But in spite of these gratifying commercial ventures, Bobby's disgust grew. It might make marks on paper; it might earn money, but it would not take full-sized type, it would not print more than two lines. By these same tokens it was not a printing press, but a toy; not the real thing, but an imitation, and Bobby was outgrowing imitations. Finally he made a definite statement of principle.
"I'm not going to use her any more," said he with decision, "I'm sick of the old thing."
"But I've just got an order for fifty cards from Mrs. Fowler!" expostulated Johnny.
"Then go on, do them," replied Bobby. "I won't."
He retired to the corner, leaving Johnny wrathful. There for the thousandth time he pored over the pages of the catalogue showing the beautiful 5x7 self-inking press.
XVII
"SLIDING DOWN HILL"
One morning Bobby awoke before daylight. It might have been the middle of the night except that, far down in the still house, he heard a muffled scrape and clank as Martin set the furnace in order for the day. Bobby knew six o'clock by these dull, distant, comfortable sounds. The air in the room was very frosty and Bobby's nose was as cold as a dog's; but underneath the warm double blanket and the eider-down quilted comforter Bobby had made himself a warm nest. In this he curled in a tight little ball. Not for worlds would he have stretched his legs down into shivery regions, and though he was not drowsy and did not care to sleep, not for worlds would he have left his lair before the radiator had warmed.
So he lay there waiting and watching where the window ought to be for the first signs of daylight. Bobby liked to amuse himself trying to define just when the window became visible. He never could. So this morning, some time, no time, Bobby saw a dull gray rectangle where darkness had been, and knew that day had arrived. Over in the corner the radiator was singing softly with the first steam. Slowly the reluctant daylight filtered in, showing in dim outline the familiar objects in the room.