Mark Tidd, Editor Part 5

"In just one s-s-second there'll be some hangin' there," said Mark, and he reached out and stuck the paper Mr. Greening had given him on the hook where stuff is put that the man in the composing-room is to set in type.

Tec.u.mseh Androcles stared at it, c.o.c.ked his head on one side, wrinkled his nose, and then began making funny motions in the air with one hand like he was drawing lines and making dots and flourishes.

"Good," says he in a minute. "The thing is done. Tec.u.mseh Androcles Spat sees the completed hand-bill in his mind's eye-and it is beautiful."

"M-make it beautiful," says Mark, "but also make it quick!"

"Young sir," says Tec.u.mseh, "no compositor between the Broad Atlantic and the boundless Pacific can vie with me in speed. I shall show you."

And he dodged out into the composing-room so quickly his head seemed to snap like the snapper on the end of a horse-whip.

"I'm afraid," says Mark, "that Tec.u.mseh's bothered with what some folks call artistic t-t-temperament. I don't know what it is, exactly, but it's hard to m-manage."

"You'll manage it, all right," says Tallow. "I'll bet you could drive two artistic temperaments in a team."

"I'd hate to try," says Mark, but you could see he was tickled. He always likes to be appreciated-and so do the rest of us, I guess.

"Now," says he, "Plunk and Tallow, scatter and hunt up news. Don't miss anythin'. F-f-fetch in everything you get to hear, and we'll use all we can that's really n-news. Now git-and don't loaf."

"Huh!" says Plunk. "Guess we hain't any more apt to loaf than _you_ are."

"Reporters always try to loaf," says Mark. "I read it in a book."

Then Mark says to me that he shouldn't be surprised if it would be a good idea for me to go to the hotel and find out who was registered there, and what they came to town for, and how long they were going to stay.

"And," says he, "if there's any of t-t-them that sounds like he might be int'restin', get a talk with him and write up what he says."

So off I went to the hotel.

"Gimme a look at the register," says I to Billy Green, the clerk.

"What d'you want to look at the register for?" says Bill, winking at a traveling man that was standing close by.

"To see who's registered," says I. "Did you think I wanted to read a poem out of it?"

Bill laughed and pulled the book away.

"No kids allowed," says he. "I'll bet your hands are dirty and you'd muss it all up."

"Bill," says I, "you better quit makin' fun of me, or I'll put a piece in the paper about how you got on the dining-car last week, and didn't know what finger-bowls was, and drank the water out of your'n, thinkin'

it was lemonade 'cause it had lemon peelin' in it."

Bill he got pretty red and looked sideways at the traveling man and tried to laugh it off. But it was so, and I knew it. He didn't know how I knew it, and I wasn't going to tell him.

"Do I get to see the register?" says I.

"What you got to do with the newspaper?" he wanted to know.

"Mark Tidd and Plunk and Tallow and me is runnin' it," says I, "and I'm after news."

"Guess I'll have to let you see it, then," says he, and he pushed it over.

There was five men registered fresh that morning. Three of them I knew, for they were traveling men that came to town every week. One of the others was just a man from Freesoil that didn't amount to much, though I wrote a line mentioning that he was in town. The other fellow I'd never heard of.

"Who's this Silas Spragg?" says I.

"Dunno," says Billy. "He hain't stated his business."

"Guess I'll interview him, then," says I. "Maybe there's some news in him. Where's he hidin' away?"

"That's him on the sidewalk, there," says Bill, and he pointed to a man about thirty years old who was leaning against a hitching-post in front and looking at the town like he didn't think much of it.

"Much obliged," says I, and went out to see Mr. Spragg.

"Good mornin'," says I. "Is this Mr. Silas Spragg?"

"Yes," says he, sharp-like. "What of it?"

I figured maybe his breakfast hadn't agreed with him, or that his shoes was too tight, or something.

"I just saw your name on the register," says I, "and, bein' as I represent the newspaper, I figgered I'd better get acquainted with you.

Ever been here before?"

"No," says he. "If I had 'a' been I wouldn't have come back this time."

"Goin' to stay long?" I asked.

He sort of grinned. "Reg'lar newspaper man, hain't you?" says he. "Run one of them amateur newspapers?"

"No," says I, "professional. Reg'lar paper printed on a printin'-press, with advertisin' in it, issued every Thursday, a dollar and a quarter a year."

"Huh!" says he. "What paper's that?"

"The Wicksville _Trumpet_," says I.

He laughed. "That's busted," says he. "Sheriff took it for debts. You can't fool me, sonny."

"Yes," says I, "it was sold by the sheriff and Mark Tidd's dad bought it for us four fellers to run. It hain't busted any more, and, mister, it hain't goin' to be busted, either. Guess you don't know Mark Tidd, do you?"

"No," says he, "but I hope he didn't spend much money for his paper."

"Why?" says I.

"'Cause he's goin' to lose it," says he.

"Maybe," says I, "he'll have somethin' to say about that."

"So'll I," says he, "and here's some news for you. You'll like to print it, I'll bet. I'm a newspaper man myself. Part owner of the Eagle Center _Clarion_. When we heard the _Trumpet_ was busted we decided to grab on to this town and get out a special edition of the _Clarion_ for it. See?

One plant to print two papers. I'm here to be editor of the Wicksville edition.... Now what d'you think about bustin', eh? Figger there's room for two papers here?"