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?"
"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 rushin' 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. Woosh!"
"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."
"It don't rest with me," says he. "I was sent here to git the money or
to put you out of business. Them's orders, and I'm a man that obeys his
orders every time. You can bet on that."
"Come b-back to the office," says Mark.
We all went back there, and us four boys held a little meeting to see
how much cash we had. Every cent we could scrape up in the world, and
that included advertising bills that hadn't been paid, was seventy-six
dollars. We'd had to spend some for supplies and such.
"Will you t-t-take fifty dollars," says Mark, "and wait for the rest?"
"I'll take eighty-seven dollars," says the man.
"F-fellers," says Mark, "we're eleven d-dollars shy. Looks like we _got_
to pay. Tallow, you go out and collect in what's owin' us. Tell the
f-f-folks why we got to have it. They'll p-pay. The rest of us'll get
the eleven dollars. You, mister, sit down and wait half an hour."
Out we went, and I says to Mark, "How we goin' to git that eleven
dollars?"
"I just got a s-scheme," says he, "while that man was talkin'. It's
about Home-Comin' Week. We'll get out a s-special Home-Comin' Edition.
Get the idee?"
"I don't," says I.
"Here it is," says he. "We'll print a p-page full of pictures of our
l-leadin' citizens, with a little piece about each of 'em. The cuts of
the photographs'll cost about a dollar apiece, and we'll charge 'em two
dollars 'n' a h-half to have 'em put in. That l-leaves a d-dollar 'n' a
half to cover the cost of paper and p-printin'. Be a nice profit in it."
"You won't git nobody," says I.
"Binney," says he, "you hain't got any idee how many folks wants to see
their picture in the p-paper. We'll git a lot."
"Go ahead," says I, "but you'll see."
"Got the idee so's you understand it?" says he to Plunk and me.
We told him we guessed so.
"Can you t-talk it?" says he.
"We can try," says I.
"Then," says he, "Tallow'll take the right side of Main Street, Binney,
you take the left side, and don't miss anybody, clerks and all. I'll
kind of s-s-skirmish around."
I went along and talked to four people, and every one of them said they
didn't want anything to do with it, just like I told Mark, so I went
back to the corner pretty disgusted with the idea. I met Plunk there,
and he was disgusted, too.
"Knew it wouldn't work," says he.
"Where's Mark?" says I.
"He went that way," says he, pointing.
"Let's find him," says I; so off we went.
Pretty soon we saw him come around the corner and go into the milkman's
yard.
"What's he goin' in there for?" Tallow says. "Can't be figgerin' on
gettin' anythin' out of Ol' Hans Richter."
"Let's find out," says I, and we went along and followed Mark right back
into Richter's barn. Richter was standing in the barn door with a
milk-pail over each arm, and Mark was talking to him. Just as we got
there Old Hans says:
"Mein picture in your baber, eh? Ho! What for does Ol' Hans want mit a
picture in the baber?"
"It isn't what you w-w-want," says Mark, "it's what the f-f-folks in
town want. Why, Mr. Richter, this thing won't be worth a cent if you
ain't in it! What kind of a p-page of prominent citizens of Wicksville
would it b-be if you wasn't there? No good. Folks 'u'd say, 'Where's
Hans Richter? Where's the man that's been f-fetchin' our milk for twenty
year?' That's what they'd say. And folks comin' from out of t-t-town
would want to know what b-business we had printin' other men's pictures
and leavin' yours out. Why, Mr. Richter, we _d-dassen't_ leave you out!"
"You t'ink dot?"
"You bet I do. We just _got_ to have you. You don't think we want to
have to print Jim Withers's picture, do you? He hain't been p-peddlin'
milk here more 'n two years."
"Jim Withers, iss it? Ho! You print his picture in your baber if mine I
do not give? Eh?"
"We'd have to, but we don't _want_ to."
"By yimminy, you don't haff to. Nein. Shall der people be cheated? Nein.
Dey shall haff Hans Richter's picture, and not any other. Jim Withers!
Whoosh! He iss a no-goot milkman. How much you said dot vass?"
"Two d-dollars 'n' a half," says Mark.
Old Hans dug down into his back pocket and pulled out a leather bag, and
I'm going to turn as black as a crow if he didn't give Mark the money.
"Now," says he, "I giff you dot picture, eh? Vun I got w'ich was took in
mein vedding coat a year ago. Dot coat iss yet as goot as new, and
fourt-one year old it iss. Ya. Fourt-one year."
"Fine," says Mark, and in a minute Old Hans gave him the picture and
Mark turned around to where we were.
"How you comin'?" says he.
"Poor," says I.
"How about you?" says Plunk.
"P-perty good," says Mark. "I got four."
"_Four_," says I. "So quick! How'd you do it, and who be they?"
"Well, there's Richter, and old man Meigs, our leadin' veteran of the
Civil War, and Grandad Jones, that crossed the plains in a p-prairie
schooner, and Uncle Ike Bond."
"I surrender," says I. "If you kin git them old coots you kin git
anybody. I'm through. Nobody'll listen to me or Plunk. You sail in and
git 'em."
He grinned the way he does when he's tickled with himself and when he
knows folks are appreciating what a brainy kid he is.
"It's easy," says he. "Just m-make 'em feel how important they are. You
f-fellows go and see what news you can p-pick up. I'll git in these
pictures."
And I'll be kicked hard if he didn't. In an hour he came to the office
with ten photographs and twenty-two dollars and a half. He handed over
to the collector man what was due him, for Tallow had got in most of the
collections, and had enough left to pay for the cuts of the photographs.
The man signed a receipt for the money and went away, looking like he
was disappointed.
"Well," says Mark, "we s-s-scrambled out of _that_ hole, didn't we? But
we got to do some harder s-scramblin' now. I'm goin' after more
photographs."
He took most of the day at it, and when night come around how many do
you think he'd grabbed on to? Forty-one. Yes, sir. And he had the cash
money for every one of them. That left us with just exactly ninety-one
dollars and a half in the treasury, and so we were really some better
off than we had been before the collector came around.
"Fiddlesticks!" says Tallow. "Wisht the collector hadn't showed up. We'd
almost be _rich_."
"If he hadn't s-s-showed up," says Mark, "we wouldn't have thought up
this s-scheme. It's _havin'_ to do things that makes folks do their
best. Bein' necessary is one of the best things can happen to a
f-f-fellow."
Wasn't that just like him! And you'll notice he didn't grab all the
credit himself, though, goodness knows, he was entitled to it. No, sir,
he says, "we" thought up the scheme. He was the real kind of a kid to do
anything with, because he kept you feeling good. All the time you knew
he was the one that was thinking up things and doing them. All we did
was trail around and help. But just the same, he made us feel we had as
much to do with it as he did. I expect we worked all the harder because
of that. Do you know, I shouldn't wonder if that was a pretty good way
for all folks that has other folks working for them to act. The working
folks would work harder and take more pleasure in it. I expect Mark had
it all figured out that way.