Part 31 (1/2)

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 thras.h.i.+n' 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 b.u.mped 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.