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 T the far end of the printing office, Jake Schwartz, printer of the old school—which, even in the early eighties was already on the decline—was engaged in the unpleasantly odorous occupation of moulding rollers for the antiquated press on which the Weekly Observer was printed. Jake was inky, gluey, savage of temper, and a perpetual atomizer giving off the fumes of strong drink…. But he knew his trade, and his loyalty to Dave Wilkins was of the sort which hits first and never stops to inquire at all.

Nearer to the front, where the light was stronger, a boy who looked to be some fifteen years old faced a case, distributing type. He, too, was inky and grubby and unkempt to a degree which bespoke genius for that art. It was a matter of pride with him—and he was painstaking in his efforts. This person was none other than the office devil, who was known by the name of Bishwhang. This title had been bestowed by Dave Wilkins as euphonious and