“What you got to do with the newspaper?” he wanted to know.
“Mark Tidd and Plunk and Tallow and me is runnin’ it,” says I, “and I’m after news.”
“Guess I’ll have to let you see it, then,” says he, and he pushed it over.
There was five men registered fresh that morning. Three of them I knew, for they were traveling men that came to town every week. One of the others was just a man from Freesoil that didn’t amount to much, though I wrote a line mentioning that he was in town. The other fellow I’d never heard of.
“Who’s this Silas Spragg?” says I.
“Dunno,” says Billy. “He hain’t stated his business.”
“Guess I’ll interview him, then,” says I. “Maybe there’s some news in him. Where’s he hidin’ away?”
“That’s him on the sidewalk, there,” says Bill, and he pointed to a man about thirty years old who was leaning against a hitching-post in front and looking at the town like he didn’t think much of it.
“Much obliged,” says I, and went out to see Mr. Spragg.
“Good mornin’,” says I. “Is this Mr. Silas Spragg?”