“Of course I do.”
“Then why couldn’t you say so at once? Take this bit of copy and set it up at that case there. And you, young fellow, take these proofs to the sub-editor’s room, and say I’ve not had the last sheet of the copy of the railway accident yet, and I’m standing for it. Cut away.”
Horace went off.
“After all,” thought he to himself, “what’s the use of being particular? I suppose I’m what they call a ‘printer’s devil’; nothing like starting modestly! Here goes for my lords the sub-editors, and the last page of the railway accident.”
And he spent a festive ten-minutes hunting out the sub-editor’s domains, and possessing himself of the missing copy.
With Reginald, however, it fared otherwise. A fellow may be head of the fifth at a public school, and yet not know his letters in a printing-office, and after five or ten-minutes’ hopeless endeavour to comprehend the geography of a typecase, he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten and apprise Mr Durfy of the fact.
“I’m sorry I misunderstood you,” said he, putting the copy down on the table. “I’m not used to printing.”
“No,” said Mr Durfy, scornfully, “I guessed not. You’re too stuck-up for us, I can tell you. Here, Barber.”
An unhealthy-looking young man answered to the name.
“Take this chap here to the back case-room, and see he sweeps it out and dusts the cases. See if that’ll suit your abilities, my dandy”; and without waiting to hear Reginald’s explanations or remonstrances, Mr Durfy walked off, leaving the unlucky boy in the hands of Mr Barber.