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Updated: May 17, 2025
It is accompanied with many distinguishable noises the hissing of steam, the routing of hogs from their wallow, the screech of tug whistles and the yell of Indians. The door stands open to the great composing-room, where eighty typesetters eighty cynics eighty nervous, high-strung, well-paid workmen stand at their intellectual toil.
But he had been a newspaper man himself; the printer's ink had struck in; he had many associations with the press-room and the composing-room; he loved the common, democratic character of the newspaper; it was the average man's library. The homely uses to which it was put, and the humble firesides to which it found its way, endeared it to him, and made him love to see his name in it.
There was the tramp of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the voice of the city editor telling some one to "run to Madden's and get some brandy, quick." No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every one stood with his eyes fixed on the door.
He is dead: but he lives for ever enshrined in the noble tribute to his genius in Metatoron's Flames." Little Sampson seized the "copy" and darted with it to the composing-room, where Raphael was busy giving directions. By his joyful face Raphael saw the crisis was over. Little Sampson handed the manuscript to the foreman, then drawing a deep breath of relief, he began to hum a sprightly march.
But this state of uncertainty as to his meaning was destined to be but of short duration. Barely a week had elapsed since my receipt of the above letter when, as I stood alone in the composing-room one morning, I was surprised to see the figure of an unknown man appear above the balustrade leading from below.
As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city editor asked, "Any news yet?" and the managing editor shook his head. The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their foreman was talking with the night editor.
The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room. At 3 o'clock the copy boy enters hurriedly. "Corkey just died," he says, electrifying the comrades. "He just gave one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off. The doctor says he burst a vein." Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room. Eighty compositors cross old dogs, most of them are ending a long and weary day's toil.
He himself was not a practical printer and was not in immediate management of the concern. His manager, however, was an able man, a good printer, and was considered to be a good business man. At the very outset of our investigation, we found that the foreman of the composing-room purchased type, leads, and slugs, furniture, cases, and all of the other materials used in his department.
As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city editor asked, "Any news yet?" and the managing editor shook his head. The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their foreman was talking with the night editor.
Handshakes, smiles, embarrassed questions. A few strange faces to be resented and ignored. A strange locker arrangement in a corner to be frowned at. But the rest of it familiar, poignant a world where he belonged, but that somehow did not seem to fit as snugly as once. Handshakes in the hall. A faint cheer in the composing-room as he sauntered for the first time to the stone. Slaps on the back.
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