The Editor sitting with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, leaning back in his chair, and looking very earnestly at the ceiling. In about ten minutes he gets up and walks to the window, breathes hard upon the glass, and flourishes a capital R with his finger in the wet he has made. Looks at his watch, and rings the Printer’s bell. Enter Printer.
Editor. How much matter have you got, Mr. Pica?
Mr. P. (After a pause.) Not more than two columns, Sir.
Editor. The devil!—How many ads * can you muster to-day?
Mr. P. Three columns and a half, Sir, including quacks; but I must use “When men of education and professional skill,” and the “Real blessing to mothers.”
Editor. Have you no standing matter? ** Mr. P. Not a line, Sir, I used the last of the standing matter yesterday, the account of the “American sea-serpent,” which was left out full two months ago, to make room for the “Fire in Fleet-street.”
Editor. (Musing.) Very well: I’ll touch your bell as soon as I have any copy ready.
* Advertisements.
** Articles already composed, or in type, but not yet used;
such as good jokes that will keep a week or two—murders in
America—or curious discoveries in the East Indies; that
will read as well at Christmas as in the dog-days.
Mr. P. The men are all standing still, Sir, just now If you have any matter which you intend to use a week hence, they may as well be going on with it.
Editor. (Rummages among his papers.) Here, take this “Romantic suicide.” It will do for any day when you want half a column for the back page.