"She'll snarl," said Arturius at his back. "She'll bite, before the night's over."
High-Pockets tried to look amused. "I'll have her setting type by herself before lunch time," he promised.
High-Pockets got the lowest chair in the composing-room, to bring his arms down near the keyboard. His nose was still red and he weaved a little in the chair, but he began to fold in his arms until his hands were over the keyboard.
The first take went smoothly. High-Pockets could feel a clash of wills, but he was slow and careful. He set two more takes, and nothing happened, so he began to relax. His third take was a short piece of telegraph copy for the second edition. He put it in the copy holder and then decided to get a drink of water. He ran into some friends and they spent five minutes around the fountain before the foreman came by.
High-Pockets went back to the machine. He sat down and got his arms tucked in, then reached for a slug with his name on it and started to put it in the stick. Then he frowned and rang the bell for the machinist.
"Somebody's playing tricks on me," he said. "Who's been working here?"
"Nobody but you," Arturius said nastily.
High-Pockets licked his lips. "I'd swear I didn't set this take." But Arturius looked intensely satisfied and went away. Thoughtfully High-Pockets took the type out of the stick and put his take slug on it and went to the dump. When he sat down again he shook his head and rubbed his eyes before he went to work. "No. 7 musta set that take herself," he muttered, "but that's not according to union rules." He said it without actually believing it.
He got along all right until nearly lunch time. By then, he was dry again, and he got a long take of the next day's editorial and stuck it in the copy board, then went to the fountain, and finally decided to go to the washroom and smoke a cigarette.