"And where do they have any that is less slimpsy?" said Mother.
"At the printing-offices," said I. "They put a little ley in it. We haven't any at our office, but that's the next thing we're going to buy. Don't worry; it won't rub off on the bread and butter, and we shall have a can of ley next week."
"The next thing to be done," said Ned, when we had the office fairly in running order, "is to get up a first-rate business-card of our own, have it large enough, print it in colors, and make a stunning thing of it."
"That reminds me," said Phaeton, "that I was talking with Jack-in-the-Box about our office the other day, and I told him we ought to have a pretty poetical motto to put up over the door. He suggested two or three, and wrote them down for me. Perhaps one of them would look well on the card."
"What are they?" said Ned.
After some searching, Phaeton found a crumpled piece of paper in one of his pockets, and smoothing it out showed the following, hastily scratched in pencil:
Faith, he'll prent it.—Burns.
I have misused the king's press.—Shakespeare.
So careful of the type she seems.—Tennyson.
"I don't like one of them," said Ned.
"Why not?" said Phaeton.
"Well, the first one is spelled wrong. We print here, we don't prent."