So all of us went to Lawyer Jones and told him the facts. He looked sorry and acted sorry, but he said there wasn’t anything to do but pay it. “It’s a shame,” say she, “and you’ve been swindled, but it can’t be helped. The old proprietor owed this money, and concealed the fact when you bought the paper. It isn’t honest, but the people who sold the paper aren’t to blame. The man who sold you the Trumpet is. According to law you’ll have to pay.”
“Um!” says Mark, tugging at his cheek like he always does when he’s thinking hard. “Eighty-seven d-d-dollars. Woosh!”
“We ’ain’t got it,” says I.
“Mister,” says Mark, “you see h-how it is. ’Tain’t our fault this bill isn’t paid. Seems to me like the l-l-least you could do would be to give us some more time.”
“It don’t rest with me,” says he. “I was sent here to git the money or to put you out of business. Them’s orders, and I’m a man that obeys his orders every time. You can bet on that.”
“Come b-back to the office,” says Mark.
We all went back there, and us four boys held a little meeting to see how much cash we had. Every cent we could scrape up in the world, and that included advertising bills that hadn’t been paid, was seventy-six dollars. We’d had to spend some for supplies and such.
“Will you t-t-take fifty dollars,” says Mark, “and wait for the rest?”
“I’ll take eighty-seven dollars,” says the man.
“F-fellers,” says Mark, “we’re eleven d-dollars shy. Looks like we got to pay. Tallow, you go out and collect in what’s owin’ us. Tell the f-f-folks why we got to have it. They’ll p-pay. The rest of us’ll get the eleven dollars. You, mister, sit down and wait half an hour.”