While in the pen, Reynolds wrote a book, “The Kansas Hell.” In fact, he wrote two books—the other one, “Twin Hells.” He had been in the pen in another state—Iowa, I believe. After his release from the Kansas penitentiary, John N. Reynolds drove into Wetmore with four large gray horses hitched to a spring wagon, carrying his books and four male gospel singers. He made a stand in front of the old Wetmore House, and sold his books. He spotted me in the crowd, nodded a greeting, and later gave me a hearty handshake—and a copy of his Kansas Hell. Like Howe, and Runyan, and Twain—all good newspapermen—my formal schooling was negligible. I did not work up to the big school in Wetmore, on the hilltop. Also I did not graduate. I do not know if I got as high as the eighth grade, or even far along in the grammar school. The one-room, one-teacher school down town had no grades. But I do know I wouldn’t study my grammar. And I now know too that this was one regrettable mistake. If it had not been for the ravenous grasshoppers — 1874 — and other calamitous visitations upon us in those pioneer days it might not have been so, but the fact is, I quit school at the age of fourteen to help my father earn money to take care of his family while he himself was industriously engaged in bringing in new recruits for the school. The tenth one was the only girl—and to be brought up with a bunch of “roughneck” boys, she was a pretty good kid. And smart too. She studied her grammar in the first school house on the hilltop. Nannie and my brother Theodore are, besides myself, all there are left of the once big family. They are, and have been for forty-five years, living in Fresno, California — now at 1005 Ferger avenue. Theodore was the seventh son, but contrary to ancient superstition, he has displayed no supernatural talent. He is now, and has been for forty years, in the employ of the Southern Pacific railroad, at Fresno. Theodore was the last born of twins. Willie, the first born—and sixth in line—died when about a year old. And Joseph, my youngest brother, lived only nine months. Me, I was just a darned good printer—a “swift,” if you please—trying, lamely, to fill an outsize editorial chair. And it was Myrtle Mercer—later my wife—who, as compositor, took the kinks out of my grammar. The hard and fast printer’s rule to “follow copy if it goes out the window,” was something to be ignored in my office. And though she has been dead now since 1925, that ever helpful girl still is, in a manner, taking the kinks out of my grammar—I hope. The pain of shop-acquired grammar is that one never knows for sure just how faulty his English might be.