“A masher. He mayn’t look it, but he goes it rather strong in that line after hours. He doesn’t mean it, poor soul; but he’s mixed up with some of our reporters, and tries to go the pace with them. I don’t care for that sort of thing myself, but if you do, he’s just your man. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?”
“Certainly not,” replied Horace, much impressed by this confidence and the revelation it afforded.
As Booms re-entered shortly afterwards, looking very gloomy, burdened with two plates, two mugs, and a sheaf of knives and forks under his arm, he certainly did not give one the impression of a very rakish character, and Horace could scarcely refrain from smiling as he tried to picture him in his after-hours character.
He left the couple to their sausages, and went out, in the vain hope of finding Reginald somewhere. But there was no sign of workmen anywhere, and, to his disgust, he ascertained from a passing boy that the compositors’ dinner-hour did not begin till he was due back at his work. Everything seemed to conspire to sever the two brothers, and Horace dejectedly took a solitary and frugal repast. He determined, at all hazards, to wait a minute after the bell summoning him back to work had ceased pealing, and was rewarded by a hasty glimpse of his brother, and the exchange of a few hurried sentences. It was better than nothing, and he rushed back to his room just in time to save his reputation for punctuality.
The afternoon passed scarcely less busily than the morning. They sat—and Booms had contrived to raise a third chair somewhere—with a pile of work in front of them which at first seemed hopeless to expect to overtake.
There were effusions to “decline with thanks,” and others to enter in a book and send up to the composing-room; there were some letters to write and others to answer; there were reporters’ notes to string together and telegrams to transcribe. And all the while a dropping fire of proofs and revises and messages was kept up at them from without, which they had to carry to their chief and deal with according to his orders.
Horace, being inexperienced, was only able to take up the simpler portions of this miscellaneous work, but these kept him busy, “hammer and tongs,” with scarcely time to sneeze till well on in the afternoon.
The Rocket, unlike most evening papers, waited till the evening before it appeared, and did not go to press till five o’clock. After that it issued later editions once an hour till eight o’clock, and on special occasions even as late as ten.
The great rush of the day, therefore, as Horace soon discovered, was over at five o’clock, but between that hour and seven there was always plenty to do in connection with the late editions and the following day’s work. At seven o’clock every one left except a sub-editor and one of the clerks, and one or two compositors, to see after the eight o’clock and any possible later edition.
“As soon as you get your hand in, young ’un, you’ll have to take your turn at late work. Booms and I take every other night now.”