Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear, “I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.” Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said, “Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize them—and that would spoil all the fun.” And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway. And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had stolen Stowell’s chickens — and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat” grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick. John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the conduct of his newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and mighty fine fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly pleased with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed by six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after supper, so that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and then, too, in the winter, we could get a better print while the office was warm. One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to the composing room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print in two colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.” Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” But it was I who did the showing.