That person is a novelty in cowland. He stands there, exuding perfume and prosperity from his Sunday clothes. We looks him over, from his shiny shoes to his hard hat, wonders at his pink cheeks, which match his necktie, and both nods.
“You answers your own question, stranger,” states Magpie. “We sure got a monopoly on all news hereabouts. Want to subscribe?”
He ambles over and sets down on a stool and looks the place over. He takes off his hat, balances it on his knee, and produces some sheets of paper.
“What’s your amusement rates?” he asks. “Half-page—maybe full.”
Magpie rolls a fresh smoke and studies the feller.
“Well,” he drawls, “the person who operates here ahead of me makes a fixed price of three dollars for six months, but I don’t sabe no case in which he split the size. I don’t guarantee to amuse nobody. I’ll be honest with yuh, though. This here paper is on its last legs, but I’ll danged near guarantee one more issue, and if yuh hankers for it I’ll put yuh down for one copy at four-bits.”
“You misunderstood me,” he grins, “I mean advertising rates. I’m ahead of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”
He puts his hat back on his head, and shuffles them sheets of paper:
“We are bringing to your town the greatest aggregation of stars that ever glowed over one set of footlights. Two Evas, two Topsies, three fee-rocious bloodhounds and eight—”
Splang!