It never occurred to High-Pockets to doubt his success with No. 7. He carefully hung his ten-year-old coat in an empty locker and made sure the pint of bourbon was safely in the inside pocket of the coat. Then he walked into the composing-room and over to No. 7, and stood for a moment looking her over. He frowned. “It’s almost as if she was laying her ears back and getting ready to snarl at me,” he said wonderingly.
“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.
When he got back to the machine he picked up a take slug and pulled back the slug-stacker—and then he froze tight.
High-Pockets looked a little scared. He licked his lips and took the stick out of the machine. It was a long take, about ten inches of type. He laid it across his knees and compared it with the copy. It checked. He read it over upside down. Not a single error.
“Well, I didn’t set it, anyway,” he muttered. “I couldn’t possibly set an okay proof, the way I feel.”
Somewhat resignedly he took the type to the dump.
The dump-man looked at him. “Turning ’em out pretty fast. Whatta you think this is, a piecework town?”
High-Pockets looked chastened, but said nothing.
He went to the copy desk. There was nothing now but want ads. He got a take and then he had a bright idea. He put the want ads on the copy board and went for a drink of water. He was dry again, anyway. He took plenty of time, and then came back and confidently picked up a take slug.
But he got a jolt when he looked at the stick. It was empty.
High-Pockets nodded wisely. “So it doesn’t like want ads any better than anybody else,” he said to himself. “Now, that’s a dirty shame.”
He got all folded in and started to operate. But at the first letter he touched, the keyboard belt broke. He called Arturius and had it fixed, and tried again. The mats jammed up in the chute.
He cleaned them out and then started carefully hitting one letter at a time. But the very first one came to the star wheel, and rang the bell again. “Star wheel spring is loose,” he said. “She won’t bring the mats down.”
Arturius looked at him with a scowl that bore the heavy responsibility of the entire world, and then without a word sat down to fix it. He stood by while High-Pockets tried again. The line finally was filled and High-Pockets sent it in and started on the second line.
“Wait a minute,” said Arturius. “You didn’t get a slug.” He opened the vise. “Short-line stop is out of adjustment,” he growled. “What’s the matter with this machine, anyway?”
High-Pockets looked worried. “Maybe she don’t like want ads,” he said. “Maybe I better set this take somewhere else.”
Arturius grunted. High-Pockets went to No. 8. He set the want ads with one eye on No. 7. He was quite sober now.
The copy-cutter wasn’t looking when High-Pockets got back to the desk, and High-Pockets did something he’d never done before in his life. He “worked the hook”—instead of taking want ads, he very quietly took a piece of minion, and then looked around guiltily to see if anybody noticed.
He wound his way back to No. 7 and got all set. Arturius was gone. High-Pockets by now realized that he was up against worthy opposition. If he had reached No. 7’s soul, he had stirred it the wrong way. From now on he would be extremely careful.
Things went all right until after the cast. The line went up to transfer—and there it stuck. High-Pockets sighed and rang the bell. Arturius came, but the scowl on his face was diluted with self-satisfaction.
He started to lock the spaceband lever, but when he touched the latch, the spaceband lever went over with a crash and the line of mats spilled out in the intermediate
