Mark Tidd, Editor, Page 2
Clarence Budington Kelland
CHAPTER II
Mr. Tidd went along with us when we took possession of the Wicksville_Trumpet_. He headed straight for the room where the machinery was,Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_ sticking out of his pocket. Which oneinterested him first would have him for the morning--so Mark began totalk printing-press right off. Mr. Tidd went and looked it over andsniffed in a gentle, mild-mannered sort of way.
It _wasn't_ much of a press, I expect. You worked it with a big crank,like turning a coffee-grinder. We boys had seen it done lots of times,for we'd hung around the printing-office more or less, and sometimeswe'd helped fold papers and such things. So we had _some_ experience.Some was about all we had, though. We knew as much about running anewspaper as a man that's picked a sliver out of his finger knows aboutsurgery.
Mr. Tidd shucked off his coat and started prodding around in the insidesof the press.
Mark motioned to us and we sneaked out into the office.
"Now," says Mark, "we c-c-commence. I'm editor and you f-fellows areeverything else."
"What else is there?" says I. "I want to pick out a good job."
"You can be assistant b-business manager," says Mark.
"Assistant?" says I. "Who's the real thing?"
"Me," says Mark.
"Huh!" says I.
"You're a reporter, too," says he. "You and Plunk and T-Tallow."
"What's my job?" says Tallow.
"You're a-a-assistant foreman of the pressroom," says Mark.
"Huh! Who's foreman?"
"Me," says Mark.
"What job have you got that I can be assistant to?" says Plunk.
"You're assistant circulation manager," says he.
"All we got to do is be those things you've said, and reportersbesides?" says I.
"That, and hustle for ads., and help run the press, and fold papers, andlearn to set type, and clean up, and help l-l-lick folks that come in tol-lick the editor, and run the job press, and collect money, and getsubscribers, and d-d-drum up printin' jobs. When you hain't got anythin'else to d-do, you can be l-lookin' for news."
"Too much loafin' about this to suit me," says Tallow.
"Say," says Plunk, "how _does_ a newspaper make money, anyhow?"
"It d-don't," says Mark. "Anyhow old Rogers always said so; but itt-tries to make money by gettin' folks to subscribe, and by havin'f-folks advertise, and by doin' printin' jobs--like tickets for theCongregational Young Ladies' Auxiliary Annual Chicken-Pie Supper."
"How many subscribers did the _Trumpet_ have when it busted?" says I.
"Hunderd and t-twenty-six," says Mark. "And listen to this, youf-fellows, we've got to have a thousand."
"Huh!" says I. "You'll have to git a few dozen fam'lies to move infirst."
"Yes," says Plunk, "and about that type-settin'--who's goin' to teach itto us?"
Mark scratched his head at that. Who _was_ going to teach us how to doit? But that was a worry that didn't last long. We found a bridge tocross that difficulty and the name of it was Tecumseh Androcles Spat. Hecame in through the door that very minute.
He looked like Abraham Lincoln in his shirtsleeves. Tall he was, andbony, and he hadn't any coat on, and he did have one of those oldflat-brimmed silk hats.
He looked at us a moment and then says:
"Do I find myself standing in the editorial sanctum of one of thosebulwarks of liberty and free speech--the local newspaper?"
"Right on the edge of it," says Mark.
"Where then, may I ask, is that great and good man, the editor?"
Mark sort of puffed out his chest and looked important.
"I am the editor," says he.
The tall man looked sort of taken back, but just the same he took offhis hat with a sweep.
"I greet you sir," he said. "You see before you no less a person thanTecumseh Androcles Spat. From my earliest youth the smell of printer'sink has been in my nose. My services have been sought, obtained, andfinally dispensed with in no less than one hundred and seventy-fourprinting establishments. I desire to round out the number and make it afull century and three-quarters. Therefore, I apply to you foremployment."
"Can you set type?" says Mark, beginning to look cheerful.
"Stick type? Can Tecumseh Androcles Spat stick type? My young friend, myfirst tooth was cut on a quoin; I learned my letters at the case; at theimmature age of seven--an infant prodigy, with all modesty I say it--Icould set the most complicated display. To-day, in my maturity, youperceive me unrivaled in my profession. I am the Compleat Printer."
"You can have a j-job," says Mark, "but I dunno if you'll ever get yourwages."
