Faith, he'll prent it.—Burns.I have misused the king's press.—Shakespeare.So careful of the type she seems.—Tennyson.
Faith, he'll prent it.—Burns.I have misused the king's press.—Shakespeare.So careful of the type she seems.—Tennyson.
"I don't like one of them," said Ned.
"Why not?" said Phaeton.
"Well, the first one is spelled wrong. Weprinthere, we don'tprent."
"But it means the same thing," said Phaeton; "that's the Scotch of it. Burns was a Scotchman."
"Was he?" said Ned. "Well, I never heard of him before, and we don't want any of his Scotch spelling. That second motto is all wrong; the press belongs to us, not to any king, and we're not going to misuse it. The third one would do pretty well, but it says 'she,' and we're none of us girls."
"Perhaps you can think of a better one," said Phaeton.
"Yes, I can," said Ned. "I heard Uncle Hiram say that printing was called the art deservative of all arts, and that would be just the motto for us."
"What does it mean?" said I.
"It means," said Ned, "that printers deserve more than any other artists."
"Didn't he saypreservative?" said Phaeton.
"Oh, no," said Ned; "that wouldn't mean anything. Printing has nothing to do with preserving—unless we should print the labels for Mother's fruit-cans next fall. He said 'deservative,' I heard him distinctly, and we'll put it on the card."
"Very well," said Phaeton; "you set up the card according to your own taste, and we'll see how we like it."
The next day Phaeton and I went fishing. While we were gone Ned set up the card, and on our return we found, to our consternation, that he had not only set it up, but printed scores of them, and given away a good many to the boys. It ran as follows:
"Good gracious, Ned!" said Phaeton, "why did you print this thing before we had seen it?"
"Because I felt sure you'd like it," said Ned, "and I wanted to surprise you."
"You've succeeded admirably in that," said Phaeton.
"I hope there's nothing wrong about it," said Ned. "I took a great deal of pains with it. Oh, yes; now I see there's one letter upside down. But what of that? Very few people will notice it, and they will know it's an accident."
"One?" said Phaeton. "There are half a dozen standing on their heads. And that's not the worst. Just look at the spelling!"
"I don't see anything wrong about that," said Ned. "You must remember that what's wrong by Webster may be right by Worcester."
"What do you call that?" said Phaeton, pointing at the first word in the third line.
"Job, of course," said Ned. "Some people spell it with a J, but that can't be right. J-o-b spells Job, the name of that king of Israel who had so many boils on him at once."
"He wasn't king of Israel," said Phaeton.
"Well, king of Judah, then," said Ned. "I always get those two mixed. What's the use of being too particular. Those old kings are as dead now as Julia Cæsar. And everybody knows how dead she is."
"Well, then, what's this?" said Phaeton, pointing to the second word on the right-hand side of the press.
"Don't you know what dodgers are?" said Ned. "Little bills with 'Bankrupt Sale!' or 'Great Excitement!' or something of that sort across the top, to throw around in the yards, or hand to the people coming out of church."
"Oh, yes; dodgers," said Phaeton. "But I never saw it spelled so before. Have you given out many of these cards?"
"I gave one to Holman," said Ned, "and one to Monkey Roe, and one to Jack-in-the-Box."
"What did Jack-in-the-Box say to it?" said Phaeton.
"Oh, he admired it amazingly," said Ned. "He said it was the most entertaining business-card he had ever seen. But he thought perhaps it would be well for us to have a proof-reader. I asked him what that was, and he said it was a round-shouldered man, with a green shade over his eyes, who knew everything. He sits in the corner of your office, and when you print anything he reads the first one and marks the mistakes on it, so that you can correct them before you print any more. We might get Jimmy the Rhymer; he's awful round-shouldered, but he doesn't know everything. The only man in this town who knows everything is Jack-in-the-Box himself, and I suppose we couldn't get him."
"I suppose not," said Phaeton, "though I know he'd look over a proof for us, any time we took one to him. But now tell me whether you've given out any more of these cards."
"Well, yes, a few," said Ned. "Patsy Rafferty was over here; he rolled for me, or I couldn't have got them done so soon; and when he went home, he took fifty to leave at the doors of the houses on his way. I thought if we were going to do business, it was time to be letting people know about it."
