“N-nothin’,” says he. “It’s good sense. You’d know if you ever ate a pie of hern. Dave was wise, but maybe Mis’ Baird won’t like bein’ twitted with it.”
“Git out!” says I, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “You twist around everything a feller says.”
“This,” says he, “is m-mighty descriptive. ‘Crowds stood around the merry-go-round watching it go around and around.’”
I didn’t say a word. He was makin’ me mad.
There were a lot more of them, but I told Mark he needn’t bother to read me any others. I had enough. The way he read them made them sound altogether different than I had meant them, but I guess he read what I wrote, all right. Which goes to show that folks ought to be careful what they write, and be sure they mean what they are saying. I’ll bet lots of trouble gits started just that way. One fellow writes something that’s all right, but says it careless, and the fellow that reads it thinks something mean is said about him. Then, bingo!
Anyhow, Mark put them in the paper just as they were, and the paper came out. You can believe me or not, just as you want to, but the next two or three days I was pretty scarce around there, especially after Hob Sweet dropped into the office with a horse-whip and inquired after me anxious, like he was particular desirous of seeing me. I saw him coming and made up my mind that some place else would be more comfortable, so, I skinned out of the back door.
While I was making for a safe spot I almost bumped into Jed Tingle and Mrs. Baird, who were standing on a corner, each one with a Trumpet clutched in their hand, and talking mad as anything. I didn’t stop to mention anything to them, but cut out around them so as not to disturb them a mite.
Mark knew where I’d be and he sent Plunk out with a basket of grub and a warning to keep away from home till it was bedtime, and then to sneak in pretty average cautious, because, he said, there had been a procession of folks calling at my house all day to look for me, and he judged my father was some put out at being bothered that much.
Well, that blew over after a while. Folks sort of forgot it in the excitement of the battle between the Literary Circle and the Home Culturers. No sooner had that challenge got around than Mrs. Bobbin rushed into the office with an answer to it and her picture. And her answer wasn’t what you’d call diplomatic. Well, Mrs. Strubber’s challenge wasn’t as gentle as it might have been.
Mrs. Bobbin’s paper says: