HE AIN'T NO TYPERGRAFFICKAL CYCLOPEEDA.--SERIUS
COMPLERCASHUNS, WITH A TEMPORY ABBERASHUN.--A PRINTIN' OFFIS
FEED.
I'm in a peck of troubel to-day, wot I'll have ter trust ter Providence
to get me outer. A typergraffickal devil ain't s'posed to know
everything, enyway. Now the hull offis is mad at me, 'cos I ain't a
walk-in' cyclopeeda of typograffickal turm.
In the fust place, the foreman of the composin' room's mad, 'cos wen he
tole me to fech him a long stick, I went down street and hunted round
till I struck a house wot was bein plasturd, and brot him back a good
lath. Wen I giv it to him I thot there was a erupshun from a volcano,
the way he swared at me. He sed he'd a noshun to brake it over my back,
for not havin cents enuff to kno that he bot his fire wood by the cord.
Y didn't he tell me in the fust place he wanted that thing wot printers
use to set type in.
Now the casheer's on his ear, cos he sent me out ter buy a wooden
galley. I know'd very well I couldn't make no mistake there, cos I'm
posted on ship's kichens,
so I arst him how big a one he wanted. He sed medeyum, so I went up to
Johnny Roache's ship-yard and had them send a galley down to the offis,
wot would be big enuf for a good sized skooner. You orter seen the
casheer's face, wen the six-horse teem stopped in frunt of the dore. The
driver was goin to leeve the galley enyway, but the Casheer pade him
to hawl it back, and rote Mr. Roache that there boy was laberin under a
slite abberashun of the mind wen he ordered it. But I think its his
mind wots got the abberashuns instead, from sittin up so late with the
red-hedded grass widder wot keeps the bordin house crost the street from
our house. If it hadn't, y didn't he tell me he warnted a galley for
keepin type in, wen the composin stick's full. Fellers like him orter be
put on ice, cos there too fresh to keep long. He only needs a tale to be
a thorobred dude, cos he's got everything else wat blongs to one.
On my way home, at noon, I stopped to see a feller wot was sellin prize
packits, at the corner of Nassau street, so I didn't get time to ete
much dinner. I was gettin orful hungry bout 4 'clock, wen the edittur
arst me if I thot I culd clere up the pie wot was on the imposin ston.
I didn't warnt to let him see I was so orful hungery, so I told him I
didn't kno. “Well,” sed he, “there's nothin like tryin; the fore-man'll
sho you wear it is.” I couldn't keep back my grattyfycashun, so I
thanked him three or four times. You bet I was mad, wen I fownd out
there warnt no cherry or mince pie, not even dryed appel, but only a lot
of type wot had got mixed up. I think its reel mene to make a littel boy
like me think hes goin to get a big feed, and then not give him enything
but a lot of led wot nobodie else wuld try to ete.
You orter see our imposin stone; it must be orful valewble. Its a grate
flat peece of marbel, tattooed, all over, with funny hyroglifficks. I
guess its one of the old toombstones wot come from anshunt Troy. Its
a wunder the edittur dont sell it to the Smithsoyun institute, sted of
using it for layin forms on, its so orful imposin.