Mark Tidd, Editor

  Produced by Roger Frank.

  Plunk and Tallow were there looking dilapidated andfrightened]

  MARK TIDD, EDITOR

  BY

  CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND

  author of

  "Mark Tidd" "Mark Tidd in the Backwoods" "Mark Tidd's Citadel" etc.

  ILLUSTRATED

  HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

  NEW YORK AND LONDON

  Mark Tidd, Editor

  Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers

  Printed in the United States of America

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  Plunk and tallow were there looking dilapidated and frightened

  We went to selling papers as hard as we could, and before noon we werecleaned out

  "Huh!" says the second man, and we recognized him as the man with theblack gloves

  Jethro just rushed at us and grabbed a-holt of Rock, rough-like

  CHAPTER I

  "Binney," says Mark Tidd to me, "the Wicksville _Trumpet_ isb-b-busted."

  "Well," says I, "it's been cracked for quite a spell. It hain't beentootin' loud enough to notice for a year."

  "Used to be a g-good newspaper once," says Mark.

  "Yes--once," says I, "but not more 'n once. That hain't any record. IfI'd been gettin' out a paper fifty-two times a year for twenty years Ibet I could 'a' made more 'n one of those times a good one."

  Mark looked at me sudden out of his little eyes that had to sort of_peek_ up over his fat cheeks. "Binney," says he, "you hain't as uselessas I calc'lated. That's an idea."

  "Oh," says I, "is that what it is? I sort of figgered maybe it was anotion."

  Mark turned the whole of him around so he could face Plunk Smalley andTallow Martin, who were standing behind him. By rights you ought to havea turn-table to move Mark around on, like they have for locomotives.He's 'most as heavy as a locomotive, and when he talks sometimes itsounds like a locomotive pulling a load up-hill, snorting andpuffing--he stutters so.

  "Fellows," says he, "this Binney Jenks is g-g-gettin' so he talks like aminstrel show. Makes reg'lar j-jokes one right after another. Looksl-like he hain't got time to be sensible any more."

  "But what's the idea?" says Tallow.

  "Want to talk to my father first," says Mark. "C-come on."

  Mark's father didn't use to have any money at all. He just sat aroundinventing things and reading Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire_. First he'd invent a little, and then he'd read a little, and itwas a wonder he didn't get the two mixed up. But finally he up andinvented a turbine-engine, and it made such a pile of money for him thathe didn't need to do a thing but read Gibbon and carry bushel-baskets ofdollars to the bank every little while.

  Usually when a man goes and gets rich all of a sudden there's somedifference in him. He builds him a big house and hires a lot of folks tobrush his clothes and make his beds and cook chicken for him three mealsa day. But not Mr. Tidd. You wouldn't ever think he had a cent more thanhe used to. He kept his little machine-shop in the barn, and woreoveralls mostly--when he didn't get on his Sunday suit by mistake. Hewas as like as not to do that very thing, if Mark's mother didn't keepher eye on him. He was a fine kind of a man, but he couldn't rememberthings for a cent. If Mrs. Tidd sent him to the grocery for a bottle ofvanilla, he'd like as not bring home a bag of onions. As far as he'd getwith remembering, you see, would be that he wanted something with asmell to it.

  Mrs. Tidd was fine, too. She scolded quite considerable, but that wasjust make-believe. If you'd come in sudden and tell her you were hungryand wanted a piece of bread-and-butter she'd sort of frown, and say youcouldn't have it and that it wasn't good for boys to be stuffingthemselves between meals--and then, most likely, she'd call you back andgive you a piece of pie.

  Getting rich hadn't changed her, either. Once she tried keeping a hiredgirl, but it only lasted a week. She claimed it was more work followingthe girl around and saving what she wasted than it was to do the workitself.

  Well, we hustled up to Mark's house and went back to his father's shop.Mr. Tidd, in greasy overalls, sat right smack in the middle of thefloor, reading a book that looked like it was pretty close to worn out.We didn't have to ask what it was--it was Gibbon. He didn't need to readit; he could have _recited_ it if he'd a mind to.

  "Hello, pa," says Mark.

  Mr. Tidd looked up sort of vague, as if he wondered who this strangercould be. Then he says: "Howdy, Marcus Aurelius. I was hopin' maybeyou'd drop in. Young eyes is better 'n old ones. Take a sort of a kindof a look around to see if you can find a chunk of lead--about fourinches square and six inches long. Pretty hefty it was. Don't see how Icome to mislay it."

  We looked and looked, and no lead was anywhere to be found. But Mark didfind a package with two pounds of butter in it.

