“We want to know now,” says the man.
“Well,” says Mark, “I’m sorry, but it hain’t possible to accommodate you. This is a newspaper. It’s p-printed to give news. That’s what we have to sell, and we can’t give it away any more than the grocer would give you a p-p-pound of cheese.”
“I’ll pay you for it,” says the man. “Your paper costs a nickel. Well, there’s your nickel. Now give me the news.”
“No,” says Mark, “that wouldn’t be f-f-fair. Other folks have to wait till their paper comes, and so will you.” And that was the end of it, though the man kept on asking, and so did other folks.
By the time Thursday got around the town was pretty much worked up. You haven’t any idea how much folks think of their town till something happens, and then up in the air they go. Well, Wicksville was up in the air, you can bet, and it looked like it was up there to stay. Some folks was for having a public meeting about it, but others pointed out it was foolish to have a public meeting till you knew what you were going to have it about.
Other folks said, though, that as long as you knew your town had been insulted, what was the difference how it was insulted or who did it? Something ought to be done. Of course we didn’t do a thing to stop people from feeling that way, either.
At last the Trumpet went to press, and she was a dandy. Across the front page was a big head-line:
WICKSVILLE INSULTED BY EAGLE CENTER
Then, side by side, we printed interviews, heading each one appropriately. Mr. Wiggamore, the justice of the peace at Eagle Center, said every time a loafer came into his court the first question he asked him was, did he come from Wicksville. That was pretty good for a send-off, letting on that Wicksville folks were loafers, but he went farther than that. He said when he had to drive through the country he would go out of his way five miles before he would drive through our town, because our streets were so rotten they weren’t fit to drive cattle over, let alone a horse and buggy. We knew that would rile the folks, because we do take pride in our streets.
Next came Mr. Smart, the grocer. He said he wouldn’t do business in Wicksville except on a cash basis. That he’d never seen a man from Wicksville he’d trust with a red-hot stove. And he said the town looked like somebody passing in the night had dropped it by accident and forgotten it. Also he said that the man that dropped it was probably mighty glad of it.