Printer's Devil (9780316167826) Read Free Page B

I said.
    He swallowed, and coughed. Damp pieces of bread sailed out of his mouth and landed on a freshly-inked roller. He closed his
     eyes, swallowed again, and then opened them in relief as though he’d been afraid he might not survive the effort of swallowing.
     “Mr. Flethick,” he said again, “at Corporation Row. But before you go —“ he pointed at me with a greasy middle finger “—you
     can finish those.” And, although he was gesturing down at the ham on the table, I knew he meant the poster which lay beneath
     it.
    A hundred posters I had to make. After we’d finished eating, I sent Lash back to his basket and set to work. A hundred Cockburns.
     Every time I pulled a fresh poster out of the press I was shocked by the convict’s face and the stark black legend of his
     name. The face seemed to get uglier and more muscly every time. The duplicate Cockburns mounted on top of one another on the
     table.

    The Public is ADVISED that this Man IS VERY
    DANGEROUS!
    The exclamation marks got bigger and blacker. I wiped my brow. The mechanical grind and squeak of my press, and the rustling
     of the paper I was slipping in and out, were making my head ache. My arm ached too, from pulling the heavy platen down so
     many times. The air was heavy with ink, and my head was light with beer. I glanced at the window and saw it had grown almost
     dark outside.
    Mr. Cramplock emerged from the back room where’d he’d been busy with something else. I saw he was reaching for his hat. Some
     of the printers we knew around here lived in the rooms above their shops, but Cramplock’s was so small there wasn’t room for
     anyone to live here comfortably, apart from me and Lash in our simple little room above the presses. So Cramplock rented lodgings
     a few minutes’ walk away. I think he used to have arguments with the landlord quite often, because at around the same time
     each month he used to get terribly grumpy and babble on about how much profit we had or hadn’t taken.
    “I’m off, Mog,” he said, peering over at the postersI was piling up. “Looks like you’re doing a good job. Just leave them on the bench and I’ll sort them out in the morning.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Make sure you ink up again before long,” he said, peering some more at my handiwork as he opened the door. “In fact — do
     it now.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Don’t forget Flethick’s bill.”
    “No,” I said, between gritted teeth.
    “And don’t go out without locking the doors properly.”
    “Are you going, or not?,” I asked him. He opened his mouth, plainly intending to tell me not to be so impertinent; but he
     was probably so bored of telling me not to be impertinent that on this occasion he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The
     door rattled shut behind him.
    I carried on, nearing the hundred. The Cockburns grew higher and higher on their pile, and I was glad to cover up the awful
     face with a new sheet of paper — except that each new sheet also featured his awful face. Repeat after repeat!
DANGEROUS!

    I was so impatient for the job to be over, so sick of seeing endless Cockburns, that I was no longer taking care to keep the
     paper straight. Some of the Cockburns were coming out crooked, though I was so tired I could barely tell the difference any
     more. On some of the sheets the word “DANGEROUS!” was slipping off the edge of the paper as I shoved them in in my haste.
     The posters were nearly as big as I was, and in carrying the big heavy sheets of paper over to the bench I was getting my
     clothes and my face covered in the fresh ink. Cockburns spun around my head, their eyes boring into my brain like woodworm
     eating through the cover of a book to begin devouring its contents. I started laying the newly printed posters face down so
     I wouldn’t have to look at them.
    But I’d lost count, and I had to go back to the pile and count how many I’d done, which irritated me. Cramplock would never
     have