Then he seemed to awaken. He looked around him. Through the glass windows of the proof room he saw a makeup man pushing a turtle to the stereotype room, and this seemed to give him a little grip on reality. He turned back with a certain air of assurance, as if he was about to take things decisively into his own hands. But he looked into His Honor's stern countenance and that assurance wilted visibly. High-Pockets retreated in confusion. Maybe No. 7 sympathized with him. At least she allowed him to correct the proofs without any trouble. High-Pockets even began to feel that there was some feeling of friendliness flowing between them. He was working on his next take when he felt a presence behind him. He revolved in his chair, and he very nearly fell over when he once again faced His Honor, the Judge. His Honor had a long piece of pasted copy in one hand and was waving a proof in the other. "So," His Honor said malevolently, "you're the poet." "What are you talking about?" "This." His Honor waved the proof under High-Pockets' nose. "You set this verse. It isn't in the copy at all." High-Pockets felt uneasy. "Let's see." He read aloud: "'Tis dawn in the woods. A gentleman slumbers Beneath the protection of wild cucumbers. The woodpeckers woodpeck, the rattlesnakes rattle, And all the cockroaches prepare to do battle." * * * * * High-Pockets gulped. He handed the proof back to His Honor: he revolved again and folded himself into the chair. He started to set type. Then he remembered. "Your Honor," he said, "I had nothing to do with it. No. 7 did it." His Honor, goaded by High-Pockets' temporary amnesia which looked very much like disrespect, exploded. "A machine! A machine did this?" High-Pockets sent in the line and started another. "Are you imputing intelligence to a machine?" His Honor demanded, and No. 7 seemed to hesitate for an instant. "No machine on earth could compose such awful poetry as this," His Honor thundered. No. 7 was casting. For no reason at all the plunger stuck in the bottom of the well and No. 7's clutch chattered and shook the entire machine before High-Pockets shut off the power. High-Pockets revolved and looked at the judge and raised his eyebrows, then rang the bell. This time the machinist was entirely speechless. High-Pockets pointed to the plunger. Arturius worked on it but couldn't get it loose. He got a Crescent wrench. "Get hold of the first-elevator cam," he said, "and back her up while I twist the plunger." His Honor stood by, waiting to take up the battle with High-Pockets. High-Pockets got hold of the cam with a sardonic set to his lips. He yanked hard. No. 7 would find out who was boss. But when he pulled, the screw holding the end of the second elevator starting spring came loose and the spring shot the screw into High-Pockets' ribs with the force of a bullet. High-Pockets merely grunted.