Bill Smith, the printer, looked up from his case and pied half of the leading editorial. He proved to be a printer of the old school. After a soft, envious whistle he remarked:
"My God, I'd give a month's pay for one like that," and any one who has ever come in contact with an old-time printer will know precisely what he meant.
"Oh, my poor b'loved hussam," murmured Mrs. Rank. "My poor b'loved hussam whass I have endured f'r twenty-fi' years wiz aller Chrissen forcitude of—where is my poor hussam?"
She swept the floor with a hazy, uncertain look. Not observing anything that looked like a head, she turned a bleary, accusing eye upon Bill Smith, the printer, and there is no telling what she might have said to him if Harry Squires had not intervened.
"Sit down here, Mrs. Rank,—do. Your husband is all right. He was here a few minutes ago, and—which way did he go, Bill?"
"Out," said Bill laconically, jerking his head in the direction of an open window at the rear.
"Didden—didden I cuttiz 'ead off?" demanded Mrs. Rank.
"Not so's you'd notice it," said Bill.
"Well, 'en, whose 'ead did I c'off?"
"Nobody's, my dear lady," said Squires, soothingly. "Everything's all right,—quite all right. Please—"