Next morning Mark and Tallow and Plunk and I were in the office just after the train from the city came in. A strange man came slamming through the door like he figured out his errand was pretty important and he was pretty important himself.
“Where’s the editor?” says he in about the same voice you might expect somebody to say, “Who stole my horse?”
“I’m h-him,” says Mark, and I could see his face sort of setting like it does when he thinks something unpleasant is going to happen and he’s got to use his wits.
“Huh!” says the man, looking him over. “There’s enough of you, hain’t there—except so far as age is concerned.”
Now, if there’s one thing Mark hates to be twitted about it’s his size; it riles him to have anybody make fun of it, and his little eyes began to get sharp and bright. “Look out, mister,” says I to myself. Mark didn’t say anything, though, except, “What can I d-do for you.”
“You can hand over the cash for that,” says the man, throwing a piece of paper down on the counter.
Mark picked it up and looked at it. You couldn’t tell by his face what he thought of it, though he read it pretty careful and then didn’t say anything for quite a spell.
“Well, my fat friend,” says the man, “what about it?”
Mark looked him over hard, and then says, “Mister, if you had as much manners as I’ve got flesh, you and me would get along b-b-better.”
“Don’t git fresh,” says the man.