“I’d admire to make him sorry,” says I. “Jest be p-patient. Jason’s goin’ to wisht he never see or heard of Wiggamore and his f-f-five-dollar bills. I’m goin’ to do some hard thinkin’ about Jason.” Then he says: “Come on. I calc’late we’ve heard about all there is to hear.” “Wonder if Silas Doolittle really owes anybody money?” “Most likely. _He_ wouldn’t know, though. We got to go diggin’ into him for d-d-debts like you dig in a mine. Maybe we’ll scoop some up, and maybe we’ll just have to wait till they t-turn up.” He stopped and banged his leg. “No, we won’t have to w-wait. We’ll sort of nip Mr. Wiggamore’s scheme in the bud.” “How?” says I. “Advertise,” says he. “I dunno’s I understand.” “L-let’s git under a light where I kin see,” says he, “and I’ll git up somethin’ to p-put in the paper.” So we sneaked off like a couple of Injuns and sat down under a street light, and Mark got out some paper and a pencil and went to writing. This is what he wrote: WARNING.—Wicksville folks is warned to look out for a slick scrouger that is going to go around trying to buy debts. He’s going to try to buy them cheap, but the folks that sell will be sorry. Especially folks that are owed by Silas Doolittle Bugg. If anybody comes to pay you less for a debt than is owed you, don’t take the money. Fetch your bill right to Silas Doolittle Bugg’s mill and give it to Mark Tidd. Silas is getting in shape to pay every honest debt. If Silas owes you money, see Mark Tidd about it right off. But be ready to prove that he owes you. Take warning and don’t sell your debts. There’s a mighty mean trick being done. “There,” says he, when he got the writing finished. “I guess that will set ’em to t-t-thinkin’. I don’t b’lieve anybody will sell Jason a debt till he sees me first. What you think?” “If I know Wicksville,” says I, “there’ll be consid’able talk goin’ around when that advertisement comes out in the _Trumpet_.” “You bet,” says Mark. “Let’s git home to bed,” says I. “Between one thing and another to-night I’m ’most done out.” “Mrs. Coots’ll be layin’ for you with a plaster to p-p-put on your stummick,” says he. “Before you kin put a plaster on a stummick,” says I, “you got to catch your stummick. Mine’s goin’ to be movin’ around rapid.” We mogged along home. When we got to the corner where I turn off we stopped a minute, and I says to Mark: “If anybody sends in debts against Silas Doolittle, what you goin’ to do about it?” “Do?” says he, surprised-like. “Why, pay ’em, of course!” “What with?” says I. “Money,” says he. “Money,” says I, “is like stummicks—you got to catch both of ’em before you kin use ’em.” “When you got to have a thing,” says he, “you m-mostly git it.”