I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house — a carry over from another ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in brown, the yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud overhead in the background, all done with three impressions, from the solid cut. Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five dollars.” The fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to your printer—he’s gone me one better in the matter of colors.” Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll give you $5 too. It’s been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you ought to give this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut, showed me how to mix colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to print it in three colors.” Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell said, “By-jingo, I’ll give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He had another three-color print in mind. At the time of this episode, I had only one helper — Stowell’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time type-setters, were not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl who would do pretty much as she pleased so long as her papa would stay downstairs and attend strictly to his editorial, and his hardware business. This day Stowell stayed downstairs until the thing happened—then he rushed from the editorial office on the first floor in front, eighty feet back to the rear, then up the stairs to the second floor, and back again eighty feet to the composing room. Alice, who knew her father better than I did, whispered, “Oh, Lordy, he’s mad as a wet hen. Don’t give me away, please!” John wanted to know, “Oo was it that ‘ad offended little Miss ‘Utch?” Neither of us had the answer. Coral Hutchison, a frequent and I may say most welcome caller—preferably on any day but Thursday—and Alice had put in a couple of hours visiting, as young girls will. And this was Thursday afternoon, our press day. I asked Alice to speed up her work a little so that we might make the deadline before six o’clock. It did no good. I had to speak to Alice a second time, not harshly, however—and Coral, apparently understanding the situation, left. But when she passed the editorial office downstairs, Stowell said she was crying. After John Stowell had gone downstairs that day, Alice said, “If he asks you again—and I know he will—tell him what you told me about Coral after she had been up here last week. That would tickle him, and he will forget all about her tears.” Well, John Stowell did ask me again. He really wanted to know. And I told him, shielding Alice as much as I could. He said, “I understand. You did right. Make ‘er pay attention to ‘er work. But I just didn’t like to see a nice girl like little Miss ‘Utch leaving my place of business, crying.”