“To-night,” says I. “Most gen’ally it comes out Thursdays, when it don’t come out Fridays or Saturdays or Mondays. It hain’t what you call reg’lar. Editor has to go fishin’, or he loses his bottle of ink, or he hain’t got money to git his paper out of the express-office, or somethin’ else.” “We’re goin’ to the printin’-office,” says Catty. “What if that there town marshal comes back while you’re gone and starts chasin’ me away?” says Mr. Atkins. Catty laughed. “Don’t run no farther ’n you have to, Dad, and run slow. I’ll catch up.” “Dunno but what I’d rather be chased off than have to go paintin’ all that buildin’ and git the colic,” Mr. Atkins says, under his breath, but Catty jest grinned at him and patted him on the back, and we mogged along. “What kind of a feller is this editor?” says Catty. “He’s all right, except that he hain’t got much gumption.” We hiked along till we got to the printing-office and went in. I always like to go into the printing-office on account of the smell. I don’t know what there is about that smell that I like, but it sort of excites a fellow and makes him think about things happening in far-off places, and about adventures, and all sorts of interesting things. I suppose that is because printer’s ink has been used to tell so many exciting and bully things for years and years that, somehow or other, they have got to be a part of the ink, and the smell of them has got into it. I’d like to be a newspaper man some day and live in that smell all of the time. Mr. Cuppy was sitting in front of a table, with his coat off and a shade over his eyes and a corncob pipe in his mouth. He was all hunched over like he was using the last drop of his brains to write an editorial about something that was mighty important, and for a second I sort of hesitated about interrupting him; but I took a look over his shoulder and saw that what he was doing was painting up an artificial minnow with streaks and polka-dots. There was another contraption that looked like a mouse cut out of wood, and there were hooks and feathers and all sorts of things scattered around. “Mornin’, Mr. Cuppy,” says I. “Mornin’, Wee-wee,” says he, just looking up and then looking back again at his minnow. “This is Catty Atkins,” says I, “and he wants to talk business with you.” “Does, hey? In a hurry is he? Because I’m mighty busy just this minute. I think I’ve got it at last. Been trying for months to paint up a minnow so it can’t fail, and now I’m on the track. Bet I’ve painted this one forty times, but I’ll get it yet, and when I do I’ll show you how to catch bass.” “What’s the idea?” I says. “I’ve been figuring out what kind of a looking minnow I’d like to eat if I was a bass,” says he, as solemn as a church. “I’ve been putting myself in the place of the bass and thinking like he would think, and this minnow is the result. Now, Wee-wee, if you were a bass, wouldn’t you jump out of the water to grab that bait?” “Dunno but what I would,” says I.