This latter occupation kept him busy for a long time. He had not realized that so many shapes and kinds of letters could exist. Mr. Daggett told him their names and sizes—nonpareil, brevier, agate, pica, minion and a dozen others which Bobby could not remember but which he found exotic and attractive. Especially was he interested in the poster type, made of wood. One letter was bigger than the whole form of his little press.
When he left, Mr. Daggett gave him a small heavy package.
"Here you are," said he. "Here's an old font of script. It's old and too worn for my use, but you can fool with it."
Bobby was delighted. He could hardly wait to get home before undoing the package. The font formed a compact quadrilateral wound around the edges with string. The letters were all arranged in order—four capital A's—A A A A—then the Bs, and so on. It differed from his own font. The one that came with his press had just three of each letter—large or small. This varied. For instance, there were twenty ss, and only two qs. Bobby procured his tweezers and began to set up his own name. He had no stick so he got out the form with the two narrow wooden groves. To his dismay the type would not fit. They were at least a quarter inch longer than his own.
"Why so solemn, Bobby?" enquired his father at lunch a few minutes later. "What's wrong?"
"My printing press isn't a real one," broke out Bobby. "It's a toy one! I don't like toys!"
"Oh, ho!" cried Mr. Orde. "Don't like toys, eh! How about the engine and cars, and the tin soldiers?"
"I don't like them any more, either," insisted Bobby stoutly.
"All right," suggested Mr. Orde, winking at his wife. "Of course then you won't want them any more: I'll just give them away to some other little boy."
"All right," assented Bobby with genuine and astonishing indifference.