"No matter, no matter. I am accustomed to that. Give me but a corner toslumber in, food for my stomach, tobacco for my pipe, and my soul is atpeace."
"You're hired," says Mark.
"Where's your coat?" says I.
"In useful service, my young friend. It hangs from crossed sticks in themidst of a garden patch a mile or more away. It was a lovely gardenpatch wherein grew peas, string-beans, luscious cabbages, fragrantonions. But it was being destroyed. The birds of the air descended uponit in thousands. I looked, I comprehended. What a pity, said I. So, toavert further depredations, I stripped my coat, hung it from crossedsticks, and stood it in the midst of the garden patch. The garden neededit worse than I. Each time I gaze upon my uncoated arms I say to myself,'Tecumseh Androcles Spat is doing his part to preserve the nation'sfood.'"
"He talks like he was a lot educated," says Plunk.
Tecumseh Androcles overheard him. "Educated. Ah, indeed. Have I not inmy day set type for every page of Goober's Grammar, Mills's SpellingBook, to say nothing of histories, philosophies, dictionaries. But mostimportant of all, almanacs. Young gentlemen, I have set no less than tenalmanacs from beginning to end. What university, I ask you, can equipyou with the facts contained in a family almanac?"
"You'll n-n-need all you know around here," Mark says, with a grin. "Wejust bought this p-paper at sheriff's sale, and we've got the wholebusiness to learn."
"Good! Splendid! You're in luck. Tecumseh Androcles Spat is the man toteach you. Where'll I begin?"
"You might go out in the shop and l-look around. Sort of get the lay ofthe land," says Mark.
He hung his silk hat on a hook and, in the most pompous, dignified wayyou ever saw, he stalked out into the press-room.
"Now for b-business," says Mark. "First thing 's to get somes-subscribers. Folks'll take the _Trumpet_ if they know it's goin' toamount to s-somethin'. We've got to tell 'em."
"How?" says I.
"By talkin' it, singin' it, w-whistlin' it and p-playin' it on yourmouth-organ," says Mark, with a grin. "Also by printin' it. We'll getout some hand-bills--and some bigger bills to stick on fences andthings. I'll get up the bills. While I'm doin' it you fellows go out andsee what you can l-learn from Tecumseh Androcles."
So Mark sat down to his desk and got a pencil and commenced scratchinghis head. The rest of us went out into the other room--and there was Mr.Tidd and Tecumseh Androcles in a regular old argument. Both of them hadforgot all about working.
"'Tain't so," Mr. Tidd said, as loud and excited as he was capable of."There hain't no book got more solid and useful knowledge in it thanGibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. It's better 'n thewhole kit and bundle of the rest of the books in the nation."
"My friend," said Tecumseh, "your view is narrow, not to say biased. Ihave read the volumes you praise. Without doubt there is merit in them.Oh, without doubt. But as compared to that marvelous book, IzaakWalton's _Compleat Angler_, it is the nickering of a match to theshining of the noonday sun."
"_Angler_," says Mr. Tidd, disgusted as could be.
"Yes, _Angler_," says Tecumseh.
"Huh!" says Mr. Tidd.
"Do not snort at Izaak Walton," roared Tecumseh. "I will not stand by tosee it done."
"Then don't go belittlin' Gibbon," says Mr. Tidd.
"Have you read _The Compleat Angler_?" shouted Tecumseh.
"Sir!" yelled Tecumseh, reaching as if to take off his coat and findingit was off. It sort of surprised him, I guess, but he got over it andshook his fist under Mr. Tidd's nose. He quit talking educated andcareful, too--just for that minute.
"Your Gibbon wasn't nothin' but a flea on Walton's collar," says he.
It looked like there was going to be a regular rumpus, so I sort ofstepped up and says:
"How's the printin'-press gettin' along, Mr. Tidd?"
"Eh?" says he. "Printin'-press. What printin'-press?"
"This one," says I.
"Um!" says he, rubbing his chin. "Calc'late I plum' forgot it. What'smatter with it, Binney?"
"You was goin' to find out," says I.
"So I was.... So I was," says he.
"And you," says I to Tecumseh Androcles, "you quit botherin' him. He'sbusy. See if it hain't catchin'."
