“Do I find myself standing in the editorial sanctum of one of those bulwarks of liberty and free speech—the local newspaper?”
“Right on the edge of it,” says Mark.
“Where then, may I ask, is that great and good man, the editor?”
Mark sort of puffed out his chest and looked important.
“I am the editor,” says he.
The tall man looked sort of taken back, but just the same he took off his hat with a sweep.
“I greet you sir,” he said. “You see before you no less a person than Tecumseh Androcles Spat. From my earliest youth the smell of printer’s ink has been in my nose. My services have been sought, obtained, and finally dispensed with in no less than one hundred and seventy-four printing establishments. I desire to round out the number and make it a full century and three-quarters. Therefore, I apply to you for employment.”
“Can you set type?” says Mark, beginning to look cheerful.
“Stick type? Can Tecumseh Androcles Spat stick type? My young friend, my first tooth was cut on a quoin; I learned my letters at the case; at the immature age of seven—an infant prodigy, with all modesty I say it—I could set the most complicated display. To-day, in my maturity, you perceive me unrivaled in my profession. I am the Compleat Printer.”
“You can have a j-job,” says Mark, “but I dunno if you’ll ever get your wages.”