what he thought of it, though he read it pretty careful and then didn't say anything for quite a spell.

”Well, my fat friend,” says the man, ”what about it?”

Mark looked him over hard, and then says, ”Mister, if you had as much manners as I've got flesh, you and me would get along b-b-better.”

”Don't git fresh,” says the man.

”Look here,” says Mark, ”this is my office. If you c-c-come in here like you ought to, actin' d-decent, you'll be treated the same. If you've got any b-business with me, act like a b-business man. If you can't act that way-git out. There's the d-door. I guess whatever b-business there is to do can be done with your boss.”

The man sort of eased off a trifle and acted a little more like he was a regular human being instead of a bear with a toothache.

”I was sent here to collect that bill,” says he.

”All right,” says Mark. ”Now what about that bill? I don't know anythin'

about it. So f-f-far as I know I don't owe any bill. What m-makes you think I do?”

”It's for paper,” says the man. ”Paper sold to the Wicksville _Trumpet_ more 'n three months ago, and it hain't never been paid for. The boss he told me either to git the money or to shut up your shop for you. So which'll it be?”

”N-neither for a minute,” says Mark. ”Here you come rus.h.i.+n' in here with a b-b-bill for eighty-seven dollars that I hain't ever heard of. Before anythin' else happens I want to know a l-little more about it.”

”There hain't any more to know. You've had the paper, and we hain't ever had the money.”

”But we don't owe it,” says Tallow. ”We just bought this paper a few days ago.”

”Well,” says the man, ”you bought its bills with it, didn't you?”

”Not if we could h-help it,” says Mark. ”Now, mister, you come with me.

We'll f-f-find out.”

So all of us went to Lawyer Jones and told him the facts. He looked sorry and acted sorry, but he said there wasn't anything to do but pay it. ”It's a shame,” say she, ”and you've been swindled, but it can't be helped. The old proprietor owed this money, and concealed the fact when you bought the paper. It isn't honest, but the people who sold the paper aren't to blame. The man who sold you the _Trumpet_ is. According to law you'll have to pay.”

”Um!” says Mark, tugging at his cheek like he always does when he's thinking hard. ”Eighty-seven d-d-dollars. Woos.h.!.+”

”We 'ain't got it,” says I.

”Mister,” says Mark, ”you see h-how it is. 'Tain't _our_ fault this bill isn't paid. Seems to me like the l-l-least you could do would be to give us some more time.”

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