“Sell ’em,” says Mark, sharp-like. “We’ll each take a bundle and sell ’em on the s-s-street like in the cities. Get more money out of ’em, too. Subscribers get f-f-fifty-two copies for a dollar and a quarter. We’ll sell ’em for three cents—and folks’ll buy ’em, too. Won’t come down with a year’s subscription right off, but they’ll dig up t-t-three cents just so’s they can make fun of what we’re doin’.”
“Got to have some news for the paper,” I says.
“Yes,” says Mark. “We’ve got a start. There’s the story about Henry Wigglesworth being dead, and about that boy. Probably the will will be r-r-read this week, too. But we’ve got to go after l-little things for p-p-personal items.”
“How d’ye know when a thing’s news?” says Plunk.
“Well,” says Mark, “everything’s news in Wicksville. But some things is better news than others, and we can write m-m-more about ’em. Now, s’pose Sam Wilkins hammers his finger with a h-hammer. Bein’s it’s nobody but Sam, we’d just write a little piece somethin’ like this: ‘Sam Wilkins up and banged his thumb with a hammer, Thursday afternoon. The doctor says Sam’ll recover.’
“But if Sam’s brother was one of the selectmen, we’d say: ‘Samuel Wilkins, brother of our well-known and highly esteemed selectman, Hiram P. Wilkins, painfully injured himself Thursday while working on his brother’s hen-coop. The selectman examined the injured thumb and gave it as his opinion that Samuel would be able to go to work again before the summer was over. Much regret has been expressed over the h-happening, because it delays the completion of the selectman’s splendid new hen-house, which is one any village may be proud of.’ See. T-that’s the idee. If Sam’s brother was President of the United States we’d write a whole column about it, and try to p-p-print a picture of the hurt t-thumb.”
“I see,” says I.
“Me, too,” says the other fellows.
Just then Mr. Greening, of the Big Corner Store, came in.
“Howdy, boys!” says he.