"Well, at any rate, you see you have the equivalent of twelve night shifts running at once, plus twelve graveyard shifts. That's twenty-four times six—you have six machines—times twelve—that's the number of galleys a day for each machine. I think it comes out to seventeen hundred for a day's work."
I grabbed hold of the vise-locking screw to keep my knees from doubling under me. It was incredible—and yet it was true.
High-Pockets also had organized the proofreaders and copyholders, and they were reading in the past also, and sending us proofs in the present. If anybody ever tells you they can't get seventeen hundred galleys of type a day out of six linecasting machines—well, they just don't know High-Pockets Jones.
"Of course," he said apologetically, "they'll want to be paid."
I was practically hysterical by that time. "I'll see that they get overtime for every hour they put in."
High-Pockets looked at me with his deep eyes. "Me, too," he said. I laughed when I thought how there were nine of him working in twelve places at once—or was it twenty-four—or maybe forty-eight. I was too dizzy by that time to figure out anything. I only knew the job was going to be delivered. The truckers were going in a steady stream through the back door.
Maybe the receivers would close up the place; maybe they wouldn't. At least the job was being delivered.
About four-thirty, the galleys suddenly quit coming; the job was finished. Half an hour later it was out of the shop, and I had entered it on the books.
I had hardly laid down the pen when the three receivers came in. They smoked a little and talked and I held my breath while they looked at the books. I couldn't figure out what they were going to do.