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three-room plant in New York City during 1894–5. Five years later he was building thousands. Other manufacturers making blind typewriters became alarmed. Clearly, the public wanted visibility. But to change blind machines, it was necessary to have new and expensive machinery in the factories. Not until 1908 was the last of the old blind machines transformed. Then, people wanted machines that could be carried about; and one was invented which could be carried in a hand case. Today, we have folding typewriters weighing only six or eight pounds, skeleton models of standard machines, costing about half as much. Still, the public, like Oliver Twist, wanted more. And one of the things it wanted caused a fright. The first inventors thought the typewriter would take the place of a pen —write letters and copy documents faster. But people quickly saw that, by using carbon paper, they could write several copies of a letter or document. That proved to be a fine thing. Thinner paper gave more copies, but not as many as its users wanted. Then Edison invented the mimeograph, by which the typewriter could write a stencil on waxed paper, and from that, thousands of copies were made. The printers were frightened! If a girl with a typewriter could make thousands of circulars, who would want printed circulars? But soon they saw that for every job of printing lost in that way, the typewriter brought them several others. People have wanted machines which would write more than one language, and inventors have provided “type-plate” machines with all the letters on one plate or wheel, which can be taken off and another slipped on. To change from English to Spanish, or from a small type suitable for letters to a very large type needed in a sermon that is to be read, takes only a moment. People wanted typewriters that would keep books as well as write letters—set down columns of figures, add them up, give the totals, subtract, and so forth. They had no sooner said so than inventors got busy, like obedient Imps of the Lamp. At first, bound books were replaced with loose-leaf records which would go into a typewriter, and “marginal stops” made it easy to write figures in columns. Then little adding and subtracting machines were attached to typewriters, so a girl making out a customer's bill, for instance, typed all the different items, and they were added up as fast as she wrote them.

If there were amounts to be deducted, like discounts, the machine would subtract those too. “But we want machines that will write in real books!” people insisted. “All right, all right!” answered the inventors, and modern bookkeeping machines


began to appear—super-typewriters. They not only write in the great pages of business record books opened flat, but put down many rows of complex figures, adding and subtracting, giving names, dates and other items in one or more colors, making duplicates— indeed, it is too bad Alfred Beach could not have lived to see this “literary piano” with which, by playing on the keys, a girl can do, in five minutes, more work than an old-fashioned bookkeeper in an hour. If the bookkeeper made a slight mistake, it might take him another hour to find it. But if the girl makes a mistake, the bookkeeping machine stops and points it out. When the typewriter was young, people sometimes took offense at a type-written letter. Just to show how queer people are, they now take offense if it is n’t type-written! That is, a mimeograph letter sent to a thousand people will not be read with nearly as much interest as a thousand letters separately type-written, which make each person feel that he alone has received one. So the automatic typewriter was invented. With the automatic typewriter, you write the letter that is to be sent to housand people— or a million, if you please. Instead of a type-written letter, you get a roll of perforated paper that looks as though it might be played in your player-piano. This goes into another device which operates an ordinary typewriter. You write, “Mr. David Crockett, Booneville, Ky.: My dear Mr. Crockett—” on the keys of this typewriter, turn a switch, a motor starts, and the roll of perforated paper writes, character by character, the letter that has been punched in it, just as though the keys were struck by human fingers. Because the typewriter and shorthand go together, inventors long ago began thinking about machines to write shorthand notes, doing away with the pencil. There are several such machines in use. They write on a narrow paper ribbon, have only about a dozen keys, and with them the trained operator can take down words as fast as spoken. Some of them abbreviate the words, and others write a word at a stroke, as several characters can be struck and printed at once. Such machine-made notes have to be rewritten on a regular typewriter, of course. There are also several typewriters for blind people—they punch raised dots in the peculiar alphabets used in books for the blind, and their writing is read by touching it with the fingers. The typewriter played its part in the great war, showing that the world can not get along without it. An American invention, it is made almost entirely in the United States. Only the Germans ever seriously tried to build typewriters, and with little success. Ship space was needed for munitions and food, so the Allies stopped buying typewriters, thinking they were among the things not really needed. But when the great armies went into the field, it took an enormous mass of writing to direct them— orders, dispatches, letters, reports, records. Writing-machines were taken from offices and sent to the front, and soon there was a typewriter famine. When we entered the war, Uncle Sam took three out of every four new typewriters made. Experts figure that in 1919 the world made 875,000 typewriters,


of which 775,000 were American. In ordinary times, every other typewriter we make goes to some foreign customer.

