The Pascagoula democrat-star., 1895-12-13
Written for the Democrat-Star.
THE PRINTER AND THE
DEVIL.
BY TiPTON GRAY.


the only book he ever had to study
was copy of the report of the super
intendent of the pententiary of the
State, and he saw among the trades
of the criminals almost every trade,
but there were none that were print
ers. So when he was old enough to
choose for himself a profession, he
said, IL will be IA printer, for they
never go to the penitentiary, and con-
seQuently will never go to hell" for
the youth lived before the days that
the discovery was made that hell was
myth.
So the lad went into printing Office
and washed the rollers, and got smut
ted with printers ink, and carried
water up stairs to the printers and at
times washed the towel, and swept,
and went errands, and although his
heart was often sore troubled at the
burdens he bore, he persisted, and
finally was allowed to take stick in
his hand and essay the tedious process
of setting type.
Many days passed before he
could indeed set clean proof, but by
dint of perseverance and pluck he at
last was rewarded by having a clean
galey turned back to him by the
foreman, and lie said then, Now in
deed am | Il perfect erecter of the
metallic messages of thought"
And he wore a paper collar as he
showed at the cases and spit tobacco
juice on the toes of the boy that sue
ceeded him.
And he waxed rich, wealthy and
vainglorious, but being like all print
ers of a generous nature, he did not in
the days of his prosperity lay by some
thing for the days in which it might
rain, and when there came from far
distant Office an order to strike, he
struck and left his cases.
Now in all this time that had
elapsed since he was a boy and had
struck, he had taken to him a wife,
and several children looked to him for
daily bread and jam, and as the strike
proved disastrous, he found it hard
lines to find the whcrewith to feed
this loving wife and little ones and
his clothes grew wan and sccdy, and
the grocer said, "pay up or no more
credit" and one dismal night after he
had attended meeting Of the c0un-
Gil and found that the strike still held
he sat down on a bench in one of the
public parks and after thinking the
situation over, he said, "rhe devil !"
"Ahem," said IA gentleman who sat
on the bench beside him. Now the
printer wondered how his neighbOr
got there. He certainly was not sit
ting on the bench when he took his
seat and he had not heard any one ap-
proach him, and he took a quick
glance at his neighbor who was dress
ed in Il fine suit Of black, beautiful
nowery shirt bosom, with diamonds
thereon, Il tall hat and peaked toes to
his shoes. A hooked nose and heavy
mustache were the distinguishing
parts of his face and the printer re-
coicd, for he knew his neghbor by
intuition, for what printer is there
that ever lived who did not know "thc
devil"
"You called me, my friend" said
the stranger in h0neyed accents.
"Perhaps can assist you. see that
you know me for what | am, but who
you are | know not, nor care not. |
am ready to assist you"
Now the printer did recol in horror
at the idea of Il bargain with the
devil, but like lightning fash did a
thought go through his mind that he
might relieve his present wants, and
yet fool the devil. You, gentlemen
of the press who read these lines,
Judge him not too harshly. This was
years ago before divans and velvet
carpets were known in editorial sane
tums. The printers shoes were worn,
his clothes were threadhare and scedy,
one of his stockings had big hole in
the toe and the other was one of his
wife's properly speaking, it was not
his). The cold November winds blew
chilly and blast and his chest pro-
tector was an old newspaper.
The compact was made, the printer
found himself on the bench alone, a
fur-lined cloak around his form, his
boots were of the newest pattern, his
stockings were whole and both mates,
and gold jngled in every pocket of his
suit.
Dazed like, he wended his way to
his homc-he reviewed the few Ques-
tions that had been put to him before
signing the compact and remembered
that he had told the other party that
he was a speculator, which In truth
he was, as he was specializing at the
time when that strike was going to
end, and felt a great relief, he could
not tell why, that he had not told the
devil he was a printer.
Now when he reached home he
found all happiness. A big turkey,
cranberry sauce, mince pie, new