There was days in here that I kind of forget. I remember Mr. Miller gave
Mitch a watch which he had always promised him, and it looked good, but
didn't run very well. So he was goin' to old Abe Zemple, which was a
mechanic, to fix it. But it seemed to run worse, if anything. One thing
that happened there was this: Old Zemple had a clock all apart, the
wheels and springs scattered all over the bench. Mitch saw this and for
fun he put a extra wheel on the bench with the rest. So when Old Zemple
was puttin' the clock together again he couldn't find no place for this
wheel; and finally he just left it out, and of course the clock run,
havin' all the wheels back in it that really belonged to it. He went
around town braggin' about puttin' a clock together with one wheel left
out, and it was just as good as if it had all the wheels, and that
showed that the factory didn't know about clocks.
[Illustration: Abe Zemple]
But it happened that in fixin' Mitch's watch, old Zemple had left out a
little pin, just a little pin that you could hardly see, and Old Zemple
found it out and put the pin in, and then the watch run. Old Zemple told
Mr. Miller about leavin' the wheel out of the clock, and Mr. Miller
said, "How do you explain it, Abe? You leave a big wheel out of a clock
and it runs; and you leave a little pin out of a watch and it won't run?
Somethin's wrong. Look into it, Abe. For I've noticed about people that
when they try to get somethin' extra into their lives, and fuss around
like you did with this wheel, tryin' to find a place for it, that they
don't need it, and do all right without it; and on the other hand, other
people lose somethin' so little it don't seem to count, and yet they
can't get along without it. But also sometimes a man thinks he's
improved on creation by leavin' somethin' out of his life, or gettin'
rid of somethin' in society, and it turns out that it didn't belong
there, just like this wheel. We get fooled a good deal; for you know, my
boy put that extra wheel on your bench." And then Old Zemple said,
gettin' mad--"Some boys have lost pins, or never had any. Their fathers
don't raise 'em up right." And Mr. Miller said: "This town is just full
of wheels that have nothin' to do with the clock. They either belong
somewhere else, or they are left-overs of other times--like Henry
Bannerman," referring to the man that spent all day every day walkin' up
and down on the stone floor back of the pillars of the court house.
I want to come back to Mitch's watch. But first I remember it was about
now that a troupe came to town playin' Rip Van Winkle, and Mr. Miller
and my pa took Mitch and me to see it. And as we came back home, pa said
to Mr. Miller: "Henry Bannerman is a kind of Rip Van Winkle--a extra
wheel--he's been asleep ten years, anyway." So Mitch and me began to beg
for the story about Henry Bannerman, which was that he drank until he
had a fever and when he came out of the fever, he was blurred like and
not keen like when he could recite Shakespeare and practice law fine. So
pa said that once when Henry first began to practice law again after
comin' out of the fever, he had a little office in the court house and
Alcibiades Watkins came in to see him about a boundary fence, and sat
down and told Henry about it, takin' about an hour. When Alcibiades
finished, Henry says, "Tell it to me over; it's a long story and
important and I want to get it right." So Alcibiades told it over. And
then Henry says, "You came to consult me, did you?" Alcibiades said
"yes." "Well," says Henry, "I'll have to charge you--I'll have to charge
you two dollars for the advice." And so Alcibiades took out two dollars
and handed it to Henry and waited for the advice. And Henry said: "Well,
Alcibiades, I have listened to you for two hours about this boundary,
and the boundary fence, and I don't know a thing about it, and my advice
to you is to go and see Mr. Kirby who can understand it and is a good
lawyer." So Alcibiades said, "Well, I know, but I came to you for
advice." "Yes," said Henry, "I know you did, and I have give it to
you--go and see Mr. Kirby--he's a good lawyer and will tell you what
more to do and how to do it. You see I'm not a barrister--I'm just a
solicitor."
So Mr. Miller and my pa talked, which was as much fun almost as the
show. They seemed to know everything and to kind of stand back of Mitch
and me, next to God, or somethin' strong that could keep any harm away.
