From his office he went down to the sub-basement, where the presses ground spruce forests into newspapers. For a little while he stood watching the great machines with the virgin white rolling smoothly through them like threads in a loom. He had never lost his fascination for this alchemy of power, and now, at his darkest hour, the wonder of it filled him as never before, and the roaring song seemed the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
He was buried in his dream and the man in overalls who approached him seemed but a corporeal manifestation of an idea. When he spoke it was not to a man, but to a wizard who bore the keys of truth. His soul whispered to the soul of the machines. His words stumbled far behind.
"What a marvel! What power! What magic! What possibilities unthought of ... oh, the press...."
But it was only a pressman, rather more than usually tired, who answered.
"Yes, she's a pretty good old girl. But say, you oughta see the new tubular duplex they're gettin' out! It's got this skinned a mile. Why say...."
Good's revery faded. Reality obtruded. This poor Prometheus, dabbling boastfully with the fire of the gods—ah, well ... who that read The Dispatch on the morrow, with his toast and coffee, would know the magic, the wonder, the poetry in his hands? Would it be ought but a newspaper to a single one? Blind world!
"What drives the presses?" he asked dreamily.
"Well, this one has a G. E. polyphase, monitor control, with ..." began the pressman. But the words fell on empty air. The other man had gone.