There was a nother roll of manerskript, wot wayed a pound, and come by xpress, without bein pade. I guess the edittur was mad, wen he paid 50 sents charges, and found out it warnt no berthday present. A note with it, red like this: My dare Edittur Buster-- The enclosed storie entitled “Dudish Dick, the Flirtin Corn-Doctor of Horse-car No. 36,” is wurth $500, but in complerment of the high standin of your valewbel jurnal, I will allow you to publish it for notthin, if you will send me papers containin it. Yours trooly, Sammy Lane, Author. Wat unappreciatin beins editturs are! Wen they wuld let a geneyus wot was capable of pennin the follerin lines go unrewarded: A big politishun named Kelley, Had a gripin pane in his belly. He used St. Jacobs oil, And now he's nussin a boil, But his pane has left him by golly. CHAPTER IV. HE AIN'T NO TYPERGRAFFICKAL CYCLOPEEDA.--SERIUS COMPLERCASHUNS, WITH A TEMPORY ABBERASHUN.--A PRINTIN' OFFIS FEED. I'm in a peck of troubel to-day, wot I'll have ter trust ter Providence to get me outer. A typergraffickal devil ain't s'posed to know everything, enyway. Now the hull offis is mad at me, 'cos I ain't a walk-in' cyclopeeda of typograffickal turm. In the fust place, the foreman of the composin' room's mad, 'cos wen he tole me to fech him a long stick, I went down street and hunted round till I struck a house wot was bein plasturd, and brot him back a good lath. Wen I giv it to him I thot there was a erupshun from a volcano, the way he swared at me. He sed he'd a noshun to brake it over my back, for not havin cents enuff to kno that he bot his fire wood by the cord. Y didn't he tell me in the fust place he wanted that thing wot printers use to set type in. Now the casheer's on his ear, cos he sent me out ter buy a wooden galley. I know'd very well I couldn't make no mistake there, cos I'm posted on ship's kichens, so I arst him how big a one he wanted. He sed medeyum, so I went up to Johnny Roache's ship-yard and had them send a galley down to the offis, wot would be big enuf for a good sized skooner. You orter seen the casheer's face, wen the six-horse teem stopped in frunt of the dore. The driver was goin to leeve the galley enyway, but the Casheer pade him to hawl it back, and rote Mr. Roache that there boy was laberin under a slite abberashun of the mind wen he ordered it. But I think its his mind wots got the abberashuns instead, from sittin up so late with the red-hedded grass widder wot keeps the bordin house crost the street from our house. If it hadn't, y didn't he tell me he warnted a galley for keepin type in, wen the composin stick's full. Fellers like him orter be put on ice, cos there too fresh to keep long. He only needs a tale to be a thorobred dude, cos he's got everything else wat blongs to one.