Mark Tidd, Editor Part 35

I sneaked a look, and sure enough, the window he was talking about did have its blinds closed. That made it hard for anybody inside to see out, and impossible for anybody outside to see in, or to make any signals or anything.

"Fine chance," says I, "of getting at anybody up there. There ain't a ladder in town that'll reach him."

"There's things b-besides ladders," says Mark. "Say, Binney, if you was s-shut in a room, and something came and rapped on your window like this, _rap-rap-rap_, then _rap-rap-rap_, what would you think?"

"I'd think somebody was doin' it to make me take notice," says I.

"That's what this Pekoe would t-t-think," says Mark.

"But," says I, "you can't reach him. If you tried it with a long pole Jethro'd catch you at it."

"Yes," says Plunk, "and if you tried it by throwing stones, he'd catch you at that too."

"Maybe," says Mark. "But I got a d-d-dodge that'll work, maybe, and Jethro won't see it, either. Let's all git into the arbor where we can't be seen."

We went in and Mark asked if Plunk and I had our sling-shots. We had, because we always had them along. You can never tell when you may need a sling-shot in your business.

"Now," says Mark, "here's the notion. We shoot at Pekoe's window. I shoot, then Plunk, then Binney. One, two, three. L-l-like that. Then stop a m-minute, and do it right over-one, two, three. See? Jethro won't be able to _see that_," says he.

"Go ahead," says I, getting a good stone in the leather, and another in my hand to be ready for the second volley.

Mark shot, then Plunk, then me. _Pat-pat-pat_, the three stones sounded.

Then we did it again. _Pat-pat-pat_. After that we waited with our eyes glued to the window, and our ears, too. Pretty soon we heard a noise like gla.s.s breaking, and then Pekoe, if it _was_ Pekoe, began pus.h.i.+ng and banging at the blinds.

"Hope he don't make too m-m-much noise," says Mark.

It seemed like he couldn't open the blinds, so they must have been nailed or fastened somehow, and they were strong, heavy blinds, but he could work the shutters up and down so as to get a better look outside, and we could see his fingers reaching through. We knew he must have his eyes right there, looking, so Mark went to the door of the arbor and stood there quiet. Pekoe couldn't miss seeing him any more than he could miss seeing the new post-office in town if he was standing right in front of it. That's one good thing about being fat-it's easy for folks to see you when you want them to. But, on the other hand, it's hard to hide from folks you want to keep away from.

Mark looked at the house careful, but Jethro wasn't in sight.

"Rock," he says, "you and Plunk go to the kitchen and yell to Jethro that you're hungry. If he comes, one of you back over to that kitchen window there and waggle your hand behind you."

Off they went, and pretty soon Plunk showed up in front of the window and waggled his hand. So we knew Jethro was in there where he couldn't see. Then, quick as a wink, Mark looked up at the window and waggled _his_ hand. The man inside saw it, because he shoved as much of his hand through the shutters as he could, and wiggled it as hard as he could wiggle. Mark nodded his head.

Plunk was still standing in the kitchen window, so we knew Jethro was there yet. Mark gave a look, and then started making letters with his fingers. You know that sort of deaf and dumb alphabet that every boy in the United States can use if he wants to-mostly behind his geography in school. Well, that's what Mark was doing now. He was trying to talk to Pekoe.

"Is your name Pekoe?" he spelled out as slow as time. Then he spelled out, "If you can read what I say wiggle one finger."

Just one finger came through the blinds and wiggled.

"Are you a friend of Rock's? If you are show two fingers," Mark signaled.

Two fingers came into sight.

"If you know who he is, and why he's kept here, show two fingers again.

If you don't know, show one finger."

Just one finger came through.

"I wonder what he's g-g-got to do with it, then," says Mark to me.

And then Plunk and Rock and Jethro all came around the corner of the house, and Mark didn't dare make another move. We didn't stay long after that, because we had a lot of work at the _Trumpet_ office, so we went along. But we promised Rock we'd be back next day, some of us, and for him to lay low and not to try monkeying with Pekoe unless he got a good chance and was sure Jethro wasn't around.