The experts have also figured out the typewriter of to-morrow, Again, it will be what people want. For one thing, people are beginning to ask: “Why should we use muscle to press down keys when there are plenty of electric motors to do such work?” The experts don't know why people should, and say typewriters must be electrical—that is, you simply touch a key and a motor does the work of printing the letter. A promising electrical machine was built in the early years of this century, but it was never widely used. The machine was complex, and costly, too. The electric typewriter must be made reasonable in price. It is pretty sure to come at the right time, because it will save human strength, increase writing speed, and be particularly good at making carbon copies—when electricity operates the mechanism, twenty or thirty copies will be possible. To do that, however, they must write flat instead of having the paper run around a roller, and the experts believe that flat writing will be another point in the typewriter of to-morrow. But these are still guesses, more or less—we shall have to wait and see what is developed.

Here at the end, there is just room to say a word or two about typewriter speed and accuracy. Twenty years ago, rival manufacturers started a yearly contest for typists, each hoping to prove that his machine would write faster than any other. The winners began with seventy words a minute, steadily growing faster year by year until now the record is 143 words a minute— which is faster than most people can read a book aloud. To get speed, you must have a well-built machine. It has been figured that one of these champion typewriters, writing 143 words a minute for a whole hour, touches the keys about twelve times a second. Even champions make errors, striking the wrong keys, or writing the wrong word. But while the typewriter must make twice as many motions as the typist, because the type-bars have to move back as well as forward, and its carriage also moves, close study of the work of the champions in these contests shows not a single mechanical error.

Father Sholes could certainly have appreciated that!



THE Turner Twins, Ned and Laurie, enter Hillman's School in the autumn. Although inexperienced in athletics, Ned joins the football candidates and Laurie goes out for fall baseball practice. Ned, who knows practically nothing of the game, manages to conceal his ignorance and, under the tutoring of “Kewpie” Proudtree, one of the players, soon shows promise as a kicker. Among the twins' first acquaintances is Polly Deane, whose mother, the Widow Deane, keeps a little tuck-shop patronized by the students. Laurie and two other boys take refuge from the rain on the porch of the Coventry house, near the school, and are invited inside by Bob Starling. The Starlings have rented the Coventry place and Bob is a day-pupil at Hillman's. The house, empty for several years, was formerly the home of an eccentric, miserly man known as Old Coventry. Rumor has it that his wealth is still concealed somewhere about the place, although search after his death failed to reveal it. Bob Starling laughingly proposes to look for the money and, should he find it, hand it over to the Widow

Deane, Old Coventry's half-sister.


OCTOBER arrived, with the first touch of cooler weather, and the football candidates, who had panted and perspired under summer conditions for a fortnight, took heart. Among these was Ned. Laurie, who at first had had to alternate sympathy and severity in order to keep his brother's courage to the sticking-point, now found that his encouragement was no longer needed. Ned was quite as much in earnest as any fellow who wore canvas. Probably he was not destined ever to become a mighty player, for he seemed to lack that quality which coaches, unable to describe, call football instinct. But he had made progress—surprising progress when it is considered that he had known virtually nothing of the game two weeks before. Laurie, whose afternoons were still absorbed by baseball, viewed Ned's efforts as something of a joke, much to the latter's chagrin, and continued to do so until a chance conversation with Thurman Kendrick opened his eyes. Hop had come across one forenoon to borrow some notes and had tarried a moment to talk. In those days, when Hop talked he talked of just one subject, and that subject was football, and he introduced it to-day. “We 've got to do better to-morrow than we did last week,” he said earnestly, “or we'll get licked hard. Cole's was fairly easy, but Highland is a tough customer. Our trouble so far has been slowness, and Highland's as fast as they make them. Somehow, Mulford does n’t seem able to get any pep into our bunch. The line is n’t so bad, but the back-field 's like cold glue.” “That 's up to the quarter, is n’t it?”

