“No,” says I, “gettin’ money is.”
He grinned like he does sometimes when he’s ready to admit he’s getting the worst of an argument.
“Maybe you’re r-r-right, Binney,” says he, “and then again, maybe this heir-huntin’ and mystery-piercin’ will help to get that money. Never can tell.”
“I wouldn’t depend on it,” says I.
“I sha’n’t,” says he. “Come on to the office.”
Plunk and Tallow were there, and so was Tecumseh Androcles. He was standing up, making a speech to the fellows.
“Ah,” says he, when we came in, “here is the editor and another of the staff. I, Tecumseh Androcles Spat, wish to congratulate you on the first issue of the rejuvenated Trumpet. It was an achievement. On your part, you have filled the paper with pertinent reading-matter and with lucrative advertising. On my part, I have put it in type in such a manner as to cause favorable comment, even from the metropolitan press. I am proud to be associated with you. I hope the relation will long continue and that the progress of this deserving paper will be marked and rapid.”
“Good for you,” says Mark, “but one swallow don’t make a summer. Wait till we see what happens next week. See how many new subscribers we can gaffle on to, and how m-m-many advertisements we can get. Likewise, let’s not forget the job-printin’ end of it. Now, let’s buckle down f’r the n-n-next issue.”
Which we did.