"Just so," said Phaeton. "And is that all?"
"Not quite. Uncle Jacob was going to ride out to Parma, and I gave him about forty, and asked him to hand them to people he met on the road."
"Y-e-s," said Phaeton, with a deep sigh; "and isthatall?"
"I put a dozen or two on that little shelf by the post-office window," said Ned, "so that anybody who came for his letters could take one. And now that's all; and I hope you won't worry over one or two little mistakes. Everybody makes some mistakes. There is no use in pretending to be perfect. But if you two fellows had been here in the office, instead of going off to enjoy yourselves fishing and leaving me to do all the work, you might have had the old card just as you wanted it. Of course you'd have spelled it right, but there might have been bad taste about it that would look worse than my spelling. And now I'm going home to supper."
"The worst thing about Ned," said Phaeton, after he had gone, "is, that there's too much go-ahead in him. Very few people are troubled in that way."
"But what are we going to do about that dreadful card?" said I. "When the people see that, they may be afraid to give us any jobs, for fear that we'll misspell everything."
"I don't know what we can do now," said Phaeton, "unless we get out a good one, and say on it that no others are genuine. I must think about it over night."
TORMENTS OF TYPOGRAPHY.
TORMENTS OF TYPOGRAPHY.
In spite of Ned's declaration that he would tolerate no loungers, the office soon became a favorite gathering-place for the boys of the neighborhood; which fact contributed nothing to the speed or accuracy of the work. They made us a great deal of trouble at first, for few of them knew better than to take a type out of one box, examine it curiously, and throw it into another; or lift a page of type that had just been set up, "to see how heavy it was," and let it drop into a mass of pi. They got over this after a while, but they never did quite get over the habit of discussing all sorts of questions in a loud voice; and sometimes, when we happened to be setting type, and were interested in what they were talking about, fragments of the conversation would mingle in our minds with the copy before us, and the curious effect would horrify us in the proof.
For instance, Monkey Roe's mother had employed us to print her a few copies of Mrs. Opie's poem, "The Orphan Boy," which she had known since she was a child, and very greatly admired, but of which she had never had any but a manuscript copy. While I was setting it up, three boys were carrying on an animated discussion about the city fire department, and when I took a proof of my work, I found it read like this:
Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,And hear the Brick Church bell strike the 4th District. Ah! sure my looks must pity no by crackie Orph Bo Cataract Eight can't begin to throw the stream Red Rover Three can—Tis want that makes Reliance Five wash my cheek so pale at annual inspection.Yet I was once a mother's pride, Three's men cut her hose at the Orchard street fire before Bix Six's air chamber busted my brave father's hope and joy.But in the Nile's proud fight he sucked Archer's well dry in three minutes and a half, and I am now Assistant Foreman of Torrent Two with a patent brake on the Orphan Boy.
I am afraid if Monkey's mother had seen that, she would hardly have recognized it as the first stanza of her favorite poem. Instead of feeling sorry for spoiling my work, the boys seemed to think it was a good joke, and nearly laughed their heads off over it. They insisted on my printing a few copies of it, just as it was, for them to keep. Next time I saw Jack-in-the-Box, he showed me one of them pasted into a little old scrap-book that he kept under his chair. On the opposite page was one of our business-cards, as printed by Ned. Jack very kindly explained to me some of the mysteries of proof-reading.
"The next thing to be done," said Ned, when the office was fairly in running order, "is to get out Jimmy the Rhymer's poems. That's what we got up the establishment for, and it'll be more profitable than all these little puttering jobs put together. And, besides, Jimmy's awful poor and needs the money. I've been around to the book-stores and told them about it. Hamilton promises to take ten copies, and Hoyt twenty-five. When they see how good the poems are, they'll be sure to double their orders; and when the other stores see the book going off like hot cakes, they'll rush in and want to buy some, but they'll have to wait their turn. First come, first served."
