g occasion. Fergus at the press!

Usually Fergus contents himself by going about wearing his own crown of
stiff red hair, but on press days he takes down an antique derby hat,
the rim of which long ago disappeared. Small triangular holes have been
cut in the crown for ventilators, and the outside is decorated with dabs
of vari-coloured printer's ink. This bowl of a helmet Fergus sets upon
his head, tilted a little back, so that he looks like a dervish. He now
selects a long black cigar--it is only on press days that he discards
his precious pipe--and having lighted it holds it in his mouth so that
it points upward at an acute angle. He avoids the smoke which would
naturally rise into his left eye by inclining his head a little to one
side. He tinkers the rollers, he examines the inkwells, he tightens in
the forms. He is very dignified, very sententious. It is an important
occasion when Fergus goes to press. At last, when all is ready, Fergus
stands upright for a moment, a figure of power and authority.

"Let 'er go," he says presently.

Nort pulls the lever: the fly moves majestically through the air, the
rollers clack, and the very floor shakes with the emotion, the pain, of
producing a free press in a free country.

But it is only for one or two impressions. Fergus suddenly raises his
hand.

"Stop her, stop her," he commands, and when she has calmed down, Fergus,
comparing the imprint with the form, and armed with paste pot and paper,
or with block and mallet, adds the final artistic touches.

Sometimes, sitting here in my study, if I am a little lonely, I have
only to call up the picture I have of Fergus at the press, and I am
restored and comforted by the thought that there are still pleasant and
amusing things in this world.

So we printed off the famous issue containing the poetry of
Hempfield--and folded and mailed the papers. Nort, working like a
demon, was the soul of the office. He made the work that week seem more
interesting and important; he made an adventure and a romance out of the
common task of a country printing-office.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII

NORT AND ANTHY

It was on this night, after the last copy of the edition had been
disposed of, that Nort walked home for the first time with Anthy. He
carried it off perfectly. When she was ready to go--I remember just how
she looked, her slight firm figure pausing with hand on the door, the
flush of excitement and interest still in h