High-Pockets took it like a man. He didn’t even swear this time. He got out of his chair. “I will see if that line is all right,” he muttered. “If I don’t⁠—”

He tightened the screw, then he got his head in under the intermediate bar to look. And at that moment a gust of air blew a cloud of graphite out of the intermediate channel and filled his right eye. He was nearly blinded, but he didn’t ask for help. Very quietly he wound his way to the washroom. He cleaned his face and worked the graphite out of his eye as well as he could, and then, with a determined look on his face, went back.

Arturius reached the machine about the same time he did, “What did you leave her on the cast for?” he barked.

High-Pockets didn’t answer.

Arturius indulged in some choice blasphemy with its direction divided equally between High-Pockets and No. 7. High-Pockets felt sorry for Arturius. He went to the locker room and determined to his satisfaction that the pint was still dead, then he came back. The boy had left some proofs on his machine. High-Pockets picked them up to scan them. Then he swore vigorously. “Proofreaders!” he sputtered. “Comma chasers! Look at this!” he invited the world. “Put a hyphen in the word ‘good-will.’ Marked a double e in ‘employe.’ Changed ‘thous‑and’ to ‘thou‑sand!’ ” He clenched his fists and raised them far above his head. “Give me strength!” he groaned. “Give me strength! On top of everything else, the proofreaders have to go nuts too.”

He started for the proof room, clutching the proofs in one hand. His long arms swung as he weaved among the lights. He went in the door of the proof room and stood there a moment. His head was above the lights and for a moment he couldn’t see very clearly, but he demanded in his booming voice: “Who signed these proofs ‘ R. M. S. ’?”