There were enough of Jimmy's poems to make a little book of about sixty pages, and we all went to work with a will to set the type. It would have been a pretty long job for us, as it was, but Jimmy made it a great deal longer, and nearly drove us crazy, by insisting on making changes in them after they were set up. He could not understand how much extra work this made for us, and was as particular and persistent as if his whole reputation as an author had hung on each disputed comma. Sometimes when we had four pages all ready to print, he would bring in a new stanza, to be inserted in the first page of the form, which, of course, made it necessary to change the arrangement of all the others. At last Ned got out of patience.
"You try it yourself once," said he to Jimmy, "and you'll find out whether it's easy to make all these little changes, as you call them."
Jimmy secretly made up his mind that he would try it himself. He went to the office one day when we were not there, found four pages "locked up" ready for printing, and went to work to make a few corrections. As he did not know how to unlock the form, he stood it up on edge, got a ten-penny nail and a mallet, and tried to knock out an obnoxious semicolon.
The result was a sudden bursting of the form, which rattled down into ruin at his feet, and frightened the meddlesome poet out of his wits.
In his bewilderment, Jimmy scooped up a double handful of the pi and was in the act of pouring it pell-mell into one of the cases, when Phaeton, Ned, and I arrived at the door of the office.
Ned, who saw him first, and instantly comprehended the situation, gave a terrific yell, which caused Jimmy to drop the handful of type, some of which went into the case, and the rest spattered over the floor.
"Are you trying to ruin the office?" said Ned. "Don't you know better than to pi a form, and then throw the pi into the cases? After all the trouble we've had with your old poems, you ought to have more gratitude than that."
Jimmy was pale with terror, and utterly dumb.
"Hold on, Ned," said Phaeton, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder. "You ought to have sense enough to know that it must have been an accident of some sort. Of course Jimmy wouldn't do it purposely."
"Pieing the form may have been an accident," said Ned; "but when he scoops up a double handful of the pi and goes to pouring it into the case, that can't be an accident. And it was my case, too, and I was the one that did everything for him, and was going to bring him out as a poet in the world's history. If he had behaved himself, I'd have set him up in business in a little while, so he could have made as much money as Sir Walter Tupper, or any of those other fellows that you read to us about. And now, just look at that case of mine, with probably every letter of the alphabet in every box of it."
"But I tell you it must have been a mere accident," said Phaeton. "Wasn't it, Jimmy?"
"Suppose it was an accident," said Ned; "the question is,whoseaccident was it? If it had been my accident, I should expect to pay for it."
Phaeton took hold of his brother's arm with a quiet but powerful grasp, and led him to the door.
"You're needlessly excited, Ned," said he. "Go outside till you get cooled off." And he put him out and shut the door.
Then he asked Jimmy how it happened, and Jimmy told us about it.
"I'm sorry you poured any of it in the cases," said Phaeton. "For, you see, the cases have a different letter in every box, and if you take a handful of type like that and pour it in at random, it makes considerable trouble."
"Oh, yes; I knew all that before," said Jimmy; "but when the form burst, and I saw the type all in a mess on the floor, I was so frightened I lost my head, and didn't know what I was about. I wish I could pay for it," he added, as he left the office.
"Don't let it trouble you," said Phaeton.
For a long time Jimmy did not come near us again, and as he had carried off the copy of his remaining poems, that enterprise came to an end—for the time being, at least.
There was no lack of other jobs, but we sometimes had a little trouble in collecting the bills. Small boys would keep coming to order visiting-cards by the hundred, with their name on them in ornamental letters,—boys who never used any visiting-card but a long, low whistle, and never had a cent of money except on Fourth of July. When Phaeton or I was there, they were given to understand that a pressure of other work compelled us to decline theirs with regret; but, if they found Ned alone, they generally persuaded him that they had good prospects of getting money from some source or other, and so went away with the cards in their pockets.
There was no lack of advice, either. The boys who lounged in the office were always proposing new schemes. The favorite one seemed to be the publication of a small paper, which some of them promised to write for, others to get advertisements for, and others to distribute. After the book of poems had come to an untimely end, Ned was fierce for going into the paper scheme; but Phaeton figured it up, declared we should have to do an immense amount of work for about a cent an hour, and put an effectual veto on the plan.
Charlie Garrison, who, while the other boys only lounged and gossiped, "learned the case," and quietly picked up a good deal of knowledge of the trade, intimated one day that he would like to be taken into the partnership.
"Yes," said Ned; "there's work enough here for another man; but you'd have to put in some capital, you know."
"Put in capitals wherever they belong, of course," said Charlie; "begin proper names and every line of poetry."
"I mean money," said Ned. "Money's called capital, you know, when it's put into business. We put capital into this office, and you'd have to, if we took you into partnership."
"Oh, that's it," said Charlie, musingly. "Well, I suppose I could; we live on the Bowl System at our house; but I should hardly like to take it."
"The Bowl System? What's that?" said Ned. "Soup, or bread-and-milk, for every meal?"
"No; not that at all," said Charlie. "You see, on the highest shelf in our pantry there's a two-quart bowl, with a blue-and-gold rim around it. Whenever any member of the family gets any money, he puts it into that bowl; and whenever any of us want any money, we take it out of that bowl. I've seen the bowl full of money, and I've seen it when it had only five cents in it. The fullest I ever saw it was just before sister Edith was married. For a long time they all kept putting in as much as they could, and hardly took out anything at all, till the bowl got so full that the money slid off from the top. Then they took it all out, and went down town and bought her wedding things. And oh, you ought to have seen them! Stacks and stacks of clothes that I don't even know the names of."
"Then I suppose you could help yourself to all the capital you want, out of the bowl?" said Ned.
"Yes, I could," said Charlie; "but I shouldn't like to; for I am the only one of the family that never puts anything into it. Perhaps other people don't know it by that name, but brother George calls it living on the Bowl System."
"Why don't you put the money into the bank?" said Phaeton.
"Father had a lot of money in a bank once," said Charley, "but the bank broke, and he said he'd never put in any more."
"I wish we lived on the Bowl System at our house," said Monkey Roe. "It wouldn't be many days before I'd have a velocipede and a double-barrelled pistol."
A COMICAL COMET.
A COMICAL COMET.
The business of the printing-office went on pretty steadily, so far as Ned and I were concerned. Phaeton's passion for invention would occasionally lead him off for a while into some other enterprise; yet he, too, seemed to take a steady interest in "the art deservative." The most notable of those enterprises was originated by Monkey Roe, who had considerable invention, but lacked Phaeton's powers of execution.
One day Monkey came to the door of the office with Mitchell's "Astronomy" in his hand, and called out Phaeton.
"There's some mischief on foot now," said Ned; "and if Fay goes off fooling with any of Monkey Roe's schemes, we shall hardly be able to print the two thousand milk-tickets that John Spencer ordered yesterday. It's too bad."
When they had gone so far from the office that we could not hear their conversation, I saw Monkey open the book and point out something to Phaeton. They appeared to carry on an earnest discussion for several minutes, after which they laid the book on the railing of the fence and disappeared, going by the postern.
Ned ran out, and brought in the book. On looking it over, we found a leaf turned down at the chapter on comets. Neither of us had studied astronomy.
"I know what they're up to," said Ned, after taking a long look at a picture of Halley's comet. "I heard the other day that Mr. Roe was learning the art of stuffing birds. I suppose Monkey wants Fay to help him shoot one of those things, or catch it alive, may be, and sell it to his father."
Then I took a look at the picture, and read a few lines of the text.
"I don't think it's quite fair in Fay," continued Ned, "to go off on speculations of that sort for himself alone, and leave us here to do all the work in the office, when he has an equal share of our profits."
"Ned," said I, "I don't believe this is a bird."
"Well, then, it's a fish," said Ned, who had gone back to his case and was setting type. "They stuff fishes, as well as birds."
"But it seems to me it can hardly be a fish," said I, after another look.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't see any fins."
"That's nothing," said Ned. "My book of natural history says a fish's tail is a big fin. And I'm sure that fellow has tail enough to get along very well without any other fins."
This did not satisfy me, and at length we agreed to go and consult Jack-in-the-Box about it.
"Jack," said Ned, as soon as we arrived at the Box, "did you ever stuff a fish?"
"Do you take me for a cook?" said Jack, looking considerably puzzled.
