“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 it t-tries to make money by gettin’ folks to subscribe, and by havin’ f-folks advertise, and by doin’ printin’ jobs—like tickets for the Congregational 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, you f-fellows, we’ve got to have a thousand.”
“Huh!” says I. “You’ll have to git a few dozen fam’lies to move in first.”
“Yes,” says Plunk, “and about that type-settin’—who’s goin’ to teach it to us?”
Mark scratched his head at that. Who was going to teach us how to do it? But that was a worry that didn’t last long. We found a bridge to cross that difficulty and the name of it was Tecumseh Androcles Spat. He came in through the door that very minute.
He looked like Abraham Lincoln in his shirtsleeves. Tall he was, and bony, and he hadn’t any coat on, and he did have one of those old flat-brimmed silk hats.
He looked at us a moment and then says: