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“Oh!” said the editor, now perfectly reassured, “you want an advertisement? That’s the business of the foreman; I’ll call him.” He was rising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and gently forced him down again.

“Noa, lad! I don’t want noa foreman nor understrappers to take this job. I want to talk it over wi’ you. Sabe? My woife she bin up and awaa these six months. We had a bit of difference, that ain’t here nor there, but she skedaddled outer my house. I want to give her fair warning, and let her know I ain’t payin’ any debts o’ hers arter this notiss, and I ain’t takin’ her back arter four weeks from date.”

“I see,” said the editor glibly. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Eliza Jane Dimmidge.”

“Good,” continued the editor, scribbling on the paper before him; “something like this will do: ‘Whereas my wife, Eliza Jane Dimmidge, having left my bed and board without just cause or provocation, this is to give notice that I shall not be responsible for any debts of her contracting on or after this date.'”

“Ye must be a lawyer,” said Mr. Dimmidge admiringly.

It was an old enough form of advertisement, and the remark showed incontestably that Mr. Dimmidge was not a native; but the editor smiled patronizingly and went on: “‘And I further give notice that if she does not return within the period of four weeks from this date, I shall take such proceedings for relief as the law affords.'”

“Coom, lad, I didn’t say THAT.”

“But you said you wouldn’t take her back.”

“Ay.”

“And you can’t prevent her without legal proceedings. She’s your wife. But you needn’t take proceedings, you know. It’s only a warning.”

Mr. Dimmidge nodded approvingly. “That’s so.”

“You’ll want it published for four weeks, until date?” asked the editor.

“Mebbe longer, lad.”

The editor wrote “till forbid” in the margin of the paper and smiled.

“How big will it be?” said Mr. Dimmidge.

The editor took up a copy of the “Clarion” and indicated about an inch of space. Mr. Dimmidge’s face fell.

“I want it bigger,–in large letters, like a play-card,” he said. “That’s no good for a warning.”

“You can have half a column or a whole column if you like,” said the editor airily.

“I’ll take a whole one,” said Mr. Dimmidge simply.

The editor laughed. “Why! it would cost you a hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take it,” repeated Mr. Dimmidge.

“But,” said the editor gravely, “the same notice in a small space will serve your purpose and be quite legal.”

“Never you mind that, lad! It’s the looks of the thing I’m arter, and not the expense. I’ll take that column.”

The editor called in the foreman and showed him the copy. “Can you display that so as to fill a column?”

The foreman grasped the situation promptly. It would be big business for the paper. “Yes,” he said meditatively, “that bold-faced election type will do it.”

Mr. Dimmidge’s face brightened. The expression “bold-faced” pleased him. “That’s it! I told you. I want to bill her in a portion of the paper.”

“I might put in a cut,” said the foreman suggestively; “something like this.” He took a venerable woodcut from the case. I grieve to say it was one which, until the middle of the present century, was common enough in the newspaper offices in the Southwest. It showed the running figure of a negro woman carrying her personal property in a knotted handkerchief slung from a stick over her shoulder, and was supposed to represent “a fugitive slave.”

Mr. Dimmidge’s eyes brightened. “I’ll take that, too. It’s a little dark-complected for Mrs. P., but it will do. Now roon away, lad,” he said to the foreman, as he quietly pushed him into the outer office again and closed the door. Then, facing the surprised editor, he said, “Theer’s another notiss I want ye to put in your paper; but that’s atween US. Not a word to THEM,” he indicated the banished foreman with a jerk of his thumb. “Sabe? I want you to put this in another part o’ your paper, quite innocent-like, ye know.” He drew from his pocket a gray wallet, and taking out a slip of paper read from it gravely, “‘If this should meet the eye of R. B., look out for M. J. D. He is on your track. When this you see write a line to E. J. D., Elktown Post Office.’ I want this to go in as ‘Personal and Private’–sabe?–like them notisses in the big ‘Frisco papers.”