"I don't mean a fish to bake," said Ned. "I mean one to be put in a glass case, and kept in a museum."
"Oh," said Jack, "I beg pardon. I didn't understand. No, I never stuffed a fish."
"But, I suppose you know all about how it's done?" said Ned.
"Oh, yes; I understand it in a general way."
"What I want to get at," said Ned, "is this: how much is a fish worth that's suitable for stuffing?"
"I don't know exactly," said Jack, "but I should say different ones would probably bring different prices, according to their rarity."
"That sounds reasonable," said Ned. "Now, how much should you say a fellow would probably get for one of this sort?" and he opened the Astronomy at the picture of Halley's comet.
Something was the matter with Jack's face. It twitched around in all sorts of ways, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of electric light. But he passed his hand over his features, took a second look at the picture, and answered:
"If you can catch one of those, I should say it would command a very high price."
"So I thought," said Ned. "Should you say as much as a hundred dollars, Jack?"
"I should not hesitate to say fully two hundred," said Jack, as he took his flag and went out doors to signal a freight-train.
"I see it all, as plain as day," said Ned to me, as we walked away. "Fay has gone off to make a lot of money by what father would call an outside speculation, and left us to dig away at the work in the office."
"Perhaps he'll go shares with us," said I.
"No, he won't," said Ned. "But I have an idea. I think I can take a hand in that speculation."
"How will you do it?"
"I'll offer Fay and Monkey a hundred dollars for their fish, if they catch it. That'll seem such a big price, they'll be sure to take it. And then I'll sell it for two hundred, as Jack says. So I'll make as much money as both of them together. And I must give Jack a handsome present for telling me about it."
"That seems to be a good plan," said I. "And I hope they'll catch two, so that I can buy one and speculate on it. But, then," I added, sorrowfully, "I haven't the hundred dollars to pay for it, and there's no Aunt Mercy in our family, and we don't live on the Bowl System."
"Never mind," said Ned, in a comforting tone. "Perhaps you'll inherit a big fortune from some old grandmother you never heard of, till she died and they ripped open her bed-tick and let the gold tumble out. Lots of people do."
As we arrived home, we saw Phaeton and Monkey coming by the postern with half a dozen hoops—that is to say, half a dozen long, thin strips of ash, which would have been hoops after the cooper had bent them into circles and fastened the ends together.
"That's poor stuff to make fish-poles," said Ned, in a whisper; "but don't let them know that we know what they're up to."
They brought them into the office, got some other pieces of wood, and went to work constructing a light frame about ten feet long, three feet high at the highest part, and a foot wide—like that shown in the engraving.
"What are you making, Fay?" said Ned.
"Wait a while, and you'll see," said Phaeton.
Ned winked at me in a knowing way, and we went on printing milk-tickets.
When the frame was completed, Monkey and Phaeton went away.
"I see," whispered Ned. "They're going to catch him with a net. The netting will be fastened on all around here, and this big end left open for him to go in. Then, when he gets down to this round part, he'll find he can't go any farther, and then they'll haul him up. It's all as plain as day."
But when Monkey and Phaeton returned, in about half an hour, instead of netting they brought yellow tissue-paper and several candles.
We pretended to take very little interest in the proceeding, but watched them over our shoulders. When we saw them fasten the tissue-paper all around the frame, except on the top, and fit the candles into auger-holes bored in the cross-pieces at the bottom, Ned whispered to me again:
"Don't you see? That isn't a net. They're going to have a light in it, and carry it along the shore to attract the fish. It's plain enough now."
"If you'll be on hand to-night," said Monkey, "and follow us, you may see some fun."
"All right! We'll be on hand," said Ned and I.
In the evening we all met in the office—all except Phaeton, who was a little late.
"Monkey," said Ned, in a confidential tone, "I want to make you an offer."
"Offer away," answered Monkey.
"If you catch one," said Ned, "I'll give you a hundred dollars for it."
"If I catch one?" said Monkey. "If—I—catch—one? Oh, yes—all right! I'll give you whatever I catch, for that price. Though I may not catch anything but Hail Columbia."
"But I won't take it unless it's the kind they stuff," said Ned.
