Spoffrel--ye don't remember
Spoffrel?--little red-haired man?--was foreman. Spoffrel fended him off
with the roller and got one good dab inter his eyes that blinded him,
and then Spoffrel sorter skirmished him over to the press,--a plain
lever just like ours,--whar the locked-up form of the inside was still
a-lyin'! Then, quick as lightnin', Spoffrel tilts him over agin it, and
HE throws out his hand and ketches hold o' the form to steady himself,
when Spoffrel just runs the form and the hand under the press and down
with the lever! And that held the feller fast as grim death! And when
at last he begs off, and Spoff lets him loose, the hull o' that 'ere
lampooning article he objected to was printed right onto the skin o' his
hand! Fact, and it wouldn't come off, either."
"Gosh, but I'd like to hev seen it," said the printer. "There ain't any
chance, I reckon, o' such a sight here. The boss don't take no risks
lampoonin', and he" (the editor knew he was being indicated by some
unseen gesture of the unseen workman) "ain't that style.
Pages:
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199