by Anonymous
XVI
THE THIRD STORY
Bobby's room was also in the third story and up among the gables. Itslanted here, it slanted there, steeply or gradually according to thedemands of the roof outside. There May, Johnny and Martin curled up onthe western window seat; Bobby and Carter Irvine sat on the floor;Caroline drew up a straight-back chair. Then while the twilight lastedthey "talked," in children's aimless fashion, about everything, anythingor nothing.
By and by somebody yawned.
"My, it's getting dark. Light up, Johnny."
Then could be seen the prize attraction of the room--the deal table onwhich one could use ink, mucilage, scissors and other dangerous weapons.Here was screwed the toy printing press. Bobby, after a few furtherattempts to adopt the regulation fonts of type to its chase, had ratherlost interest in it, but his new companions revived it. He showed themexactly how to get clear and good impressions, and in the explanationproved a most comfortable glow over finding something at last in whichhe was distinctly and indisputably superior. All had to have cardsprinted. Each bought his own and set up his own type; Bobby madeadjustments, and then again each was privileged to make his ownimpressions.
Johnny English, however, was keenly alive to the commercial aspects ofthe case. One day he appeared in triumph bearing an order from Mr.Ellison's wholesale house. It read quite simply: "Use Star StovePolish," a legend well within the possibilities of the little press.
"Got an order for a thousand of 'em!" cried Johnny triumphantly. "We'reto print them and distribute them. We get four dollars for it!"
Four dollars was untold wealth, though, counting the distribution, Mr.Ellison's firm stood to gain on regular rates--provided it really caredthus to advertise Star Stove Polish. To active youngsters the wanderingup one street and down another, leaving cards at every house, handingcards to every passer-by, was a huge lark. When the four dollars werepaid, it seemed almost like getting a Christmas present out of season.Johnny's imagination was fired.
"There's lots of printing we might get," said he. "Look at all theenvelopes my papa uses, and there's his letter-heads, andbill-heads--and lots else. But we can't do it on that thing! It takesdifferent kinds of type."
Thereupon Bobby got out his catalogues and told them of the second-handself-inker to be had for twenty-five dollars, Enthusiasm burned at feverheat for about three days, then the sickening realization that the totalcapital of _Orde & English, Job Printers_--including the fourdollars--was just seven-thirty pricked that bright dream. The approachof Christmas inspired Johnny with a new idea. He and Bobby risked ahalf-dollar of the capital in cards embossed with holly wreaths. Onthese they printed "_Merry Christmas, From ---- to ----._" These had anencouraging sale among immediate relatives.
But in spite of these gratifying commercial ventures, Bobby's disgustgrew. It might make marks on paper; it might earn money, but it wouldnot take full-sized type, it would not print more than two lines. Bythese same tokens it was not a printing press, but a toy; not the realthing, but an imitation, and Bobby was outgrowing imitations. Finally hemade a definite statement of principle.
"I'm not going to use her any more," said he with decision, "I'm sick ofthe old thing."
"But I've just got an order for fifty cards from Mrs. Fowler!"expostulated Johnny.
"Then go on, do them," replied Bobby. "I won't."
He retired to the corner, leaving Johnny wrathful. There for thethousandth time he pored over the pages of the catalogue showing thebeautiful 5x7 self-inking press.