"The kind—they—stuff?" said Monkey. "Did you say the kindtheystuff, or the kindofstuff? Oh, yes—the kind of Hail Columbia they stuff. That would be a bald eagle, I should think."
At this moment Phaeton joined us.
"It's no use, Fay," said Monkey. "Jack won't let us hoist it on the signal-pole. He says it might mislead some of the engineers, and work mischief."
"Hoist it on the signal-pole," whispered Ned to me. "Then it's a bird they're going to catch, after all, and not a fish. I see it now. Probably some wonderful kind of night-hawk."
"Well, then, what do you think is the next best place?" said Phaeton.
"I think Haven's barn, by all odds," Monkey answered promptly.
"Haven's barn it is, then," said Phaeton, and they shouldered the thing and walked off, we following.
Before we arrived at the barn, Holman, Charlie Garrison, and at least a dozen other boys had joined us, one by one.
The numerous ells and sheds attached to this barn enabled Monkey and Phaeton to mount easily to the ridgepole of the highest part, where they fastened the monster, and quickly lighted all her battle-lanterns, when she blazed out against the blackness of the night like some terrific portent.
"Now you stay here and keep her in order," said Monkey, "while I go for Adams."
Mr. Adams was an amateur astronomer of considerable local celebrity, whose little observatory, built by himself, was about fifty rods distant from Haven's barn. Unfortunately, his convivial habits were as famous as his scientific attainments, and Roe knew about where to find him. I went with him on the search.
We went first to the bar-room of the "Cataract House, by James Tone," but we did not find him there.
"Then," said Roe, "I know where he is, for sure," and he went to a dingy, wooden building on State street, which had small windows with red curtains. This building was ornamented with a poetical sign, which every boy in town knew by heart, and could sing to the tune of "Oats, peas, beans."
W. WHEELER KEEPS IN HERE,SELLS GROCERIES, CIDER, ALE, AND BEER;HIS PRODUCE IS GOOD, HIS WEIGHT IS JUST,HIS PROFITS SMALL, AND CANNOT TRUST;AND THOSE WHO BUY SHALL BE WELL USED,SHALL NOT BE CHEATED, NOR ABUSED.
"Is Professor Adams present?" said Monkey, as he opened the door and peered through a cloud of tobacco smoke.
An individual behind the stove returned a drowsy affirmative.
Roe stepped around to him, and with a great show of secrecy whispered something in his ear.
He sprang from his chair, exclaimed, "Good night, gentlemen! You will wake up to-morrow morning to find me famous," and dashed out at the door.
"What is it?" said one of the loungers, detaining Monkey as he was about to leave.
"A comet," whispered Monkey.
"A comet, gentlemen—a blazing comet!" repeated the man aloud; and the whole company rose and followed the astronomer to his observatory. When they arrived there, they found him sitting with his eye at the instrument, uttering exclamations of thankfulness that he had lived to make this great discovery.
"Not Biela's, not Newton's, not Encke's—not a bit like any of them," said he; "all my own, gentlemen—entirely my own!"
Then he took up his slate, and went to figuring upon it. Several of the crowd, who were now jammed close together around him in the little octagonal room, made generous offers of assistance.
"I was always good at the multiplication-table," said one of them.
"I have a fine, clear eye," said another; "can't I help yez aim the pipe?"
This excited a laugh of derision from another, who inquired whether the man with the fine, clear eye "didn't know a pipe from a chube?"
Another rolled up his sleeves, and said he was ready to take his turn at the crank for the cause of science; while still another expressed his willingness to blow the bellows all night, if Professor Adams would show him where the handle was.
They all insisted on having a peep at the comet through the telescope, and with some jostling took turns about.
One man, after taking a look, murmured solemnly:
"That thing bodes no good to this city; I'm going home to make my will," and elbowed his way out of the room.
"Ah, Professor," said another, "your fortune's made for all time. This'll be known to fame as the Great American Comet. I dare say it's as big as all the comets of the old world put together."
Mr. Wheeler took an unusually long look.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I don't believe that comet will stay with us long. We'd better leave the Professor to his calculations, while we go back and have a toast to his great discovery."
