"Fiddility is a virtu."
Notwithstanding this, the firm had made one dollar; and in the course of the next two months Pete had acquired enough skill to feel himself an expert.
A change had also come over Clarence; his spirit was too aspiring to be bound by rules of constant neatness, and he grew jealous of Pete's increasing ability. So he proposed a partnership on new terms; namely, that the cash on hand should be devoted to the purchase of some new fonts, and that afterwards the earnings should be divided; but that as he would always ink the tablet, and as the workshop of the firm had been transferred to his shed, he should have two thirds of the profits. Pete objected, and insisted that until the business was on a better foundation, all the profits should be turned in for the improvement of their stock in trade.
"No," said Clarence, "I can't print all day and every day and not feel any cents in my pocket. I want peanuts and candy and I want to give the boys a treat, too, now and then. That's what I am going to print for, after we have got these new fonts."
"Well, you can do as you please, I sha'n't try such things. I shall keep my money for type and cards. We needn't quarrel yet till we have more money."
Clarence did not feel easy. Pete had shown more energy, patience and neatness than he thought was right under the circumstances, though what the circumstances were, he confessed to himself he did not know; and he summed up the whole offence, when he was speaking of the affairs of the concern to other boys, by saying, "O, Pete's getting too proud."
After the new type was bought, the following order was received for twenty-five postal card notices:
The
Q. F. U.
will hold its tenth peripatetic occasion at 42 degrees 25 seconds North Latitude 65 degrees 15 minutes 20 seconds West Longitude on the 10th instant.
This was a very important order, requiring great care, received from an older boy, a member of a secret society. Most obscure it seemed to the firm. Clarence insisted on printing it in plain English and on setting up in type: "A Walking match will take place, etc. etc." Pete thought they had no right to argue about the matter, simply to do what was ordered.
"I should not mind it so much if they would not have such long words; and we shall have to buy special marks for degrees, minutes, and seconds—charge extra on that. But peripatetic—I didn't agree to print such nonsense," said Clarence. "If we are going to do it I am going to be quick about it and set it all up except the marks and see how it looks."
He was in such a hurry that he set the type wrong three times. At last "peripatetic" was right, but no space was left for the right number of leads. Rejecting Pete's help, he lifted a row of type to make room, did not hold it tight enough, the middle sank down, fell out and the line went to pieces.
"I say now," he exclaimed, "I didn't do that—you did it—it did itself. I never made 'a pie' in all my life, and see here, I won't have it said that I made one now."
"I have made them lots of times," calmly said Pete.
"You! O yes! I dare say you have. But I never did, and that's why the other boys want me in their business."
"What business? I would not get so excited just because of this pie."
"You would if your reputation depended on it."
"But the other firms will have to know it; our honor is pledged to tell whenever such a thing happens to any one of us."
"Are you in other business? Shel said you were, when he wanted us to take him in, and I said you were not. That's the end of it. If you are any one's else partner, you can't be mine, pie or no pie."
"Very well. Just as you please, you can take Shel. You always put on too much ink and that wastes capital."
"Well, then, you put on too little ink, and blurred work don't bring orders. I am done with you."
"And I with you."
"I shall bring up my cart to-morrow and take my things away."
"What are you going to do about those new fonts?"
"I would rather you would have them all than be partner with a boy who invests in bogus firms."
"Bogus or not, I never mix accounts. You can have the first half and I the second; only as 'x' and 'z' don't count I ought to have two more letters in my half than you in yours."
"I should call that mixing halves, if you don't call it mixing accounts," said Pete, who was so hurt by this unexpected closeness that he instantly went off to get his cart. Meeting Shel on the way, he retailed his wrongs and met with such hearty sympathy that he formed a copartnership with him on the spot. Shel advised him to wait till to-morrow before taking action and give Clarence time to think over the matter and see if it would not be better for his pecuniary interests to remain a silent partner.
"You know," urged he, "that he has got a good deal of type, and though he works too quickly to admit him as active partner, he might do very well as a retired one, and thus keep the peace. Then it is always a good plan to have three partners; one of them, or all together—they somehow act as judge. I must be off now." And the boys separated.
That afternoon it rained, and Pete had to stay at home. Early the next day he drew his cart up the hill to Clarence's house with very forgiving feelings, but found he had left word with the hired man that he had gone off and wasn't going to have any more to do with him. Of course, honor and justice then compelled him to take what belonged to him, especially as the man told him that Clarence had expected him with his cart.
