“You get ’em in somehow,” said Nick. “Why, the editor over at Coreyville even said ‘Our Wife.’”
“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, “I will, too,—that is—er—”
[p139]
The telephone-bell covered his retreat.
“Hello!” he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect of his recent embarrassment, “Office of ‘The Opp Eagle.’ Mr. Toddlinger? Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a minute—see here, I can explain that—” but the other party had evidently rung off.
Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:
“Do you know what you went and did last week?” He rose and, going to the file, consulted the top paper. “There it is,” he said, “just identical with what he asserted.”
Nick followed the accusing finger and read:
“Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot.”
Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers, between which strained [p140] relations existed, and on his head was the brim of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a twine string about his neck was a large onion.
He opened negotiations at once.