Cut away." Horace went off.
"After all," thought he to himself, "what's the use of being particular?
I suppose I'm what they call a `printer's devil'; nothing like starting modestly! Here goes for my lords the sub-editors, and the last page of the railway accident." And he spent a festive ten-minutes hunting out the sub-editor's domains, and possessing himself of the missing copy.
With Reginald, however, it fared otherwise.

A fellow may be head of the fifth at a public school, and yet not know his letters in a printing- office, and after five or ten-minutes' hopeless endeavour to comprehend the geography of a typecase, he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten and apprise Mr Durfy of the fact.
"I'm sorry I misunderstood you," said he, putting the copy down on the table.

"I'm not used to printing." "No," said Mr Durfy, scornfully, "I guessed not.

You're too stuck-up for us, I can tell you.

Here, Barber." An unhealthy-looking young man answered to the name.
"Take this chap here to the back case-room, and see he sweeps it out and dusts the cases.