'"
Queed ascended to the next floor, a noisy, discordant floor, full of
metal tables on castors, and long stone-topped tables not on castors,
and Mergenthaler machines, and slanting desk-like structures holding
fonts of type. Rough board partitions rose here and there; over
everything hung the deadly scent of acids from the engravers' room.
"That's him now," said an ink-smeared lad, and nodded toward a tall,
gangling, mustachioed fellow in a black felt hat who had just come up
the stairs.
Queed marched straight for the little cubbyhole where the proof-readers
and copy-holders sweated through their long nights.
"You are Mr. Pat, head proof-reader of the _Post_?"
"That's me, sor," said Mr. Pat, and he turned with rather a sharp glance
at the other's tone.
"What excuse have you to offer for making my article ridiculous and me a
common butt?"
"An' who the divil may you be, please?"
"I am Mr. Queed, special editorial writer for this paper. Look at this."
He handed over the folded _Post_, with the typographical enormity
heavily underscored in blue. "What do you mean by falsifying my language
and putting into my mouth an absurd observation about the most loathsome
of vermin?"
Mr.
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