“M-much obleeged,” says Mark.
When Mr. Greening was gone I says to Mark: “How in the world did you know how much to charge him? Bet you got it wrong.”
“You d-d-do, eh?” says Mark, with a twinkle in his little eyes. “Well, if I did, Binney, it hain’t wrong on the losin’ side for us. No, siree. I’ve b-been goin’ over the books the last owner of this p-p-paper left here, to find out how much he charged for j-j-jobs, and what j-jobs was likely to come in. Mr. Greening’s was one of ’em. So when he come I just charged him what the other feller would have charged—and added t-t-ten per cent, to make sure we wouldn’t l-lose anything.”
He looked proud and pleased with himself, like he always does when he does something that’s pretty good. It was pretty good, too. You’ve got to take off your hat to Mark when it comes to making money. He’s a regular schemer, but for all that, he’s fair. Nobody—at least no other kid in Wicksville—would have thought of getting at prices the way Mark did.
“The other owner of the p-p-paper didn’t make money,” says Mark. “That’s why I added ten per cent. If we f-f-find that isn’t enough, we’ll add more—and we’ll get it, too, ’cause we’re goin’ to turn out first-class work—and turn it out just when we p-p-promise to. Folks don’t mind a few cents extry if they get quality and promptness.”
Tecumseh Androcles Spat came in from the composing-room just then, shaking his head from side to side and looking as doleful as a gander on a rainy day.
“Mr. Editor,” said he, “my talents are lying idle. It should not be so. At this moment I should be dazzling the inhabitants of this village with typographical displays such as their eyes have never feasted on. Yet no copy hangs on the hook.”
“In just one s-s-second there’ll be some hangin’ there,” said Mark, and he reached out and stuck the paper Mr. Greening had given him on the hook where stuff is put that the man in the composing-room is to set in type.
Tecumseh Androcles stared at it, cocked his head on one side, wrinkled his nose, and then began making funny motions in the air with one hand like he was drawing lines and making dots and flourishes.
“Good,” says he in a minute. “The thing is done. Tecumseh Androcles Spat sees the completed hand-bill in his mind’s eye—and it is beautiful.”