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 nimbly, snatching the type, automatically feeling the notch, and clicking it into the stick. It was a labor of love. Peter Waite had vanished, and he was working for Dave!… When Peter was done and had struck a proof, he regarded Angus with interest.

“Whoever taught you knew his business…. Pa a printer?”

“No.”

“Boy that boards with Mis’ Bassett, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Um…. Pretty lonesome for a sniff of it, wa’n’t you?” asked Peter, waving his hand about the shop.

“Yes.”

“Come whenever you please, and go whenever you please. Grab whatever you can handle. By Golly, I know the feelin’ myself. Shake.”

Peter was mistaken. It was not the smell of printer’s ink that called to Angus, but the fact that Dave Wilkins loved that smell, lived in that smell, carried it about upon his garments. Angus came then, and daily afterward because the place was a constant reminder of Dave Wilkins, and—somehow—when Angus busied himself about the place, he was able to imagine he was working for Dave—preparing himself to work for Dave…. Six months before such