Paul and the Printing Press Part 24

Wright jestingly.

"Yes, it does," agreed Mr. Hawley.

"I suppose book publishing and music publishing take more paper," mused Paul.

"Yes. The printing of music is an expensive and fussy piece of work, too. It must be accurately done, and done by men who are experienced in that special kind of work. One misprint will cause a discord and throw the music out of sale. Of course if a song turns out to be popular, a small fortune is often reaped from it; but if it is not, the cost of getting it out is so great that little is netted by the publishers."

They moved on into another room where it was more quiet, leaving the hum of the presses behind them.

"This," explained Mr. Hawley, "is the stereotype-casting room of which I told you. It is here that the _papier-mache_ forms made from the forms you saw in linotype are brought and cast in solid pieces for the presses. Let us watch the process. You can see how they fasten the paper impression around this mold so that the cast of it can be taken. The hot metal is run in, and pressed into every depression of the cardboard.

The thickness of these semi-cylindrical casts is carefully specified and over there is a machine that pares off or smooths away all superfluous material so that they come out exactly the proper thickness; otherwise they would not fit the rollers of the press."

Paul watched. Sure enough! After being cast, the sections of stereotype were put into the machine indicated and moved quickly along, being planed off as they went; when they emerged the wrong side of them was smooth and even.

"This kettle or tank of hot metal," went on Mr. Hawley, pointing to a vat of seething composition, "has to be kept, as I explained to you, at a specified degree of heat if we are to get successful stereotypes of our forms. Therefore a great deal depends on the skill and judgment of the man who prepares and melts down the mixture bubbling in that kettle.

Without his brain and experience there could be no newspapers."

As he spoke Mr. Hawley waved a salutation to the workman in blue overalls who was studying the indicator beside the furnace.

"That indicator tells the exact temperature of the melted solution in the kettle; also the temperature of the furnace. There can be no variation in heat without hindering the work of casting, and perhaps wrecking the casts and wasting a quant.i.ty of material. So on that little chap over there by the fire hangs our fate."

The workman heard the words and smiled, and Paul smiled in return.

"Do they make stereotypes for circular rollers and print books this same way?" he asked.

"No. Most books are electrotyped, the machinery being much less complex than is the newspaper press. A rotary press cannot do such fine or accurate work."

For a moment they lingered, watching the busy scene with its shifting figures. Then they stepped into the elevator and were shot up to the street level. The hands of the clock stood at eleven when at last they emerged upon the sidewalk.

Paul sighed.

"Tired?"

"Rather, sir; aren't you?"

"Well, I just feel as if I had played sixteen holes of golf," Mr. Wright replied. They laughed together.

"But, Jove! It was worth it though, wasn't it?" cried Paul.

"I think so."

"I, too! Only," added the boy, "I still believe we ought to pay more for our newspapers."

CHAPTER XV

THE DECISION

For the next few days after his return from Boston Paul thought and talked of little else save the great newspaper press that he had seen.

Beside a project as tremendous as the publication of a widely circulated daily the _March Hare_ became a pitifully insignificant affair.

Nevertheless the _March Hare_ was not to be thrust aside. It clamored for attention. Its copy came in as before from students and staff, and mixed with this material were some exceptionally fine articles from patents and distant alumnae. Judge Damon had taken to contributing a short, crisp editorial almost every month, something of civic or national importance; and two of Burmingham's graduates who were in France sent letters that added an international flavor to the magazine.

Never had the issues been so good. Certainly the monthly so modestly begun had ripened into an a.s.set that all the town would regret to part with.

In the meantime graduation was approaching and the day was drawing near when 1920 must bid good-by to the familiar halls of the school, and instead of standing and looking down from the top of the ladder, as it now did, it must set forth into the turmoil of real life where its members would once again be beginners. What an ironic transformation that would be! A senior was a person looked up to by the entire student body, a dignitary to be treated with profound respect. But once outside the sheltering walls of his Alma Mater he would suddenly become a very ordinary being who, like Samson shorn of his locks, would enter business or college a weak, timid neophyte. It seemed absurd that such a change could be wrought in so short a time.

But before the day when the diplomas with their stiff white bows would be awarded, the future fate of the _March Hare_ must be decided. Every recurrence of this thought clouded Paul's brow. He still had intact Mr.

Carter's fifty-dollar bill. It was as crisp and fresh as on the day the magnate of Burmingham had put it into his hand, and the typewriter Paul coveted still glistened in the window of a shop on the main street. Day after day he had vacillated between the school and that fascinating store window, and each day he had looked, envied, and come home again.

It was now so late that the purchase of this magic toy would be of little use to him. Nevertheless, he wanted it. Every night when he went to bed he quieted his conscience's accusations of cowardice by arguing that the money had not been spent. But not spending it, he was forced to own, was far from being the same thing as returning it. It was strange that it should be so hard for him to part with that money!

In the interim he had cashed in his war stamps and with the additional sum he had earned for doing the ch.o.r.es around the place he and Melville Carter had paid the bill the _March Hare_ owed and deposited the remainder of their combined cash in the bank, so that the accounts now stood even. Whatever should now become of the magazine, its slate was a clean one so far as its financial standing went.

Having thus disposed of all debts and entanglements, only the adjustment of the deal with Mr. Carter remained. This was not so easily to be cleared from Paul's path.

It was his first thought in the morning, his last at night. He could never escape from it. Whenever he was in jubilant mood and in a flood of boyish happiness had forgotten it, it arose like a specter to torment him. What was he going to do with that money that he had kept so long?

And what was he going to say to his cla.s.smates to earn it,--for earn it he must, since he had accepted it. It was a wretched position to be in.

Why hadn't he given the bill back to the great man that day in the office? Or if he had no opportunity then, why hadn't he carried it promptly to the _Echo_ building the next morning? He might have gone to Mr. Carter's house with it. There were a score of ways it might have been delivered to its rightful owner. Alas, he had been very weak, and by drifting along and taking no positive action had got himself into the dilemma in which he now floundered.

It was the president of 1921 who suddenly brought him up with a sharp turn by remarking one day:

"Well, Kip, you people of 1920 have certainly set us a pretty pace on the _March Hare_. I don't know whether, when it descends to us, we shall be able to keep it up to your standard or not."

"Descends to you!" repeated Paul vaguely.

"Yes. Of course 1920 is going to pa.s.s it on. You fellows can't very well take it with you," laughed the junior.

Paul evaded a direct answer.

"You never can tell which way a hare will run," he replied.

"You can usually figure on the direction he will take, though," retorted the under-cla.s.sman, whose name was Converse. "1920 has done the school a big service by founding the paper and outlining its policy. My father was saying only last night that the magazine was well worth putting on a permanent business basis. He said that if an experienced publishing house had the handling of it it could be made into a money-making proposition--that is if everybody, young and old, would keep up their same enthusiasm for turning in stuff so the tone of the thing was not spoiled."

"I believe that, too."

"It wouldn't be such a bad idea if next year we could get in an experienced hand to help us, would it?"

The moment Paul dreaded had come.

He summoned all his dignity.

"I am not sure," he answered, "just what 1920 will decide to do with the paper when we finish the year. We may sell it."

"What! You don't mean sell it to an outsider?"

"We have an opportunity to do so."