“With those three presses, David, you can make your nine thousand francs a year without a foreman. As your future partner, I am opposed to your replacing these presses by your cursed cast-iron machinery, that wears out the type. You in Paris have been making such a to-do over that damned Englishman’s invention--a foreigner, an enemy of France who wants to help the ironfounders to a fortune. Oh! you wanted Stanhopes, did you? Thanks for your Stanhopes, that cost two thousand five hundred francs apiece, about twice as much as my three jewels put together, and maul your type to pieces, because there is no give in them. I haven’t book-learning like you, but you keep this well in mind, the life of the Stanhope is the death of the type. Those three presses will serve your turn well enough, the printing will be properly done, and folk here in Angoulême won’t ask any more of you. You may print with presses made of wood or iron or gold or silver, _they_ will never pay you a farthing more.” “‘Item,’” pursued David, “‘five thousand pounds weight of type from M. Vaflard’s foundry----’” Didot’s apprentice could not help smiling at the name. “Laugh away! After twelve years of wear, that type is as good as new. That is what I call a typefounder! M. Vaflard is an honest man, who uses hard metal; and, to my way of thinking, the best typefounder is the one you go to most seldom.” “‘----Taken at ten thousand francs,’” continued David. “Ten thousand francs, father! Why, that is two francs a pound, and the Messrs. Didot only ask thirty-six sous for their _Cicero_! These nail-heads of yours will only fetch the price of old metal--fivepence a pound.” “You call M. Gillé’s italics, running-hand and round-hand, ‘nail-heads,’ do you? M. Gillé, that used to be printer to the Emperor! And type that costs six francs a pound! masterpieces of engraving, bought only five years ago. Some of them are as bright yet as when they came from the foundry. Look here!” Old Séchard pounced upon some packets of unused sorts, and held them out for David to see. “I am not book-learned; I don’t know how to read or write; but, all the same, I know enough to see that M. Gillé’s sloping letters are the fathers of your Messrs. Didot’s English running-hand. Here is the round-hand,” he went on, taking up an unused pica type. David saw that there was no way of coming to terms with his father. It was a case of Yes or No--of taking or leaving it. The very ropes across the ceiling had gone down into the old “bear’s” inventory, and not the smallest item was omitted; jobbing chases, wetting-boards, paste-pots, rinsing-trough, and lye-brushes had all been put down and valued separately with miserly exactitude. The total amounted to thirty thousand francs, including the license and the goodwill. David asked himself whether or not this thing was feasible.