One day in early spring Bill burst into the office, his reporter's pad flapping wildly. His brown eyes danced.
"Big doings!" he shouted. "Pap's going to run for mayor, and he wants the Herald to voice the cry of the town for his services."
"Who said so?" queried Jap, sticking away at the last legislative report.
"Nobody but him—as far as I can find out," Bill returned, grinning knowingly. "It seems that they had a mess of turnip greens, from cellar sprouts, and they gave him cramps. He was dozing under paregoric when the idea hit him. It grew like the turnip sprouts, fast but pale. He wants us to water the sprouts and give 'em air, so that they'll get color in them."
"How much did he send in for the color?" asked Jap, climbing down interestedly.
The Associate Editor flashed a two-dollar bill.
"I told Pap that if any opposition sprouted, he'd have to raise the ante," he remarked. "He squealed loud enough when I squeezed him for this, but I convinced him that we had about done away with charity practice. Told him the Herald was out of the amateur class, and after this election the ante 'd be five bones."
"Well," conceded Jap, "as he is Flossy's brother, we'll have to spread it on thick for the low price of introduction. Look up that woodcut of Sames, the Chautauqua lecturer. If you'll chisel off the beard, we can use it for the Judge. I think that we will kill that story you cribbed from the St. Louis Republic, about the President's morning canter with his family physician, and run the Judge along the first column. By the way, Bill, it would be a good idea to trace his career from joyous boyhood to the dignity of the judicial office. What judge was he? Since I have known him, he has never 'worked at the bench.'"
Bill grinned wickedly.
"He was judge of live stock at the county fair!"