  "What's the b-b-butter for, pa?" he asked.

  "Why," says Mr. Tidd, scratching his head, "why, seems to me like yourma sent me after that butter. Guess I must 'a' fetched it in and cleanforgot it."

  "Um!" says Mark, and out of the shop he went. In two minutes he cameback, lugging the chunk of lead.

  "Where'd you git it, Marcus Aurelius?" says Mr. Tidd.

  "In the ice-b-box," says Mark. "Boon's I see that b-butter I knew rightoff where the lead was. You got the lead same time you did the butter,didn't you, pa?"

  "Yes," says Mr. Tidd.

  Mark nodded his head like he'd known it all along. "Sure," says he, "andyou p-p-put the lead in the ice-box and fetched the butter out to theshop."

  "I swan!" says Mr. Tidd. "I calc'late your ma 'u'd been some s'prised ifshe started spreadin' bread, eh?" He chuckled and chuckled, and so didwe.

  "Pa," says Mark, when we quit laughing, "there was s-s-somethin' Iwanted to talk over with you."

  "Go ahead," says Mr. Tidd.

  "I got the idea from Binney," says Mark.

  "Huh!" says I, "I hain't had any ideas this week."

  "Your b-best ideas," says Mark, "is the ones you don't know you have."

  "What's the idee?" asked Mr. Tidd.

  "I'm thinkin'," says Mark, "of becomin' an editor."

  "Sho!" says Mr. Tidd. He was surprised, and I guess maybe we three boysweren't surprised, too! But if you're around much with Mark Tidd you'vegot to get used to it. He's always surprising you; it's a regularbusiness with him.

  "What you goin' to be editor of?" says I.

  "The Wicksville _Trumpet_--if pa's willin'," says he.

  I grinned. I almost laughed out loud. "Shucks!" says I.

  "I'll bet he can do it," says Plunk Smalley.

  Mark didn't pay any attention to us, but just talked to Mr. Tidd. "Thepaper's b-b-busted," says he, stuttering for all that was in him, "andit's goin' to be s-s-sold at s-sheriff's sale. I figger it'll go cheap.Now, pa, can't you make out to buy it for us?" Mind how he said _us_?That's the kind of a fellow he was. If you were a friend of his he stuckto you, and whatever he started you could be in if you wanted to.

  "Um!" says Mr. Tidd. "A newspaper's a mighty important thing, MarcusAurelius. I don't call to mind that Gibbon mentions any of 'em in thisbook, but they're important jest the same. Figger you could make out torun it so's not to do any harm?"

  "Yes, pa," says Mark.

  "I'll talk it over with your ma," says Mr. Tidd. That was always the waywith him. He had to talk over with Mrs. Tidd every last thing he did, ifit wasn't anything more important than digging worms to go fishing. Yes,sir, he'd ask her what corner of the garden she thought was most likelyfor
worms, and she'd tell him, and nobody could get him to dig anywhereselse, either.

  We all went traipsing into the kitchen, where Mrs. Tidd was baking abatch of fried-cakes.

  "Git right out of here," she says. "I'm busy. Won't have you underfoot.Git right out."

  "Now, ma," says Mr. Tidd, "we wasn't after fried-cakes--though onewouldn't go bad at this minute. We want to talk newspaper."

  "Go talk it to somebody else," says Mrs. Tidd. "What about newspapers?"Now wasn't that just like her? First tell us to talk to somebody else,and then ask about it in the same breath. "Marcus Aurelius FortunatusTidd, you keep your hands off'n them fried-cakes," she said, sharp-like.

  "Why," says Mr. Tidd, "Marcus Aurelius wants I should buy the Wicksville_Trumpet_ for him and the boys."

  "Nonsense!" says Mrs. Tidd, with a sniff, handing two crisp, brownfried-cakes to each of us. "Nonsense!"

  "Ma," says Mark, "it's goin' to be s-s-sold by the sheriff. Then therewon't be any more paper here. How'll you ever git along without thep-p-p-personals to read?"

  "Nonsense!" says Mrs. Tidd again.

  "We can b-buy it dirt cheap," says Mark, "and we can run it and m-makemoney while we're doin' it, and sell out after a while and m-make aprofit."

  "What you'd make," says Mrs. Tidd, "would be monkeys of yourselves. Nouse arguin' with me. You can't doit." She turned her back and droppedsome more cakes into the grease. "How much you calc'late it'll cost?"says she.

  "Two-three h-hunderd dollars," says Mark.

  "Jest be throwin' it away," says Mrs. Tidd. "Now clear out. I don't wantto hear another word about it."

