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 one interested him first would have him for the morning—so Mark began to talk printing-press right off. Mr. Tidd went and looked it over and sniffed 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 sometimes we’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 a newspaper as a man that’s picked a sliver out of his finger knows about surgery.
Mr. Tidd shucked off his coat and started prodding around in the insides of 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 are everything 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.