“Yes,” says he, sharp-like. “What of it?”
I figured maybe his breakfast hadn’t agreed with him, or that his shoes was too tight, or something.
“I just saw your name on the register,” says I, “and, bein’ as I represent the newspaper, I figgered I’d better get acquainted with you. Ever been here before?”
“No,” says he. “If I had ’a’ been I wouldn’t have come back this time.”
“Goin’ to stay long?” I asked.
He sort of grinned. “Reg’lar newspaper man, hain’t you?” says he. “Run one of them amateur newspapers?”
“No,” says I, “professional. Reg’lar paper printed on a printin’-press, with advertisin’ in it, issued every Thursday, a dollar and a quarter a year.”
“Huh!” says he. “What paper’s that?”
“The Wicksville Trumpet,” says I.
He laughed. “That’s busted,” says he. “Sheriff took it for debts. You can’t fool me, sonny.”