  We turned and went out. Before we were off the back stoop she came tothe door. "You go to Lawyer Jones," says she, "and have him do thebuyin'. Hain't one of you fit to dicker for a cent's worth of driedfish."

  Mark he looked at me and winked. He knew his ma pretty well, and so didwe; but this time I thought she meant what she said.

  We all hurried down to Lawyer Jones's office and told him about it. Heacted like he thought Mr. Tidd was crazy, and he said it was an outrageto put the control of a Moulder of Public Opinion--that's what he calleda newspaper--? into the hands of harum-scarum boys. But all the same hechuckled a little and says he figured Wicksville was in for stirringtimes and he was glad he was alive to watch what was going to happen.

  "Tidd," said Lawyer Jones, when we were through talking about the paper,"did you know Henry Wigglesworth died last night?"

  "No," says Mr. Tidd, looking as if he didn't quite know who HenryWigglesworth was. But we boys knew Mr. Wigglesworth was 'most as rich asMr. Tidd, so folks said. He owned a great big farm--hundreds of acres ofit--just outside of town, and he was one of the directors of the bankand of the electric-light company. Altogether, folks believed he musthave pretty close to a quarter of a million dollars, and that's a heap,I can tell you.

  Everybody knew Mr. Wigglesworth, but not many were acquainted with him.What I mean by acquainted is what we call so in Wicksville. It means youstop to talk with him, and drop in at his house and stay to dinner ifyou want to, and go to help when his horse gets sick, and ask him tocome help if you get in some kind of a pickle, that's being acquainted.Well, nobody I know of was that way with Mr. Wigglesworth. I don't knowas I ever heard of a man that had been inside Mr. Wigglesworth's bighouse, or that had had Mr. Wigglesworth in his house.

  He wasn't exactly mean. No, he wasn't that. He was just big, andstern-looking, and dignified, and acted like he wanted folks to let himalone. Mark said to me one day that he acted like he was always sorryabout something, but I don't see what made Mark think so. Anyhow, folkswere afraid of him and let him alone, which, probably, was just what hewanted. But he was talked about considerable, you can bet.

  The way he lived all alone, with just one man that did his cooking andhelped take care of the big house, made folks talk, because it wasqueer. Come to think about it, everything about that house of Mr.Wigglesworth's was queer. Sort of spooky, I'd call it.

  And now he was dead.

  "Yes, sir," said Lawyer Jones, "he's dead and gone. I was called upthere before daylight, Tidd, and what d'you suppose I found in thehouse?"

  "Wa-al," says Mr. Tidd, "I dunno 's I'd be prepared to state."

  "A boy," says Lawyer Jones, and looked at us with the kind of expressiona man wears when he expects he's going to startle you. And he did it,all right.

  "A b-boy!" says Mark Tidd.

  "A boy," says Lawyer Jones again. "About fifteen, I calc'late he is."

  "Who is he?" says Mark.

  "That," says Lawyer Jones, "is what I'd give ten dollars to find out."

  "Didn't you ask him?" says Tallow.

  "He didn't know himself," says Lawyer Jones.

  "Shucks!" says I, not meaning to be disrespectful.

  "It's the truth," says Lawyer Jones. "Didn't know who he was nor whatfor he was in Henry Wigglesworth's house. Says his first name is Rockand that he didn't ever have a last name. Just Rock. Says a man namedPeterkin brought him here four days ago, and left him. Says Wigglesworthnever spoke to him, but just come sneakin' in one night after he was inbed, with a lamp in his hand, and stood looking down at him. The boysays he pretended he was asleep. That's all there is to it, and I wish Ihad an idee what it all means."

  I looked at Mark Tidd. His little eyes were twinkling the way they dowhen he's all wrought up and interested, and his lips were pressedtogether so they looked kind of white. You could see he was 'most eatenup with curiosity. But he didn't ask any questions.

  In a few minutes we went out and walked back to Mr. Tidd's shop, wherewe all sat down to talk things over.

  "R-reg'lar mystery," says Mark.

  "Can't make no head or tail to it," says Tallow.

  And that's what Wicksville in general decided--that they couldn't makehead nor tail to it. It gave everybody in town something to talk aboutand figure over.

  When the Man With the Black Gloves came to town and Henry Wigglesworth'swill was found, folks puzzled more than ever.

  But we boys had other fish to fry--except Mark. I guess he had theWigglesworth mystery more in his mind than he did the Wicksville_Trumpet_. But after the next morning he had to think more about the_Trumpet_, for Lawyer Jones bid it in for us at the sheriff's sale ofthree hundred and thirty-two dollars--and Mark Tidd was a real, live,untamed editor.