So Pete sadly entered the shed, looked at the forms, thought everything was mixed up, and did what he always did when longing to speak right out, but afraid to do so; he took hold of his lower lip with thumb and forefinger and twirled it back and forth turning it over and under. Clarence's little sister appeared whilst he was thus engaged, and seeing the sadness of his eyes and the perplexity of his mouth and fingers, she ventured to say, "It is too bad, and Clarence said it was, and that he did not mean to upset the type, but that you got him so provoked he could not help it, and that you could come and pick it out if you choose, 'cause it was yours; but he—" and she stopped frightened.
"That's just what I shall do. You tell him it is a mighty mean trick; that I have left him fifteen letters—you remember fifteen, not thirteen," said Pete.
He had a hard time sorting the type; part of it was smashed, part of it very dirty. His cart at last laden, he sorrowfully bore home his press and its appendages, only to spend still more time in cleaning and "getting it to rights." "I must finish that order," thought he, "for orders are business; even if a firm is dissolved, the remaining partner is bound to complete the work." So he manfully invested some capital in the type for degrees, minutes and seconds, closed the contract and received extra pay for his neatness and quickness.
But he grew tired and longed for companionship, so that when Shel appeared, he found Pete quite dejected, willing to listen to terms of partnership, but utterly unwilling to have anything more to do with Clarence.
"Very well," said Shel, "I'll give him up if you'll give up some one else, and then we'll start even."
"Why, I never thought of any one."
"Never mind," was the reply, "make believe you did; just like politics—each of us gives up his best man and takes an unknown third man. We must agree on one who has a self-inker larger than this and lots of type. I want to extend the business."
"Why can't we begin at once as Jones, Downs & Co., and when we find the right kind of boy let him be Co."
"Agreed, we'll get out hand-bills at once."
That evening the large trees on the road down to the village post-office, the doors of the grocery, the dry goods, the apothecary and provision stores—even the depot itself—bore large placards with the following announcement:
JONES, DOWNS & CO.,
Job Printers,
Orders promptly executed.
Many a tired man stopped his horse that night and through the next week to read those staring notices. The schoolboys made fun of the new concern, wondered how long it would last and tried to rouse distrust of each other in the minds of the two partners, who saw that if they could only obtain orders they could boast that they understood the tricks of the trade and knew the use of advertisements; and so it proved.
For, the city music-teacher coming to the village was so amused by these white patches on the trees that she sought their shop and gave them an order to print her bill; and when the young townspeople received, instead of a written bill, one printed in due form by those at whom they had laughed, they became strangely silent. Soon came an order for some tags for a large family with an endless amount of baggage, all to be marked alike, as easier to read. An actual stranger sent an order for work. The village calling increased so fast that it was difficult to meet the demands for visiting cards. At last came an order from a church fair for hand-bills, but of too large a size for their press. They had often reflected upon the "Co." but had delayed action, which now became imperative and necessitated partnership with the boy who would have the biggest press, and this was Dick.
He was interviewed but proved refractory on a point of honor. "For," said he, "no one will know I am 'Co.' and if you are such a great firm, I want the public honor of belonging to you."
What was to be done? the fair could not be delayed until matters were settled; nor could the boys give up their job as being beyond their power.
"I'll tell you my terms," said Dick finally. "I'll put my press and all its fixings into the concern if you'll let me have two thirds of the profits on this job and on all the rest of the work you do this week. I am 'hard up' and I know you have got orders ahead."
These were hard terms, but on the other hand, as Dick could command custom, and was a good, clean printer, they acceded to his conditions and printed the bills in startling type, using one or two kinds in the same word, so as to make through the eye a vivid impression of the meaning of the Fair.
From this time they had so much work to do in bill heads, tickets, envelopes, etc., that they led a calm life of unbroken industry, laying aside one quarter of their earnings each week as a fund for future stock and dividing the other three quarters equally between them.
AUNT ELIZABETH'S FENCE.
The little village of H—— is a sort of double-header, having a centre at each end, so to speak. The end nearest the railroad is known as "The Three Corners," on account of a certain arrangement of the roads meeting at that point, while the farther assemblage of houses bears a similar appellation, "The Four Corners," for a similar reason. The two parts of the town are in reality two distinct villages, although existing as one corporate body, and are banded together like the Siamese twins by a road leading directly from the heart of one to that of the other. On each side of this rural street, at neighborly distances, stand pretty white cottages, a story and a half high, nestling behind white fences under shading maples. Midway between the two Centres these dwellings stand further apart and are more evidently farmhouses; and just beyond a peaceful green meadow one's attention is suddenly arrested by a queer house—an architectural oddity, having an insignificant main part, and numerous additions, of different heights, jutting forth in every direction without any seeming plan, but looking as if they might have crept together some cold winter's day for mutual warmth, or as if the middle house was a bantam trying to shield an overgrown brood, a solitary tower having the effect of a chicken on the mother hen's back.
It was in one of the rooms of this odd residence that our young hero, Jem French, was born. His father, like his house, is decidedly odd. Mr. Joseph French was a man of ideas, not a farmer as you might suppose from his living in such a locality, but a Jack-at-all-trades, and in spite of the proverb, good at all. Therein lays the secret of his queer-shaped house. One of the little extensions is a tin shop where he mends the pots and pans of the neighborhood, or creates any new vessels desired. Another projection is devoted to carpenter work, and in a third addition he makes boots and shoes for his own family and cobbles for others. In the room above, with the big glass window, the rustic beaux and belles sit like statuary, while he preserves their pictures in ambrotypes. Each part of the building seems to be devoted to some specialty. But in one part the door is always found to be locked and the window carefully curtained, and even the children are forbidden to enter. In this room Mr. French still spends hours and hours, sometimes days and weeks, inventing, nobody knows what as yet.
Jem early bid fair to become another such man as his father, though evidently that would not be to his pecuniary benefit, for the entire surplus earnings of his parent had thus far been spent in obtaining materials for further experimenting. Still Jem inherited the inventive talent. He was envied and admired by schoolfellows and playmates. Not even the richest among them could boast of owning such unique toys as Jem was constantly making. The little stream that ran through the meadow was spanned by miniature bridges of which he was sole architect. His sailing craft, of all kinds, and fully rigged, swam in the placid water. Dams were placed here and there, and sluice-ways conducted the water to its work of turning sundry over-shot wheels which in their turn operated little pumps or moved the machinery of a mill. He made his sisters various mechanical figures which moved to the swinging of a pendulum. Cardboard images were made to saw wood, fiddle, or dance for hours together, the motive power being obtained from sand running through an inverted cone. As for carving, he had ornamented the walls of the house with a profusion of brackets, wall-pockets, and the like, taking his designs of birds or flowers from nature's own pattern. He was, in fact, a veritable young Yankee with his jack-knife, and few were the things he could not fashion with it, and few the principles of physics studied at school which he did not seek to embody or illustrate; and he had advanced beyond the range of studies in a country school when he was withdrawn by his father to assist in "doing the chores." Then having little society except his own thoughts he gradually became discontented.
One day the mail-wagon stopped at his father's gate. "A letter for Mr. French," said the carrier.
Even such a commonplace occurrence had an interest for the listless Jem and he ran to pick it up. "It didn't come very far, I guess, for here is the village postmark," said he to his mother who came to the door and extended her hand for the epistle.
"It's from aunt Elizabeth," said she, looking at the superscription.
Jem puckered his lips to a whistle, for aunt Elizabeth was not on good terms with her brother and had little intercourse with the family. What news could his aunt have to impart, thus to break her usual silence? The more he thought about it the stronger grew his curiosity. Nevertheless it remained ungratified until his father made his appearance at the supper-table and broke the seal.
If chirography gives any clew to the character of a writer, the person who penned that letter was certainly plain, hard, and angular, while the composition of the epistle indicated the author was in the habit of bluntly freeing her mind. She began by telling her brother he was shiftless, progressed by referring to the great number of mouths he had to fill, and ended by offering to take the care of one of the children off his hands, and requesting Jem should be sent to her house at the Four Corners.
"O father, do let me go," said Jem.
"Write to your aunt, and tell her to expect you next Thursday," said he, at last.
The time that intervened seemed to drag slowly to Jem, but the supreme moment finally came, and he stood at the gate with his best suit on.
"Be a good boy, and try to be useful to your aunt Elizabeth," were his mother's parting words.
"Good-by, good-by," merrily shouted Jem, and waving a farewell salute with his handkerchief he started away with a quick, elastic step that would soon bring him to his destination only two miles away.
Miss Elizabeth French lived at the old homestead. She was a maiden lady and had lived alone ever since the death of her father. Once a year she made a bargain with the man who tilled the farm on shares and occasionally asked him a few questions relative to the crops.
Further than that she had little to do with the outside world. One consequence was that her house and its surroundings showed the urgent need of a caring hand. Stones were missing from the chimney, and shingles from the roof. The frame was out of repair and there were only traces left of former coats of paint. Of the picket fence which had once bounded her possessions in front, not even a post remained. Years before, the slats had begun to decay, until the dilapidation became an eyesore to even Miss Elizabeth herself. But when the cow-boys in search of their charges that always pastured along the sides of the road, rattled their sticks over its surface, it became a nuisance she could no longer stand. So one morning after having been awakened unusually early by her noisy tormentors, she had every vestige removed, and the post-holes filled, leaving the yard as open and unprotected as the street itself.
