aning; a second
time with growing excitement. Then he rushed madly through the house
shrieking for his mother.

"Mamma, Mamma!" he cried. "Where are you? Come here!"

Mrs. Orde came--on the run--likewise the cook, and the butcher. They
found Bobby dancing wildly around and around, hugging close to his heart
the Flobert rifle.

"Bobby, Bobby!" cried Mrs. Orde. "What is it? What's the matter? Are you
hurt?"

She caught sight of the gun, leaped to the conclusion that Bobby had
shot himself and sank limply into a chair.

"See! Look here!" cried Bobby. He thrust the rifle, bottom up into her
lap. "Read it!"

On the plate behind the trigger-guard, carved in flowing script, were
these words.

_To Robert Orde from Arthur Kincaid. September 10, 1879._

IX

MR. DAGGETT

The printing press, too, was now a success. What time Bobby could spare,
he spent over his new work. In fact he would probably have printed out
all his interest in the shape of cards for friends and relatives, did
not an incident spur his failing enthusiasm. The little tin box of
printer's ink went empty. Bobby tried to buy more at Smith's where other
kinds of ink were to be had. Mr. Smith had none.

"You'd better go over to Mr. Daggett's," he advised. "He'll let you have
some."

Bobby crossed the street, climbed a stairway slanting outside a square
wooden store building and for the first time found himself in a printing
office.

Tall stands held tier after tier of type-cases, slid in like drawers.
The tops were slanted. On them stood other cases, their queerly arranged
and various-sized compartments exposed to view. Down the centre of the
room ran a long table. One end of it was heaped with printed matter in
piles and in packages, the other was topped with smooth stone on which
rested forms made up. Shelves filled with stationery, cans and the like
ran down one side the room. Beyond the table were two presses, a big and
a little. In one corner stood a table with a gas jet over it. In another
was an open sink with running water. A thin man in dirty shirt-sleeves
was setting type from one of the cases. Another, shorter man at the
stone-topped table was tapping lightly with a mallet on a piece of wood
which he moved here and there over a form. A boy of fifteen was printing
at the smaller of the presses. A huge figure was sprawled over the table
in the corner. In the air hung the delicious smell of printer's ink and
the clank and chug of th