nery, that wears
out the type. You in Paris have been making such a to-do over that
damned Englishman's invention--a foreigner, an enemy of France who wants
to help the ironfounders to a fortune. Oh! you wanted Stanhopes, did
you? Thanks for your Stanhopes, that cost two thousand five hundred
francs apiece, about twice as much as my three jewels put together, and
maul your type to pieces, because there is no give in them. I haven't
book-learning like you, but you keep this well in mind, the life of the
Stanhope is the death of the type. Those three presses will serve your
turn well enough, the printing will be properly done, and folk here in
Angouleme won't ask any more of you. You may print with presses made
of wood or iron or gold or silver, _they_ will never pay you a farthing
more."

"'Item,'" pursued David, "'five thousand pounds weight of type from M.
Vaflard's foundry----'" Didot's apprentice could not help smiling at the
name.

"Laugh away! After twelve years of wear, that type is as good as new.
That is what I call a typefounder! M. Vaflard is an honest man, who uses
hard metal; and, to my way of thinking, the best typefounder is the one
you go to most seldom."

"'----Taken at ten thousand francs,'" continued David. "Ten thousand
francs, father! Why, that is two francs a pound, and the Messrs. Didot
only ask thirty-six sous for their _Cicero_! These nail-heads of yours
will only fetch the price of old metal--fivepence a pound."

"You call M. Gille's italics, running-hand and round-hand, 'nail-heads,'
do you? M. Gille, that used to be printer to the Emperor! And type that
costs six francs a pound! masterpieces of engraving, bought only five
years ago. Some of them are as bright yet as when they came from the
foundry. Look here!"

Old Sechard pounced upon some packets of unused sorts, and held them out
for David to see.

"I am not book-learned; I don't know how to read or write; but, all
the same, I know enough to see that M. Gille's sloping letters are
the fathers of your Messrs. Didot's English running-hand. Here is the
round-hand," he went on, taking up an unused pica type.

David saw that there was no way of coming to terms with his father. It
was a case of Yes or No--of taking or leaving it. The very ropes across
the ceiling had gone down into the old "bear's" inventory, and not the
smallest item was omitted; jobbing chases, wetting-boards, paste-pots,
rinsing-trough, and lye-brushes had all been pu