Well, sir, you should have seen Tecumseh go to work. He could work, too,and knew just what he was doing. He set every one of us doing something,and it didn't seem like ten minutes, though it must have been an hour orso, when Mark came out with some paper in his hand.
"Here's the hand-bill," says he. "Tecumseh Androcles, can you s-s-setthis up so's it'll look strikin'?"
"Give it to me, young man, and you shall see. Ah, you shall see."
So Tecumseh went to work and in no time had the thing set up. He fixedit so it would go on the job press and then we began printing it. Justlet me tell you it was a jim-dandy. This is how it went:
THE WICKSVILLE "TRUMPET" IS GOING TO TOOT
New Editor, New Management New Policy, New Everything
First Toot Thursday
Mark Tidd and Company will give this town a paper that will make the State jealous.
$1.25 a Year
If there's anything you want to know, look in the "Trumpet" for it. It'll be there.
Don't crowd, don't push. But hand in your subscription early. If you miss the first toot you'll never forgive yourself.
SUBSCRIBE SUBSCRIBE SUBSCRIBE
By that time it was noon. Tecumseh was the first one to notice it.
"It is my custom," said he, "to eat at this time. As I understand it youare to supply me with nourishment."
"That was the b-bargain," says Mark. "Come on."
He went out with Tecumseh, and the rest of us followed. We knew hedidn't have any money to buy a meal with, because he'd spent his lastcent the day before, and we wondered what he was up to. He went straightto the Acme Restaurant.
"Where's the boss?" he says to the girl at the counter.
"Kitchen," says she.
"Call him out," says he.
"Call him yourself," says she. "Your voice is as strong as mine."
So Mark yelled, and in a minute out came Mr. Schmidt, waddling like anold duck.
"Vat iss?" says he.
"I want to b-board this gentleman here," says Mark, pointing toTecumseh.
"Yass," says Mr. Schmidt.
"But I hain't got any m-money."
"Den you don't got any board," says Mr. Schmidt----
"But I've g-got a _business_ p-proposition to make you."
"Make it quick, cakes iss in dat stove," says Mr. Schmidt.
"We own the newspaper," says Mark. "It's going to be the g-greatestnewspaper in the State. Everybody's goin' to read it. _You're_ goin' tor-r-read it. Now, I want to make money for you."
"Why?" says Mr. Schmidt.
"Because," says Mark, "I like the way your cakes smell," and then hewent ahead quick, telling the old fellow how much more money he wouldmake if he advertised in the _Trumpet_ and told folks about his pies andhis meats, and what he was going to serve for meals. Once or twice Mr.Schmidt tried to interrupt, but Mark never gave him a chance. He endedup: "Now, Mr. Schmidt, you board Tecumseh Androcles and give him threegood meals a day, and we'll advertise your place so every f-f-farmerthat comes to town will want to eat here. I'll write the ads. m-myself.I wouldn't do that for everybody. We'll give you a full column everyw-w-week."
"I don't--" began Mr. Schmidt, but Mark was at him again, and prettysoon Mr. Schmidt waved his hands in the air and says: "Stop. Vill youstop? Eh? Cakes I haff in dat oven. Dey schpoil. I advertise. Sure. I doanyt'ing if you go away. T'ree meal a day. You advertise a column inyour paper. Iss dat it?"
"Yes," says Mark, and waved Tecumseh to a seat at a table. "Be sure youeat a c-c-column's worth every week," says he, and grinned at us.
That was our first stroke of business. I guess it was a good bargain.Once I saw Tecumseh eating, and I guess we didn't get much the worst ofit. No, I guess Mark Tidd didn't get beaten very bad on that bargain.
We went outside and started for home. At the corner we nearly bumpedinto a stranger. He was a small man, with the blackest eyes you eversaw, and he scowled at us as if we hadn't any right to be alive. Onefunny thing about him was that he had on black kid gloves.
"I don't l-like that man's looks," says Mark, turning to stare afterhim. "Wouldn't trust him with a red-hot stove, 'cause maybe his handswould be made of asbestos."
"Did look mean," says I. "Wonder who he was?"
"Dunno," says Mark, "and don't want to."
But he was mistaken about that. Before long Mark Tidd did want to knowwho he was, and wanted to know it worse than he had ever wanted to knowanything in his life.
And that's how we saw the Man With the Black Gloves for the first time.
