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Such has been the demand for the back numbers of the
“Phœnix” Herald, that our editions have been entirely exhausted,
and we have at last concluded to have the whole of
them stereotyped. We have now seven hundred and eighty-two
Indians employed night and day in mixing adobe for the
type moulds, and as no suitable metal is to be found in San
Diego, to cast the stereotypes, we have engaged 324,000 ball
cartridges, from the Mission, for the sake of the lead. A very
serious accident came near occurring in our office this morning,
owing to the ignition of a cartridge, caused by friction,
resulting from the rapid manner in which it was unrolled, but
fortunately we escaped, with slight loss, one of our compositors
having had his leg fractured just above the knee joint.
The injured member was promptly and neatly taken off by
“Phœnix,” with a broad-axe in 2.46, and the sufferer is now
doing well and engaged in setting type with his teeth. Our

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steam roller presses having failed to arrive (owing to the nonarrival
of the Goliah, as a matter of course), we have been
obliged to work off the Pictorial Herald on our solitary
Power Press.

“The Press is a tremendous engine.” We have two
tremendous Indians working at ours. Four men remove the
papers as fast as printed, and forming a line to the outer door,
four boys distribute them from the gallery to the excited
crowd below.

Nothing is heard but the monotonous houp! hank! of
the Indians, as in a cloud of steam of their own manufacture,
they strike off the paper. Nothing can be seen without but
a shower of quarters, bits, and dimes darkening the air as
they are thrown from the purchasers. Fourteen bushels and
three pecks of silver have been received since we commenced
distribution, and the cry is still they come.

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