a newspaper. The
editor was Cassius Wilkinson, and a good deal of the time he was in
Springfield, and the rest he was talkin' politics or gettin' drunk. So
that the paper just run itself. The foreman was Dutchie Bale, who used
to go to the farm papers or the Chicago papers and just cut great pieces
out of 'em and set 'em in type for the paper; and as the editor didn't
care, and Dutchie didn't care what went into the paper, Mitch had a
chance to write for the paper himself; and also Mr. Miller slipped in
some wonderful things; and people began to say that the paper was
lookin' up. While Mr. Wilkinson, the editor, smiled and took the
compliments give him just like he deserved 'em. And onct Mitch printed
one of his poems about Salem, where one of the verses was:

Down by the mill where Linkern lived,
Where the waters whirl and swish,
I love to sit when school is out,
Catchin' a nice cat fish.

I don't believe Mitch worked on the newspaper more'n a week or ten days,
but lots happened; and I went down to see him a good deal to hear
Dutchie Bale talk and swear. He swore awful, especially on press day;
for the press nearly always broke down just as they started to print.
Then Dutchie would turn loose:

"Look at the old corn-sheller, look at the old cider mill, look at the
junk (all the time puttin' in the awfulest profanity). Here he's over at
Springfield, and me runnin' the paper and tryin' to print a paper on a
grindstone like this. I'm goin' to quit--I've had enough of this (more
terrible profanity)."

Mitch would be standin' there half scared and half laughin', and another
printer named Sandy Bill would be sayin': "Why don't you tighten that
bolt, Dutchie?" Then Dutchie would crawl under the press and start to do
what Sandy said, but findin' that the bolt was all right, he'd crawl out
again and maybe see Sandy kind of laughin'. So thinkin' Sandy was
foolin' him, they'd begin to quarrel; and maybe, it would end with
Dutchie throwin' a monkey wrench at Sandy and rushin' out of the room.
He'd come back later, for you couldn't really drive him off the place;
and maybe after a hour or two the paper would be printed.

Well, Mr. Miller had wrote a long poem about the Indians, and he began
to print it, and then somethin' happened. A man named Pemberton, which
they called the Jack of Clubs, and a man named Hockey, which they called
"Whistlin' Dick," had an awful fight by the corner store; and Mitch
wrote