“Make it quick, cakes iss in dat stove,” says Mr. Schmidt.
“We own the newspaper,” says Mark. “It’s going to be the g-greatest newspaper in the State. Everybody’s goin’ to read it. You’re goin’ to r-r-read it. Now, I want to make money for you.”
“Why?” says Mr. Schmidt.
“Because,” says Mark, “I like the way your cakes smell,” and then he went ahead quick, telling the old fellow how much more money he would make if he advertised in the Trumpet and told folks about his pies and his meats, and what he was going to serve for meals. Once or twice Mr. Schmidt tried to interrupt, but Mark never gave him a chance. He ended up: “Now, Mr. Schmidt, you board Tecumseh Androcles and give him three good meals a day, and we’ll advertise your place so every f-f-farmer that comes to town will want to eat here. I’ll write the ads. m-myself. I wouldn’t do that for everybody. We’ll give you a full column every w-w-week.”
“I don’t—” began Mr. Schmidt, but Mark was at him again, and pretty soon Mr. Schmidt waved his hands in the air and says: “Stop. Vill you stop? Eh? Cakes I haff in dat oven. Dey schpoil. I advertise. Sure. I do anyt’ing if you go away. T’ree meal a day. You advertise a column in your paper. Iss dat it?”
“Yes,” says Mark, and waved Tecumseh to a seat at a table. “Be sure you eat a c-c-column’s worth every week,” says he, and grinned at us.
That was our first stroke of business. I guess it was a good bargain. Once I saw Tecumseh eating, and I guess we didn’t get much the worst of it. No, I guess Mark Tidd didn’t get beaten very bad on that bargain.
We went outside and started for home. At the corner we nearly bumped into a stranger. He was a small man, with the blackest eyes you ever saw, and he scowled at us as if we hadn’t any right to be alive. One funny thing about him was that he had on black kid gloves.
“I don’t l-like that man’s looks,” says Mark, turning to stare after him. “Wouldn’t trust him with a red-hot stove, ’cause maybe his hands would be made of asbestos.”
“Did look mean,” says I. “Wonder who he was?”