Nuff sed. And you tell me they never had a show there?"

"Why, darn it, man! the town was only christened about a year ago."

"Then we'll confirm it and open its gates to the histrionic industry of
the country. I'll have a talk with the company. But we will have to
arrange about some printing."

The gleam that illumined the landlord's face at the mention of printing
was a study. Handy was somewhat mystified, and he was still more
surprised when the landlord, with a knowing look--a look all landlords
seems to hold a patent on--bent over and said: "Leave that to me, and
you'll be satisfied. We'll get the winter's supplies out of this snap.
Come, let's have something." With this hospitable suggestion, both men
made a flank movement in the direction of the cafe.

"Now, then," began Handy, "did I understand you to say you could fix the
printing?"

"You did."

"How?"

"Well, I will put you wise in that direction. Will you smoke? All right.
Now, then, light up an' we'll take a comfortable seat by the stove."

"Lead on, Macbeth, and--well, you know the rest of it."

Drawing up a couple of well-seasoned chairs, they both settled down for
a practical business talk.

"I have," said the landlord, "in the storeroom a stack of printing. I
came by it in this way. There was a show out here about a year ago. The
company got stranded; could go no further, and, to make a long story
short, when the troupe started to walk home the printing remained
behind. Exhibit No. 1."

"I'm on. Proceed."

"Let me further elucidate. I had a partner who at one time was in the
bill-posting profession--it is a profession now, isn't it?" Handy
smiled. "Well, he had a bit of money--not a great deal, and he invested
in the line of publicity. Well, he was called away suddenly. He didn't
exactly die--but that's of no consequence, and his assets dropped into
my hands for safe-keeping. Among the valuables was a lot of
miscellaneous printing of all kinds, plain and colored--and of all sorts
and sizes--a dandy assortment. Exhibit No. 2."

"Fire away!"

"Furthermore, old Phineas Pressman, the town printer here, owes me a
bill. It isn't much, but little as it is I can't squeeze a red cent of
ready money out of him, and I see no earthly way of getting square with
him only by giving him an order for whatever new printing stuff we may
require, and in that way change the balance of trade in my direction.
Exhibit No. 3. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfec