The slips are distributed with lightning
rapidity; each man puts his little batch into type, the fragments are
placed in their queer frame, and presently the readers are poring over
the long, damp, and odorous proof-sheets. There is no very great hurry
in the early part of the evening; but, as the small hours wear away,
the strain is feverish in its poignancy. There is no noise, no
confusion; each man knows his office, and fulfils it deftly. But such
great issues are involved, that the nervousness of managers, printers,
sub-editors--every one--may easily be understood. Suppose that a very
important division is to be taken in Parliament; the minutes roll by,
and the news is still delayed. Some kind of comment must be made on
the result of the debate, and an able, swift writer scrawls off his
column of phrases with furious speed. Then that article must be put
into type; a model of the type must be taken on a sheet of
papier-mache, the melted metal must be poured into the paper mould,
the resulting curved block must be clamped on to a cylinder of the
waiting machine, and all this must be done with strict regard to the
value of seconds. A delay of half a minute might prevent the manager
from sending his piles of journals away by the early train, and that
would be a calamity too fearful to be dreamed of.
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