much, it would have been out of all nature had I
gone back to my work and thought no more of the matter; besides, the
strange noise still continued. I lifted the door cautiously about an
inch and peeped below.

The cellar--for cellar it was--was bright with the light of a lamp, by
which I could plainly discern my master (or, as I believed for a moment,
my master's ghost), with coat off, and sweating with the heat of the
place, working like any journeyman at a printing-press, on which lay a
forme of type, which he inked with his balls and struck off in print
with the noises which had perplexed me above.

Then I pulled up the trap and called out:

"Master Walgrave, spare yourself so much toil, I pray you, and let me
help you."

He turned round, with a face the colour of dough, like a man who had
just received an arrow in his vitals; then he rushed as if to put out
the lamp. But his presence of mind returned before he got that length,
and he demanded of me angrily enough how I dared to play the spy on him
and come where I was not bidden.

I replied I was no spy, and, as for coming where I was not bidden, had I
known who it was down there I would have stayed where I was. But, being
there, might I help him, I asked, at the work? He answered angrily,
"No," and bade me begone. Whereupon I returned to my case, and waited
till he should come up to the earth's surface.

Meanwhile I recalled not a few rumours I had heard about Master
Walgrave. One was, that, though he was only licenced to have one press,
and seemed to have no more, yet (it was whispered of some), he had
another in hiding, which now I found to be true. Moreover, as I was in
Stationers' Hall one day, a month or more ago, to pay the fee for a
register, I overheard Timothy Ryder the beadle and another talking about
my master.

"He prints more than he registers," said one.

"And he should have his ears cropped for his pains," said Timothy, "did
I but know where to have him."

Then seeing that I waited (for they had forgot to give me my
acquittance), they dropped talking suddenly.

By all this I guessed that my master was no favourite with them of
Stationers' Hall, and, moreover, that he was addicted to disorderly
practices contrary to the Acts binding printers. But so well did he
keep his own secret, and so busy was I with my own affairs, that it all
passed from my mind, and now only returned when I saw that what had been
said of him was true.