“Washing himself?”
“Yes, sir; he said it was such a nasty dirty job to brush galleys that he must have a good clean.”
“Where’s the towel?” I said blindly, for my eyes smarted so that I dare not open them, and they grew so painful that I hurried once more to the sink and bathed them with clear water before pressing my hair as dry as I could, and then using my handkerchief to wipe my face.
I now opened my eyes, and saw that there was a very dirty jack-towel on a roller behind the door, to which I hastily ran.
“Look here, sir,” said Mr Grimstone, as I hastily rubbed away at my head; “we can’t have these goings-on here. What have you been doing?”
“I think he’s been using the lye, sir,” cried the young hypocrite. “I told him it was only for the type.”
“It isn’t true, sir,” I cried indignantly; when a compositor came up to the door, and Mr Grimstone was called away.
The moment he was gone, Smith darted at me, and thrust his doubled fist hard against my face.
“You say a word agen me,” he said, “and I’ll half kill yer. I’ll smash yer, that I will, so look out.”
He went out of the place, leaving me hot and indignant, rubbing away at my tingling head, which I at length got pretty dry and combed before a scrap of glass stuck by four tacks in a corner; and when I had finished it was in time to see the men just returning from their tea and resuming their work.