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The editor did not see fit to oppose any argument to this phenomenal simplicity, and Mr. Dimmidge, after settling his bill with the foreman, and enjoining the editor to the strictest secrecy regarding the origin of the "personal notice," took up his gun and departed, leaving the treasury of the "Clarion" unprecedentedly enriched, and the editor to his proofs.
"My opinion, gentlemen, is that the whole blamed thing is a bluff! There ain't no Mr. Dimmidge; there ain't no Mrs. Dimmidge; there ain't no desertion! The whole rotten thing is an ADVERTISEMENT o' suthin'! Ye'll find afore ye get through with it that that there wife won't come back until that blamed husband buys Somebody's Soap, or treats her to Somebody's particular Starch or Patent Medicine!
Dimmidge was a weak, uxorious spouse, wasting his substance on a creature who did not care for him, and in another a maddened, distracted, henpecked man, content to purchase peace and rest at any price. Certainly, never was advertisement more effective in its publicity, or cheaper in proportion to the circulation it commanded.
Ye jest watch and see!" The idea was startling, and seized upon the mercantile mind. The principal merchant of the town, and purveyor to the mining settlements beyond, appeared the next morning at the office of the "Clarion." "Ye wouldn't mind puttin' this 'ad' in a column alongside o' the Dimmidge one, would ye?"
"Well, young man, I reckon that's just what I WANT to do! Now, wait a moment; let's see what he said," she went on, taking up and reperusing the "Personal" paragraph. "Well, then," she went on, after a moment's silent composition with moving lips, "you just put these lines in." The editor took up his pencil. "To Mr. J. D. Dimmidge. Hope you're still on R. B.'s tracks. Keep there!
The editor wrote down the line, and then, remembering Mr. Dimmidge's voluntary explanation of HIS "Personal," waited with some confidence for a like frankness from Mrs. Dimmidge. But he was mistaken. "You think that he R. B. or Mr. Dimmidge will understand this?" he at last asked tentatively. "Is it enough?" "Quite enough," said Mrs. Dimmidge emphatically.
He brought out a file of the "Clarion," and snipping out the paragraph with his scissors, laid it before the lady. She stared at it with wrinkled brows and a darkening face. "And THIS was in the same paper? put in by Mr. Dimmidge?" she asked breathlessly. The editor, somewhat alarmed, stammered "Yes." But the next moment he was reassured.
You might have told a better story than that hogwash about your finding the "ad" and a hundred dollars lying loose on your desk one morning. It was rather thin, and I don't wonder the foreman kicked. The young editor was in despair. At first he thought of writing to Mrs. Dimmidge at the Elktown Post-Office, asking her to relieve him of his vow of secrecy; but his pride forbade.
And when we've settled about the advertisement, I'm going to mount my horse, out thar in the bushes, and scoot outer the settlement." "Very good," said the editor resignedly. "Of course I can deliver your instructions to the foreman. And now let me see I suppose you wish to intimate in a personal notice to your husband that you've returned." "Nothin' o' the kind!" said Mrs. Dimmidge coolly.
Dimmidge expected something more than this reply, for after a moment's hesitation he said with an odd smile: "Ye ain't seein' the meanin' o' that, lad?" "No," said the editor lightly; "but I suppose R. B. does, and it isn't intended that any one else should." "Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn't," said Mr. Dimmidge, with a self-satisfied air.
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