“Well?” says I.
“If I was to t-t-tell you now,” says he, “it would spile a m-mighty fine s’prise for you,” says he.
“Huh!” says I. “I’d rather suffer from a spoiled surprise,” I says, “than to be worn to the bone by curiosity.”
“I’ll take a chance,” says he.
“You hain’t takin’ any chance,” says I. “You know.”
“You b-bet I do,” says he, and that was all I could get out of him.
“How about Pekoe?” says I. “Is he goin’ to be left out at the farm forever?”
“Pekoe’s comfortable,” says he. “I guess he’s about due to c-c-come to town.”
Subscriptions straggled in all the afternoon, one at a time. The way the contest was turning out for us was great. We knew we’d have close to fifteen hunderd paid-up yearly subscribers, and Mark says every newspaper man in the world admits a country weekly can make good money with that many.
“But Spragg’s daily?” says I.