Usually Fergus contents himself by going about wearing his own crown of stiff red hair, but on press days he takes down an antique derby hat, the rim of which long ago disappeared. Small triangular holes have been cut in the crown for ventilators, and the outside is decorated with dabs of vari-coloured printer's ink. This bowl of a helmet Fergus sets upon his head, tilted a little back, so that he looks like a dervish. He now selects a long black cigar--it is only on press days that he discards his precious pipe--and having lighted it holds it in his mouth so that it points upward at an acute angle. He avoids the smoke which would naturally rise into his left eye by inclining his head a little to one side. He tinkers the rollers, he examines the inkwells, he tightens in the forms. He is very dignified, very sententious. It is an important occasion when Fergus goes to press. At last, when all is ready, Fergus stands upright for a moment, a figure of power and authority. "Let 'er go," he says presently. Nort pulls the lever: the fly moves majestically through the air, the rollers clack, and the very floor shakes with the emotion, the pain, of producing a free press in a free country. But it is only for one or two impressions. Fergus suddenly raises his hand. "Stop her, stop her," he commands, and when she has calmed down, Fergus, comparing the imprint with the form, and armed with paste pot and paper, or with block and mallet, adds the final artistic touches. Sometimes, sitting here in my study, if I am a little lonely, I have only to call up the picture I have of Fergus at the press, and I am restored and comforted by the thought that there are still pleasant and amusing things in this world. So we printed off the famous issue containing the poetry of Hempfield--and folded and mailed the papers. Nort, working like a demon, was the soul of the office. He made the work that week seem more interesting and important; he made an adventure and a romance out of the common task of a country printing-office. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII NORT AND ANTHY It was on this night, after the last copy of the edition had been disposed of, that Nort walked home for the first time with Anthy. He carried it off perfectly. When she was ready to go--I remember just how she looked, her slight firm figure pausing with hand on the door, the flush of excitement and interest still in her face. "Good-night, everybody," she was saying. "Well, we've printed a paper this week, anyhow," said Nort. Anthy laughed: she had a fine clear laugh, not loud, but sweet, the kind of a laugh one remembers long afterward. "Hold on, Miss Doane," said Nort, starting up suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I'm going with you." He jumped for his coat. Anthy remained, still without moving, at the door. I chanced to glance at Fergus and saw him bite down on his pipe-- I saw the scowl that darkened his face.