“Well,” says I, “we can’t sit here figgerin’ about it. We got work to do.”
“Sometimes,” says Mark, “sittin’ and figgerin’ is the most valuable work there is.”
“Maybe sometimes,” says I, “but this hain’t one of ’em. We’ve got ink and paper to buy and Tecumseh Androcles Spat to feed, and rent, and a heap of things. And you said yourself we didn’t have any workin’ capital. Since we ran that bazaar I’ve had a heap of respect for workin’ capital.”
“Me too,” says Mark. “And there’s no chance of g-g-gettin’ more money from dad. Ma set her foot down hard. She says we can waste what was put into this paper, but she won’t see another cent go after it, and when ma says it like that there hain’t any use arguin’. We got to sink or swim all by ourselves.”
“Well,” says I, “I guess we made a profit on this week’s Trumpet, anyhow.”
“Yes,” says Mark, “but there’s other weeks a-comin’.”
We thanked Lawyer Jones and started to go.
“Come again,” says he. “If you get any libel suits on your hands I’ll take care of them for you at cost, so to speak. Glad to see you any time.”
When we were outside I says to Mark, “Now don’t go gettin’ all het up about this mystery. We got enough on our hands now. We can’t run a paper on nothin’ and find missin’ heirs and investigate mysterious liner advertisements put in the paper by men with black gloves, and a dozen other things. We got to settle down to this paper job.”
“Sure,” says Mark. “That’s what I’m doin’. Hain’t gettin’ news about the biggest thing a newspaper has to do?”