which was followed by an account of the new store and new goods, the favorite rhetorical figure being hyperbole. Looking about for some one to post them who would do it more cheaply than the regular bill-poster of the town, he had thought of Jimmy the Rhymer, who accepted the job because he wanted to earn a little money.
"Are you sick, Jimmy?" said Phaeton, observing his dejection.
"Not in body," said Jimmy, "but I am sick in mind—sick at heart."
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Look at that," said Jimmy, slowly raising his hand and pointing at one of the bills which he had just posted on a barn-door. "Go it Boots!"—he quoted it very slowly. "What do I care about going it boots? I couldn't go it boots if I wanted to. There is no more going it boots for me in this world."
"I don't quite understand you," said Phaeton.
"I mean," said Jimmy, "that my soul yearns for poetry—for the beautiful in nature and art. And it disgusts me to think of spending my time in spreading such literature as this through the world."
"That isn't very complimentary to us," said Ned. "We spent considerable of our time in printing it."
"I suppose you get paid for it," said Phaeton.
"Of course," said Jimmy, "or I shouldn't do it at all."