While we were walking home Mark says, "P-p-perty good day's work. Got the worst part of Mr. Wigglesworth's writing f-f-figgered out, and had a l-little chat with Pekoe."

"There's some bridges to cross yet," says I.

"Yes," says he, "but we'll cross 'em. You _bet_."

CHAPTER XVIII

My, how those Home Culturers and Literary Circlers did work to get subscriptions for us. I never would have believed it, and how any of them had time to cook their husbands' meals, or wash their kids' faces, I don't see. Probably they didn't, for little things like keeping house wouldn't matter when there was a contest on to see who had the most brains.

Old Grandma Smedley claimed both clubs didn't have any brains or they wouldn't be fussing with such things. "I calc'late," says she, "that I'm the only woman in town that's got even common sense. If a woman wants dumb foolishness in the family she don't have to do it herself. Her husband's always ready." But what she said didn't matter; the contest went on just the same.

The rules of the contest were that the money had to be paid right in with a subscription before it counted, and the first thing Mark and us fellows knew we had quite some considerable of a bank account. You get forty-odd women hustling for subscriptions at a dollar and a quarter apiece, and it don't take long to have the money mount up.

While the subscriptions were coming in we didn't forget the advertising, you can bet. Mark figured out arguments for us to shoot at the merchants, and they worked pretty good. Every week we carried more advertising than we ever had before, just because we had convinced business men how interested everybody was in the _Trumpet_ just now while the contest was going on, and how everybody was reading it. The business men could see that for themselves, because _they_ were reading it, and their wives were reading it.

"Let's see," says Mark, "how much we _m-might_ make a year out of this paper if this contest b-brought our subscription list up to f-fifteen hunderd. The subscriptions would amount to eighteen hunderd and seventy-f-five dollars. Then our regular advertisin' that we could f-figger on here in Wicksville and the county'll fetch about seventy-five dollars a week, or even up to a hunderd, if we're real lucky. As soon as we git enough s-subscribers I'm goin' after some out-of-town adver-tisin'. I see a lot of it in good country p-papers.

We'll git some of that, and our job work amounts to quite a bit the way it's been comin' in. Looks to me like we ought to make this p-paper show a profit of, anyhow, two thousand d-dollars a year, and maybe more."

"Countin' chickens before they're hatched," says I.

"We're hatchin' 'em fast," says he.

"Spragg may bust up the nest," says I, "and drive off the settin' hen."

"Spragg hain't got real d-dangerous _yet"_ says he, "but we'll have to pay him some attention perty quick."

"Seems like we ought to get somethin' more to do to take up our time,"

says I. "We hain't busy enough. Nothin' to do but run a contest that's close to bein' a civil war, and git adver-tisin' and write the news and _git_ the news, and scare up advertis.e.m.e.nts, and tend to Spragg, and monkey around with Rock's mix-up. If, maybe, we could buy a three-ring circus and be all the acts, includin' the menagerie, and then have school start up to give us somethin' to do daytimes, I guess we'd keep from gettin' lonesome."

Mark grinned, and says he was going to get somebody to help Tec.u.mseh Androcles in the shop, but how that helped _us_ I didn't see.

Well, as I was saying, those women combed the town and country for subscriptions, until it got so that anybody who hadn't subscribed for the _Trumpet_ was as popular as a little girl coming to school with a box of candy. All you had to do was to stand in front of the post-office and mention that you hadn't subscribed for the paper yet, and right off you'd be asked by one woman to go driving with her, and by another to come to dinner, and by another if you wouldn't like a batch of her raised biscuits. I dunno what a feller could have got out of not having subscribed yet if he held out long enough, but I guess most of 'em got their money's worth. For when you get a paper for a year, and two or three invitations to dinner, and buggy rides, and auto rides, and fresh pies sent over, and all that sort of thing, why, it would be a mean man that wasn't satisfied.

Mark sat down at his desk and started writing letters. I guess he wrote a dozen and put them in the envelopes and stamped them.

"Who's goin' to git all the mail?" I says.

"Diff'rent folks," says Mark, the way he always speaks when he intends to keep something to himself. "I'm just writin' around to git a l-l-little information."

"Thought you had all there was," says I.