asked Laurie, anxious to prove himself not absolutely ignorant of the subject. “Yes, partly; but it 's up to the coach first. If the backs are n’t used to working fast, the quarter can’t make them. Frank Brattle's a good quarter, Nod. I sort of wish he was n’t so good!” “Meaning you ’d have a better chance of swiping his job?” smiled Laurie. “Oh, I’ll never do that; but if he was n’t so good, I'd get in more often. The best I can hope for this year is to get in for maybe a full period in the Farview game. Anyway, I'll get my letter, and maybe next year I 'll land in the position. Frank 's a senior, you know.” “Is he? I have n’t seen much practice so far. Baseball keeps me pretty busy.” “How are you getting on?” “Slow, I 'm afraid. Anyway, you could easily tell Babe Ruth and me apart!” “I guess you ’re doing better than you let on,” said Hop. “If you 're as good at baseball as your brother is at football, you’ll do.” “I guess I am,” laughed Laurie; “just about!” “Well, Nid is surely coming fast,” replied Hop, gravely. “He 's been doing some nice work the last few days.” Laurie stared. “Say, what are you doing, Hop? Stringing me?” he demanded. “Stringing you?” Hop looked puzzled. “Why no. How do you mean?” “About Ned. Do you mean that he 's really playing football?” “Why, of course I do. it?” Laurie shook his head. “He’s been telling me a lot of stuff, but I thought he was just talking, the way I've been, to sort of keep his courage up.”

Did n’t you know “Nonsense! Nid 's doing mighty well. I don’t know how much experience he 's had; some ways he acts sort of green; but he's got Mason worried, I guess. If he had another fifteen pounds, he 'd make the team sure. As it is, I would n’t be surprised to see him play a whole lot this fall. You see, he 's a pretty good punter, Nod, and yesterday he blossomed out as a drop-kicker, too. Landed the ball over from about the thirty-yards and from a hard angle. Mason does n’t do any kicking, and it 's no bad thing to have a fellow in the back-field who can help Pope out at a pinch. It's his kicking ability that'll get him on if anything does.” “I see,” said Laurie, thoughtfully. “Well, I 'm mighty glad. To tell the truth, Hop, Ned has n’t had an awful lot of experience. He 's had to bluff a good deal.” “I suspected something of the sort from seeing him work the first week or so. And then Kewpie said something that sort of lined up with the idea. Well, he 's working hard and he 's making good. Much obliged for these, Nod. I'll fetch them back in ten minutes.” When Kendrick had taken his departure Laurie stared thoughtfully for a minute into space. Finally, he shook his head and smiled. “Good old Ned!” he murmured. “I’m sorry I ragged him so. Gee, I'll have to buckle down to my own job or he 'll leave me at the post!” After practice that afternoon, Laurie and Lee picked up George and Bob Starling at the tennis-courts, and, after changing into “cits,” went around to the doctor's porch and joined a dozen other lads who were engaged in drinking Miss Tabitha's weak tea and eating her soul-satisfying layer-cake. After a half-hour of batting and fielding practice and a five-inning game between the first team and the scrubs, Laurie was in a most receptive mood so far as refreshments were concerned. Miss Tabitha made an ideal hostess, for she left conversation to the guests and occupied herself in seeing that cups and plates were kept filled. No one had yet discovered the number of helpings of cake that constituted Miss Tabitha's limit of hospitality, and there was a story of a junior so depressed by homesickness that he had absent-mindedly consumed six wedges of it and was being urged to a seventh when some inner voice had uttered a saving warning. In spite of very healthy appetites, none of the quartette sought to compete with that record, but Laurie and George did allow by a kick was wrecked by no other than Kewpie who, having substituted Holmes at the beginning of the second half, somehow shot his one hundred and seventy pounds through the defense and met the pigskin with his nose. Kewpie presented a disreputable

