'Look here, Mister,' he said, flinging the copy upon the sub-editor's desk, 'I don't want that.'
The sub-editor was twisted into as little space as possible, tearing telegrams open and flinging the envelopes aside, much as a housewife shells peas. His name was Protheroe, and the busier he was the more he twisted himself. On Budget nights he was a knot. He did voluntarily so much extra work that Mr. Licquorish often thought he gave him too high wages; and on slack nights he smiled to himself, which showed that something pleased him. It was rather curious that this something should have been himself.
'But—but,' cried Protheroe, all in a flutter, 'it's town council meeting; it—it must be set, Mr. Penny.'
'Very well, Mister; then that special from Birmingham must be slaughtered.'
'No, no, Mr. Penny; why, that's a speech by Bright.'
Penny sneered at the sub-editor, and flung up his arms to imply that he washed his hands of the whole thing, as he had done every night for the last ten years, when there was pressure on his space. Protheroe had been there for half of that time, yet he still trembled before the autocrat of the office.
'There's enough copy on the board,' said Penny, 'to fill the paper. Any more specials coming in?'
He asked this fiercely, as if of opinion that the sub-editor arranged with leading statesmen nightly to flood the composing-room of the Mirror with speeches, and Protheroe replied abjectly, as if he had been caught doing it—'Lord John Manners is speaking to-night at Nottingham.'
The foreman dashed his hand upon the desk.
'Go it, Mister, go it,' he cried; 'anything else? Tell me Gladstone's dead next.'