There was a stir in the proofroom, and then a man at the far end of the table got to his feet. "I did," he said in thunderous voice.
High-Pockets didn't back down. "What the hell do you think this is—1910?" he demanded, waving the proofs. "This is a newspaper, isn't it, not a dictionary?"
"Is it indeed?" said the man ominously, and High-Pockets thought he had heard that voice before. He stared toward the man and his eyes began to focus and then he saw who it was. A gulp started in High-Pockets' adam's-apple and traveled visibly down the full length of his body to the floor. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. His eyes became glazed like those of a man walking in his sleep.
"Your honor," he said, at last, struggling to force words from his larynx and looking like a man in a very blue funk, "there are extenuating circumstances."
Then he seemed to awaken. He looked around him. Through the glass windows of the proof room he saw a makeup man pushing a turtle to the stereotype room, and this seemed to give him a little grip on reality. He turned back with a certain air of assurance, as if he was about to take things decisively into his own hands. But he looked into His Honor's stern countenance and that assurance wilted visibly. High-Pockets retreated in confusion.
Maybe No. 7 sympathized with him. At least she allowed him to correct the proofs without any trouble. High-Pockets even began to feel that there was some feeling of friendliness flowing between them.
He was working on his next take when he felt a presence behind him. He revolved in his chair, and he very nearly fell over when he once again faced His Honor, the Judge. His Honor had a long piece of pasted copy in one hand and was waving a proof in the other. "So," His Honor said malevolently, "you're the poet."
"What are you talking about?"
"This." His Honor waved the proof under High-Pockets' nose. "You set this verse. It isn't in the copy at all."
High-Pockets felt uneasy. "Let's see." He read aloud: