dollar-marks for the next issue," directed Mr. Opp, "and I'll wire
immediate to the city."

"We're kinder short on 'I's' too," said Nick. "You take so many in your
articles."

Mr. Opp looked injured. "I very seldom or never begin on an 'I,'" he
said indignantly.

"You get 'em in somehow," said Nick. "Why, the editor over at Coreyville
even said 'Our Wife.'"

"Yes," said Mr. Opp, "I will, too,--that is--er--"

The telephone-bell covered his retreat.

"Hello!" he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect
of his recent embarrassment, "Office of 'The Opp Eagle.' Mr. Toddlinger?
Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a
minute--see here, I can explain that--" but the other party had
evidently rung off.

Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:

"Do you know what you went and did last week?" He rose and, going to the
file, consulted the top paper. "There it is," he said, "just identical
with what he asserted."

Nick followed the accusing finger and read:

"Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot."

Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the
door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered
standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers,
between which strained relations existed, and on his head was the brim
of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a
twine string about his neck was a large onion.

He opened negotiations at once.

"Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin' papers an' sech like
trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all's yard."

He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it
had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if
the offense had been personal.

Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. "Did--er--did Mrs. Gusty send
you over to say that?" he asked anxiously.

"Yas, sir; she done havin' a mad spell. What's dat dere machine fer?"

"It's a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?"

"_Yas, sir_," emphatically; "she's mad at ever'body. She 'lows she gwine
lick me ef I don't tek keer. She done got de kitchen so full o'
switches hit looks jes lak outdoors."

"I don't think she would really whip you," said Mr. Opp, already feeling
the family responsibility.

"Naw, sir; she jes 'low she gwine to. What's in dem dere little
drawers?"

"Type," said M