The Adventures of Bobby Orde Part 29

Another square package held two volumes from Mr. Kincaid. They were thick volumes with pleasant smelling red leather covers on which were stamped in gold the name and the figure of a man in very old-fashioned garments aiming a very old-fashioned fowling-piece at something outside of and higher than the book. "Frank Forrester's Sporting Scenes and Characters: The Warwick Woodlands" spelled Bobby. He lingered a moment or so over the fat red volumes.

Each of the servants contributed to Bobby's array; for they liked Bobby and his frank manly ways. Martin gave a red silk handkerchief whose borders showed a row of horses' heads looking out of mammoth horseshoes.

Amanda presented him with a pink china cup-and-saucer on which were scattered bright green flowers. Mrs. Fox's offering was, characteristically, a net-work bag for carrying school books.

The Christmas tree was stripped of everything but its decorations. Even some of the candles had burned dangerously low and had been extinguished. The servants had slipped away.

"Here, youngster," admonished Mr. Orde, "aren't you going to get all your presents? You haven't looked behind the tree yet."

And then at last Bobby permitted himself to see that of which he had been aware all the time; but which, by an effort of the will he had made temporarily as unreal to himself as St Paul's in London. Behind the tree, furnished, repainted, wonderful, to be reverenced, stood high and haughty the self-inking, double roller, 5 x 7 printing press!

"What do you say to that?" cried Mr. Orde.

But Bobby had nothing to say to that. He was too overwhelmed. He approached and pulled down the long lever. Immediately, as the platen closed, the two rollers rose smoothly across the form and over the round ink-plate, which at the same time made a quarter-revolution. At the nice adjustment and correlation of these forces Bobby gave a cry of admiration.

"Look in the drawers," advised his father.

The little boy pulled open one after another the shallow drawers in the stand to which the press was fastened. Some were filled with leads and quoins and blocks. Some were regular type-cases, plenished with glittering new fonts all distributed. One contained a small composing stone, a cleaning brush, a composing stick, a pair of narrow-pointed pliers, a mallet and planer. Everything was complete.

"Don't you think Auntie Kate was pretty good to a little boy I know?"

asked Mrs. Orde.

"Did Auntie Kate give me all this?" asked Bobby.

"She certainly did," replied his mother.

Now the family, bearing each his presents, moved into the sitting room to give Mrs. Fox and Martin a chance to clean up the debris. Bobby arranged his things on the sofa. Suddenly there came to him the uneasy feeling of having reached the end. He had mounted above the first joy and surprise and antic.i.p.ation. It was all comprehended; nothing more was to follow. Novelty had evaporated, like the volatile essence it is; and Bobby had not as yet entered the fuller enjoyment of use. He could not calm to the point of doing more than glance restlessly through the books; he had not recovered sufficiently from his morning excitement to settle down making his engine go, or to trying his press, or to playing with any of his new toys. There descended upon him that peculiar and temporary sense of emptiness, which, being revealed by youngsters and misunderstood by elders, often brings down on its victim the unjust accusation of ingrat.i.tude.

Luckily Bobby was not long left to his own devices. A wild whoop from outside summoned him to the window; and what he saw therefrom caused him to jump as quickly as he could into his out-door garments.

By the horse-block stood a very black and very chubby pony. It wore a beautiful bra.s.s-mounted harness, atop its head perched a wonderful red and white pompon, to it was. .h.i.tched a low, one-seated sleigh on the Russian pattern, with high grilled dash, and two impressive red and white horse-hair plumes. In this rig-in-miniature sat Johnny English, a broad grin on his face.

"Look what I got for Christmas!" he cried to Bobby. "Jump in and have a ride!"

Bobby jumped in, and they drove away. The pony trotted very busily with more appearance of speed than actual swiftness. The little sleigh, being low to the ground, emphasized this illusion; so that the two small boys had all the exhilaration of tearing along at a racing gait.

"This is great!" cried Bobby. "What else did you get?"

"Yes, and there's a two-wheeled cart for summer," said Johnny; "and when you slide the seat forward a little and let down the back, it makes another seat. I'll show you when we go back."

Shortly they decided to do this. Johnny attempted to turn in his tracks, as he had seen cutters do on the Avenue. But here the snow was not packed flat, as it is on the thoroughfare, so that when the twisting was applied one runner promptly left earth, and the whole sleigh canted dangerously. A moment later, however, in response to the frantic counterbalancing of two frightened small boys and the sensible coming to a halt of the fuzzy pony, it sank back to solidity.

"Gee!" breathed Johnny, wide-eyed, "That was a close squeak!"

They turned more cautiously, and in a wide circle, and jingled away toward home. It might be mentioned that the bells were not strung as a belt to encircle the pony, but were attached below to the underside of the thills in such a manner as to contribute chimes.

"What's his name?" asked Bobby, referring to the pony.

"He hasn't any. I got to name him."

"I knew a very nice horse once. His name was Bucephalus," remarked Bobby tentatively.

"I tell you!" cried Johnny, who had not been listening. "I'll name him Bobby, after you!"

"Oh!" cried that young man. "Will you?" He gazed at the pony with new respect.

"It'll mix things up a little, though, won't it?" reflected Johnny. "I tell you. We'll call him Bobby Junior. How's that?"

"That's fine!" agreed Bobby gravely.

In the dead cold air of the Englishes' barn, which was situated in an alley-way, the block above their house, Bobby and Johnny examined the cart, admired its glossy newness, and, under the coachman's instructions, experimented with the sliding seat. They took a peek through the folding door into the stable where stood the haughty horses.

These, still chewing, slightly turned their heads and rolled their fine eyes back at the intruders, then, with a high-headed indifference, returned to their hay. After this the boys scuttled into the small, overheated "office" with its smell of leather and tobacco and harness soap; with its coloured prints of horses, and its shining harness behind the gla.s.s doors; with its cushioned wooden armchairs, its sawdust box and its round hot stove with the soap-stones heating atop. Here they toasted through and through; then clumped stiffly down to the Englishes'

house, where Johnny exhibited his other presents. They were varied, numerous and expensive. Bobby's Christmas was as dear to him as ever; but it no longer filled the sky. Another and higher mountain had lifted itself beyond his ranges. The eagerness to exhibit triumphantly to Johnny which, up to this moment, he had with difficulty restrained, was suddenly dashed. It hardly seemed worth while.

"Come over and see my things," he suggested without much enthusiasm.

"It's dinner time now, Bobby," objected Mrs. English, who had just come in. "After dinner."

"All right; after dinner, then," agreed Bobby. "Bring Caroline," he added as an after-thought.

That demure damsel had also her array of presents, of which she seemed very proud, but which did not interest Bobby in the slightest. They seemed to be silver-handled scissors, and pincushions, and embroidered handkerchief-holders and similar rubbish.

But when Johnny--without Caroline--appeared shortly after the elaborate Christmas dinner the production of which const.i.tuted Grandma Orde's chief delight in the day, Bobby's enthusiasm returned. Johnny went wild over the printing press. Experience with the toy press had given him a basis of comparison.

"My!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at last, "I believe I'd rather have this than Bobby Junior!

"Now," continued Johnny, "we can get all sorts of orders. I'll ask papa about envelopes and letter-heads this evening."

XIX

THE BOXING MATCH

Early after breakfast next morning appeared Johnny.

"I asked Papa about envelopes. He says he won't give us an order until he sees samples of the type and the work, but he says if we can do it as well as the regular printer, he doesn't mind giving us an order for a thousand. Here's one."

The boys ascended at once to Bobby's room. Investigation of the fonts showed that the firm possessed the proper type. Bobby set up the matter in the composing stick--and promptly pied it when he attempted to move it to the chase. He had forgotten to put a lead in first, so there was nothing to bind the top line. Redistribution and rectification of the error were in order. It took a good half-hour to get the type properly arranged in the chase. When single letters did not drop through from the middle, the ends of the lines fell away, and then, try as they would, the boys were unable to lock the stickful in the chase. Either it would not bind, or it warped out or in so that even without trial it could be seen that a clear impression was manifestly impossible. These and other mechanical difficulties occupied them until noon. Johnny was wild-eyed and nervous.

"Why, we haven't even started to print!" he cried, "We'll never get a job done at this rate! I don't believe the old press is any good, anyhow!"

"Yes, it is," insisted Bobby doggedly. "We'll get it yet."

He hardly finished his lunch, so eager was he to be back at the problem.

Johnny did not come until after two o'clock, and then stood his hands in his pockets, surveying his absorbed partner with some disgust.

"Well," said he, "is the old thing working yet?"