It may have been the need of some one to help her put her outside world to rights, and her knowledge of Jem's peculiar talents, that inspired the unexpected invitation. However that might be, she stood at the window watching as Jem, red-faced and dusty from his walk, came up the path.
"So ye've come, hev ye?" said she as she let him in and relieved him of his satchel. "Ye look kind o' tuckered out. S'pose the folks must all be well, or ye wouldn't hev come. Yer father ain't doin' nothin' yet, I take it, 'cept shettin' himself up, same as ever, and leavin' his family to shift for themselves? Hungry too, ain't ye? That 'minds me."
But first she took him to a little room he was to occupy, that he might bathe his hands and face. The apartment was neat and cosey, for however slack she may have been with the outside of her mansion, Miss French was a good housekeeper. And by the time he had washed and looked over a little pile of books that lay upon the old-fashioned bureau, his aunt was calling him down to dinner.
"Well, Jem," said Miss Elizabeth, as they sat facing each other at the little table, "it seems good to see somebody a-sittin' here an' eatin' besides myself. Hope ye won't git lonesome."
"No danger of that, auntie, if you only give me something to do," was the cheerful response.
"If that's all ye want, the land knows there's enough to be done," said his aunt with a laugh.
"Well, then, what first?"
"Wal, what bothers me most jest now are them cattle walkin' round the yard. T'want only yisterday Squire Mullins'es cow hed to eat up the top of my pennyroyal geranium and trod down my eardrops and lady-slippers, and now they ain't anything left but bachelor's-buttons that's worth looking at. Ye might set somethin' alongside of the road, jest enough to keep out the critters. Don't s'pose ye could build a fence, could ye?"
"Well, aunty," said Jem, "I never did build one, but I think I could. What shall it be made of?"
"That's a question. I burned up all there was left of the old fence, for kindlin' wood. You might find somethin' out in the old workshop nex' to the barn. Father always use' to be tinkerin' around, an' there's lots of rubbish up under the roof."
"What kind of a fence would you like?"
"Oh, anything. Anything to keep out the critters. Ef ye could think of anything to git the best o' them cow-boys 'twould suit pretty well. Them boys are gettin' to be a reg'lar nuisance. They go 'long drawin' of their sticks on people's fences jist as if there was solid comfort in that eternal rattle, rattle, rattle. What makes boys think they can't never enjoy themselves unless they're a-makin' a noise? But I've had the best of them for two or three years. They had to stop in front of my place. But now the cows is gittin' to be wus than the racket, an' ef ye could think of any way to kill two birds with one stun, jest do it. I'll leave you to plan it your own way. Ye might look 'round this arternoon an' see what there is to do with."
So when dinner was over Jem began to "look 'round." In the old workshop were some sticks of timber that might serve for posts, but there were few boards and not half enough for pickets. Knowing that his aunt would be indisposed to lay out any money he looked very thoroughly through sheds and barn. In the latter place he moved a pile of rubbish in hopes of finding something beneath. The heap consisted mostly of half-inch iron rods of various sizes, and he was about to go elsewhere when he stumbled against a short piece and set it rolling to the middle of the floor. Picking it up he threw it back into the corner, where it clanged with a noise that sent a hen cackling from her nest in a remote part of the mow.
"Perhaps I could use these rods," mused he, "but then the boys could make more noise than ever and that would hardly do."
Just then his face seemed to be illuminated by an inspiration. His eyes twinkled with fun. But his reflections were interrupted by a call to supper. Tea time was occupied in the discussion of family matters and his aunt related bits of private history that kept his attention well occupied until eight o'clock, at which time Miss Elizabeth usually retired for the night. Jem was tired too, and was soon up-stairs and fast asleep.
It seemed hardly anytime at all ere Jem was in the barn again ready to begin work on the fence. He had now a clear idea regarding it and, smiling often, he worked with a will. First, he sorted the pieces of rod into piles according to length. If took some little time to accomplish this part of his task. Then, humming to himself as he worked, he would, both listening and humming as he did it, strike each piece with a stick to determine its suitability. If so, it was placed on some one of eight piles which he had labelled with brown paper as "A," "B," and so on. If not it was thrown back to the corner.
The next thing he did was to set two posts at each end of the proposed line, with fifteen others at regular intervals between. Across the tops he secured his principal rail, with another to correspond a few inches from the ground. Boring holes through these cross rails he inserted one of the iron bars, letting it project six inches at the top and resting the bottom on a stake driven into the ground directly beneath it. The next bar was shorter than the first and a longer stake had to be driven in order that the top should be on a level with the first. As he went on, the rods were inserted without any seeming regularity of spacing. Passers-by stopped to gaze at the singular construction and made various comments concerning it.
