“Him,” says I.
Then Mr. Spragg did something he hadn’t ought to have done—not if he was wise. He busted right out laughing in Mark’s face.
“Him the editor!” says Mr. Spragg. “Oh, my goodness! Thought I was up against some kind of a man, but nothin’ but an over-fed kid that’s so fat he can’t hardly waddle. Oh! Oh!”
I kept my eyes on Mark, but he didn’t turn a hair. You would have thought he didn’t even hear what Spragg said, for he just waited for the man to get through laughing, and then he said, quiet-like:
“Glad to meet you, Mister S-s-spragg.”
“Go along, fatty,” says Spragg, “and don’t bother me.”
“I d-d-don’t want to bother you unless I have to,” says Mark, as calm and quiet as a china nest egg. “I figgered maybe you’d like to t-t-talk things over a bit.”
“With you?” says Spragg, as scornful as anything. “No time to bother with kids.”
“All right,” says Mark, still polite as peas. “I j-just wanted to give you the chance, that was all. I don’t b’lieve in sailin’ into a f-feller till there’s some reason for it, and if there’s a chance to be f-friends and keep out hard feelin’, I’m the one to do all I can.”
“Don’t be scairt of me, sonny. I hain’t goin’ to hurt you any—that is, outside of bustin’ up that paper you’re playin’ with.”