"What do you want for Christmas?" asked Mrs. Downs, in a kindly manner.
"I don't know, mother," replied Pete slowly. "Last year it was a
paint-box, bicycle, foils, and you said I could use Dick's foils--and
that you couldn't afford bicycles after the new carpet, so it got down
to a paint-box and that wasn't much of a Christmas."
"That's the comfort in regularly having Christmases; in time you get
what you want," answered his mother.
"That isn't always so. I think it depends on what a fellow wants; and
I've made a strike this year. I'm not going to say thank you for what I
don't want; only I don't exactly know what I do want. It must be
either--either--a--bicycle--or a printing press--or Indian clubs; and if
it is a bicycle, it must be the real kind--wooden ones are not allowed
in processions; and if it is clubs, I shall knock my head off; so it
better be a printing press. It doesn't make any difference to you this
year, does it, as we have not got to buy a new carpet? I have decided;
it shall be a printing press, and I shall get orders enough to pay for
new curtains."
"Not quite so fast, I don't know about the orders, and I do know
printing presses cost, and that Indian clubs are cheap."
"Oh! you can't put me off till another Christmas; it is like Alice in
Wonderland having jam to-morrow. And when to-morrow comes, it isn't
to-morrow. I am going to have it, and you can all club together and buy
it instead of giving me separately, sleeve buttons and scarf pins and
cologne and paper and pocket scissors. A fellow wants real things that
he can do something with. Printing press, now, you remember." And off
rushed Pete as Dick gave a low war-whoop, the signal for an incursion of
boys into the shed.
This shed was filled with relics of former joys, with the débris of
unsuccessful inventions, with tool-boxes whose tools were missing, with
oil cans without oil, with boards full of nails, with the wheels of
broken carts, and with strings, ropes and clothes lines of various
lengths; yet to a new-comer it was always an El Dorado of enjoyment.
Into this now sprang, tumbled, the cronies, Dick, Jack, Phil and Shel,
which latter name was a contraction for General Sheridan.
"I say," exclaimed Phil, "I am getting tired of your shed; haven't had
an idea in it for months--same old contrivances--get up something new."
"You just wait," said Pete, the proprietor.
"O come along, boys, if it is 'wait,' don't let us wait here," said
Shel, and off they started on a raid for fun. Pete returned from the
excursion to dream all night of what might and of what might not be. His
wishes became so thoroughly mixed that he fancied he had told his mother
he wanted nothing, not even Christmas itself; but the horror of such a
mistake effectually roused him.
The next morning there was no indication of forthcoming glories, except
that they had less than usual for breakfast; a kind of atonement to
which Mrs. Downs sometimes treated her family. Pete sighed. The
greetings for a merry Christmas were of doubtful value to him. He was of
a foreboding nature and experience had taught him to be prepared for
disappointment in the matter of presents. He went to church and noticed
carefully the style of type in the hymn books; he came home and took
down all his books from their shelves for the same purpose of
investigation. Even dinner itself failed to bring forgetfulness; for he
thought, if he could print bills-of-fare for such lengthy repasts he
might make money; though he felt he could never spell the queer French
names of dishes. At last the meal was ended, and the big parlor doors
were thrown open, displaying horizontal rows of evergreen, with various
knick-knacks fastened to these mysterious lines, which on inspection
proved to be the bars of an old-fashioned clotheshorse. It made one
think of sums in addition put down in agreeable shapes; one green line
of gifts and then another and another, which suddenly changed into a sum
in long division. Brown-looking packages lay about the feet of the
clotheshorse, and on them Pete fastened his eyes, for printing presses
cannot hang.
His name was called several times and he received the very things he did
not want; sleeve buttons, scarfpins, cologne, and paper. He says, "thank
you," each time more faintly, whilst his mother's eyes twinkle. At last
Santa Claus tried to lift a big bundle; he puffed and panted and called
Pete to help him. Pete comes slowly forward, bends down to help, felt
something cold and hard beneath the wrapper, fumbled over it, clasped it
round, excitedly tried to lift it, whispered awestruck, "It is, it _is_
a self-inker;" bends further down, lifted it up awkwardly, and dropped
it on his little slippered foot, with a big bang and a painful, "oh!"
The scene was too funny for sympathy and the general laugh increased the
ache in the right-hand corner of the big toe on the left foot. Pete
limped out of the room and was soon forgotten in the universal
excitement; but when all were busy with their ice cream, he crept back
to his beloved bundle, unwrapped it, and lying flat down on his stomach
hugged himself to it, and gazed at it again. It was growing late. He
knew that as soon as the guests were gone he must do his share in
putting things to rights, restoring furniture to its place, and worse
than all, in smoothing out the wrapping paper and tying it up in little
bundles, and in unravelling all the knotted strings; for his mother was
accustomed to take off the edge of too great Christmas enjoyment, by
enforcement of this economical rule. That night he dreamed of Franklin,
of editors, of type setting, and of sensible mothers, who knew what
fellows want.
The next morning he woke with a sense of much to do, and soon began his
future career by sorting the type. This was a long job, for he had
several kinds; capitals and small letters, heavy face and light face
type, besides commas, hyphens and periods, and somehow everything was
mixed up. Now and then he stopped to admire his new gift and his own
energy, or to call some one to help him.
At last his task was done. Pete was a methodical boy and always finished
one job before he began another. "Now," said he, "what shall I do first?
set the type or ink the tablet? I'll ink the tablet and then print my
name, it is so short."
He began the inking process just as Dick announced himself by his
war-whoop, and called out,
"At it, are you! Got any orders! Shel has a big job--whole lots of
placards from his father, flaming ones to print, takes all kinds of
type; makes money on it; so busy he can't speak to a fellow, so I came
along here, for I'm one of the kind don't believe in orders for boys.
Learn by looking on, is my way--have all of the fun and--none of the ink
guess I'll say, seeing how your hands are. That isn't the way--your
mother will have something to say to that."
"You keep still and let me alone," answered Pete. "I'll come out all
right. I am going to set the type for Pete Downs, Centreville, Illinois,
U. S.," and he carefully began to insert the letters on the left hand of
the chase. He placed the chase in the body of the press, put some paper
on the pressure and began to work the handle up and down till the type
was well inked; he next marked out the size of his card on the pressure,
inserted his gauge pins, placed his card upon them, took hold of the
handle and pushed it up and down, thus bringing the card on the pressure
against the inked type; he pushed with all his might and lifted up his
work with a conqueror's air. Dick, who had been maliciously watching,
burst into peals of laughter. The name read thus: