FullReads

I said I did not see that. That I could not teach him to speak the Taghalian dialects so well, that he could read them with facility before Saturday. But I could do a good deal better. Did he remember writing a note to old Jack Percival for me five years ago? No, he remembered no such thing; he knew Jack Percival, but never wrote a note to him in his life. Did he remember giving me fifty dollars, because I had taken a delicate boy, whom I was going to send to sea, and I was not quite satisfied with the government outfit? No, he did not remember that, which was not strange, for that was a thing he was doing every day, “Well, I don’t care how much you remember, but the boy about whom you wrote to Jack Percival, for whose mother’s ease of mind you provided the half-hundred, is back again,–strong, straight, and well; what is more to the point, he had the whole charge of Perry’s commissariat on shore at Yokohama, was honorably discharged out there, reads Japanese better than you read English; and if it will help you at all, he shall be here at your house at breakfast.” For as I spoke we stopped at Coram’s door. “Ingham,” said Coram, “if you were not a parson, I should say you were romancing.” “My child,” said I, “I sometimes write a parable for the Atlantic; but the words of my lips are verity, as all those of the Sandemanians. Go to bed; do not even dream of the Taghalian dialects; be sure that the Japanese interpreter will breakfast with you, and the next time you are in a scrape send for the nearest minister. George, tell your brother Ezra that Mr. Coram wishes him to breakfast here to-morrow morning at eight o’clock; don’t forget the number, Pemberton Square, you know.” “Yes, sir,” said George; and Thomas Coram laughed, said “Merry Christmas,” and we parted.

It was time we were all in bed, especially these boys. But glad enough am I as I write these words that the meeting of Coram set us back that dropped-stitch in our night’s journey. There was one more delay. We were sweeping by the Old State House, the boys singing again, “Carol, carol, Christians,” as we dashed along the still streets, when I caught sight of Adams Todd, and he recognized me. He had heard us singing when we were at the Advertiser office. Todd is an old fellow-apprentice of mine,–and he is now, or rather was that night, chief pressman in the Argus office. I like the Argus people,–it was there that I was South American Editor, now many years ago,–and they befriend me to this hour. Todd hailed me, and once more I stopped. “What sent you out from your warm steam-boiler?” “Steam-boiler, indeed,” said Todd. “Two rivets loose,–steam-room full of steam,–police frightened,–neighborhood in a row,–and we had to put out the fire. She would have run a week without hurting a fly,–only a little puff in the street sometimes. But there we are, Ingham. We shall lose the early mail as it stands. Seventy-eight tokens to be worked now.” They always talked largely of their edition at the Argus. Saw it with many eyes, perhaps; but this time, I am sure, Todd spoke true. I caught his idea at once. In younger and more muscular times, Todd and I had worked the Adams press by that fly-wheel for full five minutes at a time, as a test of strength; and in my mind’s eye, I saw that he was printing his paper at this moment with relays of grinding stevedores. He said it was so. “But think of it to-night,” said he. “It is Christmas eve, and not an Irishman to be hired, though one paid him ingots. Not a man can stand the grind ten minutes.” I knew that very well from old experience, and I thanked him inwardly for not saying “the demnition grind,” with Mantihni. “We cannot run the press half the time,” said he; “and the men we have are giving out now. We shall lose all our carrier delivery.” “Todd,” said I, “is this a night to be talking of ingots, or hiring, or losing, or gaining? When will you learn that Love rules the court, the camp, and the Argus office.” And I wrote on the back of a letter to Campbell: “Come to the Argus office, No. 2 Dassett’s Alley, with seven men not afraid to work”; and I gave it to John and Sam, bade Howland take the boys to Campbell’s house,–walked down with Todd to his office,–challenged him to take five minutes at the wheel, in memory of old times,–made the tired relays laugh as they saw us take hold; and then,–when I had cooled off, and put on my Cardigan,–met Campbell, with his seven sons of Anak, tumbling down the stairs, wondering what round of mercy the parson had found for them this time. I started home, knowing I should now have my Argus with my coffee.