"I am the boss," said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face with his eye. "Don't want anybody fur to learn the business, 'tain't likely?" "Well, I don't know. Would you like to learn it?" "Pap's so po' he cain't run me no mo', so I want to git a show somers if I kin, 'tain't no diffunce what--I'm strong and hearty, and I don't turn my back on no kind of work, hard nur soft." "Do you think you would like to learn the printing business?" "Well, I don't re'ly k'yer a durn what I _do_ learn, so's I git a chance fur to make my way. I'd jist as soon learn print'n' 's anything." "Can you read?" "Yes--middlin'." "Write?" "Well, I've seed people could lay over me thar." "Cipher?" "Not good enough to keep store, I don't reckon, but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve I ain't no slouch. 'Tother side of that is what gits me." "Where is your home?" "I'm f'm old Shelby." "What's your father's religious denomination?" "Him? Oh, he's a blacksmith." "No, no--I don't mean his trade. What's his _religious_ denomination?" "_Oh_--I didn't understand you befo'. He's a Freemason." "No, no; you don't get my meaning yet. What I mean is, does he belong to any _church_?" "_Now_ you're talkin'! Gouldn't make out what you was a-tryin' to git through yo' head no way. B'long to a _church_! Why, boss, he's be'n the pizenest kind of a Free-will Babtis' for forty year. They ain't no pizener ones 'n' what _he_ is. Mighty good man, pap is. Everybody says that. If they said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar _I_ wuz--not _much_ they wouldn't." "What is your own religion?" "Well, boss, you've kind o' got me thar--and yit you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. I think 't if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n' he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the Saviour's name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks--he's about as saift as if he b'longed to a church." "But suppose he did spell it with a little g--what then?" "Well, if he done it a-purpose, I reckon he wouldn't stand no chance,--he _oughtn't_ to have no chance, anyway, I'm most rotten certain 'bout that." "What is your name?" "Nicodemus Dodge." "I think maybe you'll do, Nicodemus. We'll give you a trial, anyway." "All right." "When would you like to begin?" "Now." So, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off and hard at it. Beyond that end of our establishment which was farthest from the street was a deserted garden, pathless, and thickly grown with the bloomy and villanous "jimpson" weed and its common friend the stately sunflower. In the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no ceiling--it had been a smoke-house a generation before. Nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber.