“I’ll talk it over with your ma,” says Mr. Tidd. That was always the way with him. He had to talk over with Mrs. Tidd every last thing he did, if it wasn’t anything more important than digging worms to go fishing. Yes, sir, he’d ask her what corner of the garden she thought was most likely for worms, and she’d tell him, and nobody could get him to dig anywheres else, either.
We all went traipsing into the kitchen, where Mrs. Tidd was baking a batch of fried-cakes.
“Git right out of here,” she says. “I’m busy. Won’t have you underfoot. Git right out.”
“Now, ma,” says Mr. Tidd, “we wasn’t after fried-cakes—though one wouldn’t go bad at this minute. We want to talk newspaper.”
“Go talk it to somebody else,” says Mrs. Tidd. “What about newspapers?” Now wasn’t that just like her? First tell us to talk to somebody else, and then ask about it in the same breath. “Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, you keep your hands off’n them fried-cakes,” she said, sharp-like.
“Why,” says Mr. Tidd, “Marcus Aurelius wants I should buy the Wicksville Trumpet for him and the boys.”
“Nonsense!” says Mrs. Tidd, with a sniff, handing two crisp, brown fried-cakes to each of us. “Nonsense!”
“Ma,” says Mark, “it’s goin’ to be s-s-sold by the sheriff. Then there won’t be any more paper here. How’ll you ever git along without the p-p-p-personals to read?”
“Nonsense!” says Mrs. Tidd again.
“We can b-buy it dirt cheap,” says Mark, “and we can run it and m-make money while we’re doin’ it, and sell out after a while and m-make a profit.”