at the smaller of the presses.
A huge figure was sprawled over the table in the corner. In the air hung
the delicious smell of printer's ink and the clank and chug of the
press. Bobby stood in the doorway some time. Finally the boy said
something
to the man at the table. The latter looked up, then arose and came
forward. He was
of immense frame, but gaunt and caved-in from much stooping and a
consumptive tendency. His massive bony shoulders hung forward; his
head was carried in advance. In character this head was like that of a
Jove condemned
through centuries to long hours
in a dark, unwholesome atmosphere--the grand, square, bony structure,
the thick, upstanding hair, the bushy, steady eyebrows, the heavy beard.
But the cheeks beneath the beard were
sunken; the eyes in the square-cut
caverns were kind and gentle--and very weary. "I want to see if I can
get some ink of you," requested Bobby, holding out his little tin box.
Mr.
Daggett took the
box without replying; and, opening
it, tested with his finger the quality and colour of what it had
contained. "I guess so," said he. He led the way to one of the shelves
and opened a can as big as a bucket. Bobby gasped. "My!" he cried; "will
you ever use all that?" Mr. Daggett nodded, and, dipping a broad-bladed
knife, brought up, on merely its point, enough
to fill Bobby's tin box. "How much
is it?" asked Bobby. "Let's see, you're Jack Orde's little boy, aren't
you?" asked Dagge
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