While Frances had been standing in hesitation before the figure of the
saint, she had heard with some alarm a rumbling noise in the room she was
about to enter. The rumbling is destined, in my opinion, to go down the
line of the ages, an instrument of untold good to mankind, for it was the
rumbling of a printing-press.
Standing at the press, lifting and lowering it by means of a foot
lever, and feeding it with broad strips of paper, stood a man in his
shirt-sleeves. At an inclined desk, a type-case, stood another man
setting type, close beside the press. He, also, was in his shirt-sleeves
and was much older and stouter than the man at the press.
The rumbling had drowned the slight noise occasioned by the opening of
the door, so that Frances stood waiting a full minute before she was
observed. The stout man at the type-case was the first to see her, and
when he turned, she asked, trembling:--
"I am seeking Master Hamilton. Shall I find him here?"
The man at the press then turned quickly to Frances. His face was
smooth shaven, but was almost covered with printers' ink, giving him the
appearance of a blackamoor. The stout man at the type-case, failing to
respond, and the other being apparently too surprised to speak, Frances
went to the blackamoor and, standing beside the press, was about to
repeat her inquiry.
The type-case, press, and a small table, on which lay a bundle of white
paper, all stood huddled together in the centre of the room, occupying a
space of perhaps eight feet square.
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