Then
he learns he must read it wet, as it is. Pretty soon the foreman of the
printers brings in a proof-slip which is set in three sizes of type
where the gentleman discovered but one size. Then the foreman of the
proof-room has a discouraging way of taking the gentleman's proof and
marking from eight to ten glaring typographical errors which the
gentleman has overlooked, and eight or ten typographical absurdities,
which he has approved, and, horrors upon horrors! eight or ten errors of
"style." Now, for the first time, the gentleman has learned that every
time the word "President" appears in the newspaper it is either
capitalized or uncapitalized, while he had naturally supposed that it
took its chances, the way a picnic does!
THUS THE GENTLEMAN GETS AN IDEA
of his utter incompetency to fill the place of a trained man. And he
never gets half so complete a view of his uselessness as do those around
him. Such proof-readers rarely work two nights. They are corporals in
captains' places. Or, perhaps, they are captains of artillery in the
infantry service. What do folks do when the best proof-reader is
missing? They go out into the type-setting room and take the brightest
printer they can find.
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