But nobody stirred. Then Mr. Wheeler left the observatory, and walked straight up to Haven's barn. He picked up a cart-stake, swung it around his head, and hurled it; and, in the twinkling of an eye, that comet had passed its perihelion, and shot from the solar system in so long an ellipse that I fear it will never return.
Unfortunately, the flying cart-stake not only put out the comet, but struck Phaeton, who had been left there by Monkey Roe to manage the thing, and put his arm out of joint. He bore it heroically, and climbed down to the ground alone before he told us what had happened. Then, as he nearly fainted away, we helped him home, while Holman ran for the family physician, who arrived in a few minutes and set the arm.
"It serves me right," said Phaeton, "for ever lending myself to any of Monkey Roe's schemes to build a mere fool-thing."
"I'm sorry you're hurt," said Ned; "but it does seem as if that comet was a silly machine, only intended to deceive me and Professor Adams, instead of being for the good of mankind, like your other inventions. And now you won't be able to do anything in the printing-office for a long while, just when we're crowded with work. If you were not my own brother, and such an awful good fellow, we wouldn't let you have any share of the profits for the next month."
A LITERARY MYSTERY.
A LITERARY MYSTERY.
The printing-office enjoyed a steady run of custom, and, as Ned had said, we were just now crowded with work. Almost every hour that we were not in bed, or at school, was spent in setting type or pulling the press. It was not uncommon for Ned to work with a sandwich on the corner of his case; and, as often as he came to a period, he would stop and take a bite.
"This is the way Barnum used to do," said he, "when he started his museum—take his lunch with him, and stay right there. It's the only way to make a great American success"—and he took another bite, his dental semicircle this time inclosing a portion of the bread that bore a fine proof-impression of his thumb and finger in printer's ink.
Though Phaeton was not able, for some time, to take a hand at the work, he rendered good service by directing things, as the head of the firm. He was often suspicious, where Ned and I would have been taken in at once, as to the circuses and minstrel shows for which the boys used to come and order tickets and programmes by the hundred, always proposing to pay for them out of the receipts of the show. The number of these had increased enormously, and it looked as if the boys got them up mainly for the sake of seeing themselves in print. Sometimes they would write out the most elaborate programmes, and then want them printed at once, before their enterprises had any existence except on paper. One boy, whose father was an actor, made out a complete cast of the play of "Romeo and Juliet," with himself for the part ofRomeo, and Monkey Roe asJuliet.
One day a little curly-headed fellow, named Moses Green, came to the office, and wanted us to print a hundred tickets like this:
"Where's your show going to be?" said Phaeton.
"I don't know," said Moses. "If Uncle James should sell his horses, perhaps he would let me have it in his barn."
"Yes, that would be a good place," said Phaeton. "And who are your actors?"
"I don't know," said Moses. "But I'm going to ask Charlie Garrison, because he's got a good fife; and Lem Whitney, because he knows how to black up with burnt cork; and Andy Wilson, because he knows 'O Susanna' all by heart."
"And what is the price of admission?" said Phaeton.
"I don't know," said Moses. "But I thought if the boys wouldn't pay five cents, I'd take four."
"I'll tell you what 'tis, Moses," said Phaeton; "we're badly crowded with work just now, and it would accommodate us if you could wait a little while. Suppose you engage your actors first, and rehearse the pieces that you're going to play, and get the barn rigged up, and burn the cork, and make up your mind about the price; and then give us a call, and we'll be happy to print your tickets for you."
"All right," said Moses. "I'll go home and burn a cork, right away."
And he went off, whistling "O Susanna."
"Fay, I think that's bad policy," said Ned, when Moses was out of sight.
"I don't see how you can say that," said Phaeton.
"It's as plain as day," said Ned. "We ought to have gone right on and printed his tickets. Suppose he hasn't any show, and never will have one—what of it? We shouldn't suffer. His father would see that our bill was paid. I've heard Father say that Mr. Green was the very soul of honor."
"Ah, Ned, I'm afraid you're getting more sharp than honest," said Phaeton.
