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 of _Romeo_, and Monkey
Roe as _Juliet_.
One day a little curly-headed fellow, named Moses Green, came to the
office, and wanted us to print a hundred tickets like this:
+-------------------+
| MOSE GREEN'S |
| MINSTREL SHOW. |
| Admit the Bearer. |
+-------------------+
"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.
[Illustration: "IT ROSE LIKE A FOUNTAIN."]
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 ET BEER.
_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:
TO ON ED.
Vainly trive sweetness--
Instantly comet back:
Over rt rol dream its fleetness,
with its tor and rack.
how I sigh my od.
Going in fan long agone.--
Looking cross he jo
I knew er me dawn
earest and bes aughters.
aspire t ove regard?
Even in otus dext aters,
Never again to ai ward.
"Here's a mystery," said Ned.
"What is it?" said I.
"Did you print this?" said he, suddenly looking into my face
suspiciously.
"No," said I, calmly; "I never saw it before."
"Well, then, somebody must have broken into our office last night. For
when I came in this morning, I found the oil all burned out of the big
lamp,--I filled it yesterday,--and these torn scraps in the wood-box. I
got so many together pretty easily, but I can't find another one that
will fit."
"It looks as if it had been a poem," said I.
"Yes," said Ned; "of course it was. And oh, look here! It was an
acrostic, too!"
Ned took out his pencil, and filled in what he supposed to be the
missing initial letters, making the name VIOLA GLIDDEN.
"It _may_ have been an acrostic," said I; "but you can't tell with
certainty, so much is missing."
"There isn't any doubt in my mind," said Ned; "and it's perfectly
evident who was the burglar. Everybody knows who's sweet on Viola
Glidden."
"I should think a good many would be sweet on her," said I; "she's the
handsomest girl in town."
"Well, then," said Ned, "look at that 'otus dext.' Of course it was
_totus dexter_,--and who's the boy that uses that classic expression? I
wouldn't have thought that so nice a fellow as Holman would break in
here at midnight, and put his mushy love-poetry into print at our
expense. He must have been here about all night, for that lamp full of
oil lasts nine hours."
"There's an easy way to punish him, whoever he was," said Phaeton, who
had come in in time to hear most of our conversation.
"How is that?" said Ned.
"Get out a handbill," said Phaeton, "and spread it all over town,
offering a reward of one cent for the conviction of the burglar who
broke into our office last night and printed an acrostic, of which the
following is a fac-simile of a mutilated proof. Then set up this, just
as you have it here."
"That's it; that'll make him hop," said Ned. "I'll go to work on it at
once."
"But," said I, "it'll make Miss Glidden hop too."
"Let her hop."
"But then perhaps her brother John will call around and make you hop."
"He can't do it," said Ned. "The man that owns a printing-press can
make everybody else hop, and nobody can make him hop--unless it is a
man that owns another press. Whoever tries to fight a printing-press
always gets the worst of it. Father says so, and he knows, for he tried
it on the _Vindicator_ when he was running for sheriff and they
slandered him."
At this point I explained that Holman had not come there without
permission, and that he expected to pay for everything.
"Then why didn't you tell us that before?" said Phaeton.
"I was going to tell you he had been here," said I, "and that he did
not want any of us to know what he printed. But when I saw that you had
found that out, I thought perhaps, in fairness to him, I ought not to
tell you _who_ it was."
"All right," said Ned. "Of course, it's none of our business how much
love-poetry Holman makes, or how spooney it is, or what girl he sends
it to, if he pays for it all. But don't forget to charge him for the
oil. By the way, so many of the boys owe us for printing, I've bought a
blank-book to put the accounts in, or we shall forget some of them.
Monkey Roe's mother paid for the 'Orphan Boy' yesterday. I'll put that
down now. Half a dollar wasn't enough to charge her; we must make it up
on the next job we do for her or Monkey."
While he was saying this, he wrote in his book:
_Mrs. Roe per Monkey 12 orphan boys 50 Paid._
Hardly had he finished the entry, when the door of the office was
suddenly opened, and Patsy Rafferty thrust in his head and shouted:
"Jimmy the Rhymer's killed!"
"What?"
"What?"
"I say Jimmy the Rhymer's killed! And you done it, too!"
I am sorry that Patsy said "done," when he meant _did_. But he was a
good-hearted boy, nevertheless; and probably his excitement was what
made him forget his grammar.
"What do you mean?" said Ned, who had turned as pale as ashes.
"You ought to know what I mean," said Patsy. "Just because he had the
bad luck to spill a few of your old types, you abused him like a
pickpocket, and said he'd got to pay for 'em, and drove him out of the
office. And he's been down around the depot every day since, selling
papers, tryin' to make money enough to pay you. And now he's got runned
over be a hack, when he was goin' across the street to a gentleman that
wanted a paper. And they've took him home,--and his blood's all along
the road,--and my mother says it's on your head, too, you miserable
skinflint! I won't have any of your gifts!"
And with that Patsy thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out the
visiting-cards that Ned had printed for him, and threw them high into
the room, so that in falling they scattered over everything.
"I'll bring back your car," he continued, "as soon as I can get it. I
lent it to Teddy Dwyer last week."
Then he shut the door with a bang, and went away.
We looked at one another in consternation.
"What shall we do?" said Ned.
"I think we ought to go to Jimmy's house at once," said I.
"Yes, of course," said Ned.
And he and I started. Phaeton went the other way--as we afterward
learned, to inform his mother, who had long been noted for her
benevolence in cases of distress and sorrow among her neighbors.
Ned and I not only went by the postern, but made a bee-line for Jimmy's
house, going over any number of fences, and straight through
door-yards, grass-plots, and garden-patches, without the slightest
reference to streets or paths.
We left in such a hurry that we forgot to lock up the office. While we
were gone, Monkey Roe sauntered in, found Holman's acrostic which Ned
had pieced together, and, when he went away, carried it with him.