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Updated: July 15, 2025
"You leave 'im alone," said the swart man. "See? 'E's 'ad 'is licks." A clattering bell lifted up its voice and solved the situation. The albino hesitated. "Lucky for you," he said, adding a foul metaphor, and turned with the others towards the press-room again. "Wait for the end of the spell, mate," said the albino over his shoulder an afterthought.
Billy was standing at the stove, a frightened boy, but he gripped the poker in his hand. "Billy," said Joe, quietly, "run down and tell Rann to keep 'em out of the press-room." Billy edged to the door, opened it, and fled. Joe was quite alone. He sat down at his desk and took up the telephone. "Hello, Central!" his voice was monotonous in its lowness and tenseness. "Hello!"
The boy belonged down cellar in the press-room, the large man was king of the upper floors, foreman of the composing-room. The light in the boy's face was worship, the foreman was his lord, head of his group. The pat was an accolade. It was as precious to the boy as it would have been if he had been an aristocrat's son and the accolade had been delivered by his sovereign with a sword.
The shackles strewing the press-room bore eloquent testimony to the manner of their flight. Never, surely, did the gang provide an odder job for any woman than the one it threw in the way of Richard Parker's wife. The story of his part in the historic mutiny at the Nore is common knowledge. Her's, being less familiar, will bear retelling.
So saying, the superior rose, and conducted her visitor to the door, with all the forms of the most maternal kindness. At the moment she crossed the threshold, she said to her: "Follow the passage, go down a few steps, and knock at the second door on the right hand. It is the press-room, and there you will find Florine. She will show you the way out. Adieu, my dear daughter!"
He slept in the press-room, on a bed which he rolled up and stowed behind the press by day, and in the evening he consorted with the goddess of nicotine as he called his plug tobacco and put in his time at his desk with a lead pencil and a pad of white paper writing copy for the next day's issue.
Peter had known this odor in the press-room of Tennessee cotton-gins, over a river packet's boilers, where he and other roustabouts were bedded, in bunk-houses in the woods. It also recalled a certain octoroon girl named Ida May, and an intimacy with her which it still moved and saddened Peter to think of.
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