“Dunno what they be,” says I, “but they sound int’restin’.”
“They will be,” says he. “I’ll m-m-make ’em myself.”
“Kind of discouragin’ to have another paper crowdin’ in here right at the start,” says I.
“Shucks!” says he. “Just m-m-makes more work and more f-f-figgerin’. ’Tain’t any fun to do a thing that’s easy. Anybody can do an easy thing. Where the fun comes in is havin’ to f-f-fight for it.”
“Maybe,” says I, “but that’s where the worry comes, too.”
“Keep so b-busy you won’t have time to worry,” says he, “and first l-let’s go find your Mister Spragg.”
“Come on,” says I, and off we went to the hotel.
Mr. Spragg was still leaning against the same hitching-post. If he wasn’t going to do anything but hold up a post, I thought to myself, maybe we won’t have such a hard time of it, after all.
“Mister Spragg,” says I, “let me introduce the editor of the Wicksville Trumpet.”
“Him?” says Mr. Spragg, staring at Mark.