“That,” sighed Mr. Stair, in pretended depression, “is one of the tragedies of my life. I’m on speaking terms with a jew’s-harp; but that’s the extent of my musical education, so to speak. Does this rig-a-ma-jig of yours start with an ‘a’ or an ‘o’?”
“O-r-c-h-e-s-t-r-e-l-l-e,” spelt Scoop. It surprised me that he didn’t get some of the letters twisted around. For he’s the poorest speller in our class. I’m one of the best.
“Who plays it?” the editor wanted to know.
“It plays itself—it’s automatic.”
Mr. Stair laughed when we told him about our engine.
“We wouldn’t have thought of it,” admitted [[54]]Scoop, “if you hadn’t mentioned it in your newspaper.”
“Are you going to go over to Ashton with your show?”
“Maybe.”
An inquiry was then made of the editor regarding the cost of advertising in his newspaper.
“Our regular rate,” he informed, “is twenty cents a column inch. For two dollars, which will give you five inches, double column, you can make quite a showing. Is your copy ready?”