“Yes,” says I, “it was sold by the sheriff and Mark Tidd’s dad bought it for us four fellers to run. It hain’t busted any more, and, mister, it hain’t goin’ to be busted, either. Guess you don’t know Mark Tidd, do you?”
“No,” says he, “but I hope he didn’t spend much money for his paper.”
“Why?” says I.
“’Cause he’s goin’ to lose it,” says he.
“Maybe,” says I, “he’ll have somethin’ to say about that.”
“So’ll I,” says he, “and here’s some news for you. You’ll like to print it, I’ll bet. I’m a newspaper man myself. Part owner of the Eagle Center Clarion. When we heard the Trumpet was busted we decided to grab on to this town and get out a special edition of the Clarion for it. See? One plant to print two papers. I’m here to be editor of the Wicksville edition.... Now what d’you think about bustin’, eh? Figger there’s room for two papers here?”
“No,” says I; “so you’d better take the noon train back to Eagle Center.”
He laughed, disagreeable-like. “Not me,” says he. “The Clarion’ll own this town in two months. We’ll give ’em a real paper that folks’ll buy and depend on. You might as well shut up shop right off and save expense. Maybe we’d go so far as to give you a few dollars for the junk up at your office.”
“Huh!” says I. “If you’re lookin’ for a row, I guess we can pervide it for you. And we’ll start right off. Sorry I hain’t got time to talk to you any more, but I’ve got somethin’ to do. Yes, Mister Spragg, I’m movin’ on now, and in ten minutes the Eagle Center Clarion’ll be startin’ in to wish it hadn’t ever tried to hog the whole State. Good-by, mister. Better leave while you’ve got change enough left to pay your fare.”
He said something to me that sounded like he was real mad, and I moved off considerable rapid, because I didn’t know but what he’d take it into his head to get rough. Yes, I went away from there prompt, and hurried to the office. Mark was sitting at his desk, editing.