Grumbling, as was his wont, the cripple opened a dingy sty that was reached by ascending several stairways; it was cluttered with engravings wrapped in sheets. He pointed to a corner where some excelsior and a few old cloaks were heaped.
Manuel slept like a prince in this hole.
On the next day the owner sent him down to the basement.
“Just watch what this fellow is doing, and you do the same,” he instructed, pointing to the thin, bearded man who stood on the platform of the press.
The man was taking a sheet of paper from a pile and placing it upon the feed board; at once the grippers reached forward and seized the sheet with the certainty of fingers; at a movement of the wheel the machine would swallow the paper and within a moment the sheet would issue, printed on one side, and some small sticks, like the ribs of a fan, would deposit it upon the fly table. Manuel very soon acquired the necessary skill.
The proprietor arranged that Manuel should work mornings at the cases, and afternoons and part of the night at the press, paying him for this a daily wage of six reales. During the afternoons it was fairly possible to stand the toil in the cellar; at night it was beyond endurance. Between the gasoline motor and the oil lamps the air was asphyxiating.
After a week in the place, Manuel had become intimate with Jesús and Yaco.
Jesús advised Manuel to apply himself to the cases and learn as soon as possible how to set type.
“At least you’ll be sure of making a living.”
“But it’s very hard,” said Manuel.