“Binney,” says he, “if Spragg b-beats us then you can p-paint a sign sayin’ ‘idiot’ and pin it on my b-back, and I’ll wear it a month.”
You notice he said “us.” That was just like him always. He wasn’t what you’d call modest, but he was square with us other fellows that didn’t think as quick and as shrewd as he did. We all got the credit for what was done if he could fix it that way. But I don’t believe many folks were fooled by it. They knew Mark Tidd and they knew us.
“You can always catch f-f-folks with a scheme,” says he, “that makes ’em think they’re gettin’ somethin’ for n-nothin’. But,” he says, “I hain’t ever seen anybody git somethin’ without pay in’ about what it was worth.”
“Yes,” says I, “if you coop a watermelon out of Deacon Burgess’s garden, why, you pay for it by tearin’ your pants on his barb-wire fence, or by gittin’ the stummick ache.”
“That’s about the idee,” says he.
“What you goin’ to do first?” I says.
“Haven’t f-figgered it out yet,” says he. Then he went to talking about the contest.
“How many subscriptions have we got in?” says he.
“Lemme see,” says I, “this is the third day it’s been goin’ and yesterday we had seventy. Tallow said we got in twenty-six this morning. That makes ninety-six.”
“Huh!” says he. “They hain’t got warmed up yet. But we’ll get ’em good perty soon. They’ll start comin’ strong.”