see what a jewel of a
printing-house I am giving you."

"'Three wooden presses, held in position by iron tie-bars, cast-iron
plates----'"

"An improvement of my own," put in Sechard senior.

"'----Together with all the implements, ink-tables, balls, benches, et
cetera, sixteen hundred francs!' Why, father," cried David, letting the
sheet fall, "these presses of yours are old sabots not worth a hundred
crowns; they are only fit for firewood."

"Sabots?" cried old Sechard, "_Sabots_? There, take the inventory and
let us go downstairs. You will soon see whether your paltry iron-work
contrivances will work like these solid old tools, tried and trusty. You
will not have the heart after that to slander honest old presses that
go like mail coaches, and are good to last you your lifetime without
needing repairs of any sort. Sabots! Yes, sabots that are like to hold
salt enough to cook your eggs with--sabots that your father has plodded
on with these twenty years; they have helped him to make you what you
are."

The father, without coming to grief on the way, lurched down the worn,
knotty staircase that shook under his tread. In the passage he opened
the door of the workshop, flew to the nearest press (artfully oiled
and cleaned for the occasion) and pointed out the strong oaken cheeks,
polished up by the apprentice.

"Isn't it a love of a press?"

A wedding announcement lay in the press. The old "bear" folded down
the frisket upon the tympan, and the tympan upon the form, ran in
the carriage, worked the lever, drew out the carriage, and lifted the
frisket and tympan, all with as much agility as the youngest of the
tribe. The press, handled in this sort, creaked aloud in such fine style
that you might have thought some bird had dashed itself against the
window pane and flown away again.

"Where is the English press that could go at that pace?" the parent
asked of his astonished son.

Old Sechard hurried to the second, and then to the third in order,
repeating the manoeuvre with equal dexterity. The third presenting
to his wine-troubled eye a patch overlooked by the apprentice, with
a notable oath he rubbed it with the skirt of his overcoat, much as a
horse-dealer polishes the coat of an animal that he is trying to sell.

"With those three presses, David, you can make your nine thousand francs
a year without a foreman. As your future partner, I am opposed to your
replacing these presses by your cursed cast-iron machi