"'Tis dawn in the woods. A gentleman slumbers
Beneath the protection of wild cucumbers.
The woodpeckers woodpeck, the rattlesnakes rattle,
And all the cockroaches prepare to do battle."
High-Pockets gulped. He handed the proof back to His Honor: he revolved again and folded himself into the chair. He started to set type. Then he remembered. "Your Honor," he said, "I had nothing to do with it. No. 7 did it."
His Honor, goaded by High-Pockets' temporary amnesia which looked very much like disrespect, exploded. "A machine! A machine did this?"
High-Pockets sent in the line and started another.
"Are you imputing intelligence to a machine?" His Honor demanded, and No. 7 seemed to hesitate for an instant. "No machine on earth could compose such awful poetry as this," His Honor thundered.
No. 7 was casting. For no reason at all the plunger stuck in the bottom of the well and No. 7's clutch chattered and shook the entire machine before High-Pockets shut off the power. High-Pockets revolved and looked at the judge and raised his eyebrows, then rang the bell.