To his grim inquiry Colonel Cowles replied that the head proof-reader, Mr. Pat, was responsible for typographical errors, and Mr. Pat did not "come on" till 6.30. It was now but 5.50. Queed sat down, wrote his next day's article and handed it to the Colonel, who read the title and coughed.
"I shall require no article from you to-morrow or next day. On the following day"—here the Colonel opened a drawer and consulted a schedule—"I shall receive with pleasure your remarks on 'Fundamental Principles of Distribution—Article Four.'"
Queed ascended to the next floor, a noisy, discordant floor, full of metal tables on castors, and long stone-topped tables not on castors, and Mergenthaler machines, and slanting desk-like structures holding fonts of type. Rough board partitions rose here and there; over everything hung the deadly scent of acids from the engravers' room.
"That's him now," said an ink-smeared lad, and nodded toward a tall, gangling, mustachioed fellow in a black felt hat who had just come up the stairs.
Queed marched straight for the little cubbyhole where the proof-readers and copy-holders sweated through their long nights.
"You are Mr. Pat, head proof-reader of the Post?"
"That's me, sor," said Mr. Pat, and he turned with rather a sharp glance at the other's tone.
"What excuse have you to offer for making my article ridiculous and me a common butt?"
"An' who the divil may you be, please?"
"I am Mr. Queed, special editorial writer for this paper. Look at this." He handed over the folded Post, with the typographical enormity heavily underscored in blue. "What do you mean by falsifying my language and putting into my mouth an absurd observation about the most loathsome of vermin?"