titles of the remaining books did not catch the eye. As they waited,
for no "pages" would be ready for them for some time, Mike glanced at
stray numbers of two trade journals. It seemed to him strange that
the same compositors who set up these papers should set up the
_Pilgrim_.

Presently the "pages" began to come in, but long delays intervened,
and it transpired that some of the "copy" was not yet in type. Frank
grew weary, and he complained of headache, and asked Mike to see the
paper through for him. Mike thought Frank selfish, but there was no
help for it. He could not refuse, but must wait in the paraffin-like
smell of the ink, listening to the droning voice of the reading-boy.
If he could only get the proof of his poem he could kill time by
correcting it; but it could not be obtained. Two hours passed, and
he still sat watching the red beard of a compositor, and the crimson
volutes of an ear. At last the printer's devil, his short sleeves
rolled up, brought in a couple of pages. Mike read, following the
lines with his pen, correcting the literals, and he cursed when the
"devil" told him that ten more lines of copy were wanting to complete
page nine. What should he write?

About two o'clock, holding her ball-skirts out of the dirt, a lady
entered.

"How do you do, Emily?" said Mike. "Just fancy seeing you here, and
at this hour!" He was glad of the interruption; but his pleasure was
dashed by the fear that she would ask him to come home with her.

"Oh, I have had such a pleasant party; So-and-so sang at Lady
Southey's. Oh, I have enjoyed myself! I knew I should find you here;