From the fact that our school has hardly been mentioned in this story, it must not be inferred that we were not all this time acquiring education by the usual methods. The performances here recorded took place out of school-hours, or on Saturdays, when there was no school. The events inside the temple of learning were generally so dull that they would hardly interest the story-reader.
Yet there was now and then an accident or exploit which relieved the tediousness of study-time. On one occasion, Robert Fox brought to school, as part of his luncheon, a bottle of pop-beer. An hour before intermission we were startled by a tremendous hissing and foaming sound, and the heads of the whole school were instantly turned toward the quarter whence it came. There was Fox with the palm of his hand upon the cork, which was half-way in the bottle that stood upon the floor beside his desk. Though he threw his whole weight upon it, he could not force it in any farther, and the beer rose like a fountain almost to the ceiling, and fell in a beautiful circle, of which Fox and his bottle were the interesting centre.
Any boy who has ever attended a school taught by an irascible master will readily imagine the sequel. Isaac Holman recorded the affair in the form of a Latin fable, which was so popular that we printed it. Here it is:
VULPES ETBEER.
VULPES ETBEER.
Quondam vulpes bottulum poppi beeris in schola tulit, quod in arca reponebat. Sed corda laxa, ob vim beeris, cortex collum reliquit, et beer, spumans, se pavimento effudit. Deinde magister capit unum extremum lori, ci vulpes alterum sentiebat. Hæc fabula docet that, when you bring pop-beer to school, you should tie the string so tight that it can't pop off before lunch-time.
When Jack-in-the-Box saw this fable, he said it was a good fable, and he was proud of his pupil, though some of the tenses were a little out of joint.
Holman said the reason why he put the moral in English was, because that was the important part of it, and ought to be in a language that everybody could understand.
Monkey Roe said he was glad to hear this explanation, as he had been afraid it was because Holman had got to the end of his Latin.
Charlie Garrison, in attempting to criticise the title of the fable, only exposed himself to ridicule.
"It must be a mistake," said he; "for you know you can't eat beer. It's plain enough that it ought to be,Vulpes" (he pronounced this word in one syllable) "drank beer."
This shows the perils of ignorance. If Charlie had had a thorough classical training, he wouldn't have made such a mistake. It was a curious fact that the boys who had never studied Latin, and to whom the blunder had to be explained, laughed at him more unmercifully than anybody else.
But Holman's literary masterpiece (if it was his) was in rhyme, and in some respects it remains a mystery to this day.
One evening he called to see me, and intimated that he had some confidential business on hand, for which we would better adjourn to the printing-office, and accordingly we went there.
"I want a job of printing done," said he, "provided it can be done in the right way."
"We shall be glad to do it as well as we possibly can," said I. "What is it?"
"I can't tell you what it is," said he.
"Well, let me see the manuscript," said I.
"There isn't any manuscript," said he.
"Oh, it isn't prepared yet?" said I. "When will it be ready?"
"There never will be any manuscript for it," said he.
I began to be puzzled. Still, I remembered that small signs and labels were often printed, consisting of only a word or two, which did not require any copy.
"Is it a sign?" said I.
"No."
"Labels?"
"No."
"Then what in the world is it? And how do you suppose I am going to print for you, unless I know what to print?"
"That's the point of the whole business," said Isaac. "I want you to let me come into your office, and use your type and press to print a little thing that concerns nobody but myself, and I don't care to have even you know about it. I want you to let me do all the work myself, when you are not here, and I shall wash up the rollers, distribute the type, destroy all my proofs, and leave everything in the office as I found it. Of course I shall pay you the same as if you did the work."
"But how can you set the type?" said I. "You don't even know the case, do you?"
"No," said he; "but I suppose the letters are all in it somewhere, and I can find them with a little searching."
"And do you know how to lock up a form?" said I.
"I've often seen you do it," said he; "and I think I'm mechanic enough to manage it."
"When do you want to go to work?"
"Duo eques, rectus ab—to-night, right away."
"Very well—good night!" said I.
When I went to the office next day, I found Ned busily at work trying to fit together some small torn scraps of paper. They were printed on one side, and, as fast as he found where one belonged, he fastened it in place by pasting it to a blank sheet which he had laid down as a foundation. When I arrived, the work had progressed as far as this: