but from the roller and type as well.

But now further difficulties intervened before perfection. Some of the
letters printed heavily and some scarcely showed at all. Here Bobby
entered the realm of experiments which could not be lightly solved in
the course of a half hour. He tried raising the type to a common level
and locking them as tightly as possible, but always they slipped. He
attempted to insert bits of paper under what proved to be the shorter
types. This improved the results somewhat, but was nevertheless far from
satisfactory. By now he had learned not to use a fresh card every time.
The first half-dozen were printed back and forth, front and behind.
Bobby was smeared with more ink than the printing press. Scissors,
pencils, paper, used cards and type were scattered everywhere. All the
time his fingers were working his brain, too, was busy, searching back
from the result to the cause, seeking the requisite modification. Mr.
Orde, returning at noon, burst out laughing at the sight.

"Well, youngster," said he, "how do you like being a printer?"

"Oh Bobby!" cried Mrs. Orde behind him. "You are a _sight_! Don't you
know it's time to get ready for lunch?"

Bobby looked up in bewildered surprise. Lunch! Why he had hardly begun!
His father was chuckling at him.

"Benzine will take it off," said Mr. Orde to his wife.

Bobby caught at the hint.

"Will benzine take off the ink?" he cried eagerly.

"It's supposed to," replied his father; "but in your case----"

"Can I have a little, in a bottle, and a toothbrush?" begged Bobby. He
saw in a flash the solution of the ink problem.

"We'll see," said Mrs. Orde. "Come with me, now."

They disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. Mr. Orde examined the
cards with some amusement.

"Well, sonny," said he to Bobby at lunch. "The printing doesn't seem to
be a howling success. What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," replied Bobby; "but I'll fix it all right yet."

Bobby was busy with his birthday party all that afternoon, but next
morning he was afoot even before the Catholic Church bell called him.
The press occupied him until breakfast time, but he made small progress.
His father's morning paper filled him with envy by reason of its clear
impression. After breakfast he begged a tiny bottle of benzine and an
old toothbrush from his mother, and went at it again for nearly an hour.
The benzine worked like a charm. The type came out bright as new a