But to come back to Mitch's watch. George Heigold had a piece of lead
with printing letters on one side, in copper. They called it a
stereotype, and it would print. And he wanted to trade Mitch for the
watch, so he offered his stereotype; and as Mitch was crazy about
printin' and books, Mitch traded and was glad of the chance. But when
Mr. Miller found it out, he said: "What did you do that for? That lead
stereotype ain't worth nothin'--and here you have traded off your watch
which I gave you. You know, I think you are goin' to be a author--for
authors give their time and everything they have to print things--and
this looks like the key to your life, and a sign of what your life is
goin' to be. So I think I'll begin with you and put you in the office of
the _Observer_ to learn the printer's trade, like Franklin."
Of course this stereotype would print; and Mitch printed with it a good
deal, but as it always printed the same thing, the fun soon died down,
and Mitch really wished he had his watch back.
So that's how Mitch began to set type and help run a newspaper. The
editor was Cassius Wilkinson, and a good deal of the time he was in
Springfield, and the rest he was talkin' politics or gettin' drunk. So
that the paper just run itself. The foreman was Dutchie Bale, who used
to go to the farm papers or the Chicago papers and just cut great pieces
out of 'em and set 'em in type for the paper; and as the editor didn't
care, and Dutchie didn't care what went into the paper, Mitch had a
chance to write for the paper himself; and also Mr. Miller slipped in
some wonderful things; and people began to say that the paper was
lookin' up. While Mr. Wilkinson, the editor, smiled and took the
compliments give him just like he deserved 'em. And onct Mitch printed
one of his poems about Salem, where one of the verses was:
Down by the mill where Linkern lived,
Where the waters whirl and swish,
I love to sit when school is out,
Catchin' a nice cat fish.
I don't believe Mitch worked on the newspaper more'n a week or ten days,
but lots happened; and I went down to see him a good deal to hear
Dutchie Bale talk and swear. He swore awful, especially on press day;
for the press nearly always broke down just as they started to print.
Then Dutchie would turn loose:
"Look at the old corn-sheller, look at the old cider mill, look at the
junk (all the time puttin' in the awfulest profanity). Here he's over at
Springfield, and me runnin' the paper and tryin' to print a paper on a
grindstone like this. I'm goin' to quit--I've had enough of this (more
terrible profanity)."
Mitch would be standin' there half scared and half laughin', and another
printer named Sandy Bill would be sayin': "Why don't you tighten that
bolt, Dutchie?" Then Dutchie would crawl under the press and start to do
what Sandy said, but findin' that the bolt was all right, he'd crawl out
again and maybe see Sandy kind of laughin'. So thinkin' Sandy was
foolin' him, they'd begin to quarrel; and maybe, it would end with
Dutchie throwin' a monkey wrench at Sandy and rushin' out of the room.
He'd come back later, for you couldn't really drive him off the place;
and maybe after a hour or two the paper would be printed.
Well, Mr. Miller had wrote a long poem about the Indians, and he began
to print it, and then somethin' happened. A man named Pemberton, which
they called the Jack of Clubs, and a man named Hockey, which they called
"Whistlin' Dick," had an awful fight by the corner store; and Mitch
wrote up the fight for the paper, the editor bein' in Springfield, and
Dutchie not carin' what was printed. Mitch called 'em human wind-mills;
and when the paper came out, everybody in town began to laugh and the
papers sold like hot cakes. Mr. Wilkinson was in Springfield and had
nothin' to do with it; but Whistlin' Dick thought Mr. Wilkinson had
wrote the piece and put it in. So he kept goin' to the depot waitin' for
Mr. Wilkinson to get off the train from Springfield. When he did, which
was in a day or two, he went right up to Mr. Wilkinson and hit him, and
then proceeded to lick him until he had enough, and got up and ran;
though he was sayin' all the time that he didn't write the piece and
didn't know nothin' about it. Then Mr. Wilkinson came to the office and
read the piece and Dutchie told him that Mitch wrote it. And that ended
Mitch as an editor. He was afraid to go back to the office anyway, in
addition to bein' fired.