The printing-office enjoyed a steady run of custom, and, as Ned had said, we were just now crowded with work. Almost every hour that we were not in bed, or at school, was spent in setting type or pulling the press. It was not uncommon for Ned to work with a sandwich on the corner of his case; and, as often as he came to a period, he would stop and take a bite.
"This is the way Barnum used to do," said he, "when he started his museum—take his lunch with him, and stay right there. It's the only way to make a great American success"—and he took another bite, his dental semicircle this time inclosing a portion of the bread that bore a fine proof-impression of his thumb and finger in printer's ink.
Though Phaeton was not able, for some time, to take a hand at the work, he rendered good service by directing things, as the head of the firm. He was often suspicious, where Ned and I would have been taken in at once, as to the circuses and minstrel shows for which the boys used to come and order tickets and programmes by the hundred, always proposing to pay for them out of the receipts of the show. The number of these had increased enormously, and it looked as if the boys got them up mainly for the sake of seeing themselves in print. Sometimes they would write out the most elaborate programmes, and then want them printed at once, before their enterprises had any existence except on paper. One boy, whose father was an actor, made out a complete cast of the play of "Romeo and Juliet," with himself for the part of Romeo, and Monkey Roe as Juliet.
One day a little curly-headed fellow, named Moses Green, came to the office, and wanted us to print a hundred tickets like this:
"Where's your show going to be?" said Phaeton.
"I don't know," said Moses. "If Uncle James should sell his horses, perhaps he would let me have it in his barn."
"Yes, that would be a good place," said Phaeton. "And who are your actors?"
"I don't know," said Moses. "But I'm going to ask Charlie Garrison, because he's got a good fife; and Lem Whitney, because he knows how to black up with burnt cork; and Andy Wilson, because he knows 'O Susanna' all by heart."
"And what is the price of admission?" said Phaeton.