"Stop that," commanded Tom Reade, "or you'll make the horse run away and wreck our outfit."
"But this paper says——-"
"Stop it," ordered Tom with a scowl. "I know what you're going to do. You'll read us some exciting stuff, and get us all worked up, and then in the last paragraph you'll stumble on the fact that some well-known Tottenville man was cured of all his ailments by Brown's Blood Bitters."
"Can you hold your tongue a minute?" demanded Greg ironically.
"Not when I see you headed that way," retorted Reade. "I've been fooled by the same style of exciting item, and I know how cheap it makes a fellow feel when he comes to the name of the Bitters, the Pills or the Sarsaparilla. Holmesy, I want to save your face for you with this crowd."
"Will you keep quiet, for a moment, and let the other fellows hear, even if you have to take a walk in order to save your own ears?" demanded Greg, with sarcasm. "This piece is about Dick Prescott, and he doesn't sign patent medicine test——-"
"Dick Prescott?" demanded Darrin. "Whoop! Let's have it!"
"It isn't a roast, is it?" demanded Danny Grin solemnly.
"No; it isn't," Greg went on. "Listen, while I read the headlines."
It was a four-line heading, beginning with "Dick Prescott's Fine
Nerve."