themselves to be persuaded to third helpings, declining most politely until they feared to decline any more. Before they had finished, the doctor joined the group and made himself very agreeable, telling several funny stories that set every one laughing and caused a small junior—it was the cherubicfaced youth who sat at Laurie's table in the dining-hall and whose career thus far had proved anything but that of a cherub—to swallow a mouthful of mocha cake the wrong way, with disastrous results. During the ensuing confusion, the quartette took their departure. At the gate Bob Starling said: “By the way, fellows, I spoke to Dad about that tennis-court, and he 's written to the agent for permission. He says there won't be any trouble; and if there is, he 'll agree to put the garden back the way we found it and erect a new arbor.” “What will it be?” asked George. or gravel?” “Oh, gravel. You could n’t get a sod court in shape under a year, and I want to use it this fall. I 'm going to look around to-morrow for some one to do the job. Know who does that sort of work here— Lee?” “No, but I suppose you get a contractor; one of those fellows who builds roads and stone walls and things.” “I’d ask at the court house,” said Laurie. “At the court—oh, that 's a punk one!” jeered Bob. “See you later, fellows!” The game with Highland Academy was played across the river at Lookout, and most of the fellows went. In spite of Hop Kendrick's pessimistic prophecy, Hillman's took command of the situation in the first quarter and held it undisturbed to the final whistle. The contest was, if not extremely fast, well played by both teams, and the hosts refused to acknowledge defeat until the end. Captain Stevenson, at left tackle, was the bright, particular star of the day, with the redoubtable Pope a good second. It was Joe Stevenson's capture of a fumbled ball in the first five minutes of play and his amazing run through the enemy ranks that produced the initial score. Pope kicked an easy goal after Slavin, right half, had plunged through for a touch-down. Later in the game, Pope had added three more points by a place-kick from the forty-two yards. Highland twice reached the Blue's ten-yard line, the first time losing the ball on downs, and the next, attempting a forward-pass that went astray. Her one opportunity to score

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something to cherish and preserve. Laurie, however, pointed out that, since one was prohibited from further transactions at the Widow's, even on a cash basis, so long as one owed money there, it would be wise to cancel the debts. Ned recognized the wisdom of


appearance for several days, but was given due honor. Hillman's returned across the Hudson in the twilight of early October with exultant cheers and songs. Ned watched that game from the substitutes' bench, just as he had watched the two preceding contests, but a newly awakened esprit de corps forbade him complaining. When Laurie sympathetically observed that he thought it was time Mulford gave Ned a chance in a real game, Ned responded with dignity, almost with severity, that he guessed the coach knew his business. The first of the month—or, to be exact, the fourth—brought the twins their monthly allowances, and one of the first things Laurie did was to go to the little blue shop on Pine Street and pay his bill, which had reached its prescribed limit several days before. Ned went, too, although he did n’t display much enthusiasm over the mission. Ned held that having created a bill, it was all wrong deliberately to destroy it. To his mind, a bill was

the statement and reluctantly parted with ninety-seven cents. Since it was only a little after two o'clock, the shop was empty when the twins entered, and Polly and her mother were just finishing their lunch in the back room. It was Polly who answered the tinkle of the bell and who, after some frowning and turning of pages in the account-book, canceled the indebtedness. “Now,” said Ned, “I guess I 'll have a cream-cake. Want one, Laurie?” Laurie did, in spite of the fact that it was less than an hour since dinner. Mrs. Deane appeared at the door, observed the proceeding, and smiled. “I’m real glad to see you're still alive,” she said to Ned. “I guess he must take very good care of you.” “Yes 'm, I do,” Laurie assured her gravely. Ned laughed scornfully, or as scornfully as it was possible to laugh with his mouth full. “You should n’t believe everything he tells you, Mrs. Deane. I have to look after him

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