“Sabots?” cried old Sechard, “Sabots?  There, take the inventory and let us go downstairs.  You will soon see whether your paltry iron-work contrivances will work like these solid old tools, tried and trusty.  You will not have the heart after that to slander honest old presses that go like mail coaches, and are good to last you your lifetime without needing repairs of any sort.  Sabots!  Yes, sabots that are like to hold salt enough to cook your eggs with—­sabots that your father has plodded on with these twenty years; they have helped him to make you what you are.”

The father, without coming to grief on the way, lurched down the worn, knotty staircase that shook under his tread.  In the passage he opened the door of the workshop, flew to the nearest press (artfully oiled and cleaned for the occasion) and pointed out the strong oaken cheeks, polished up by the apprentice.

“Isn’t it a love of a press?”

A wedding announcement lay in the press.  The old “bear” folded down the frisket upon the tympan, and the tympan upon the form, ran in the carriage, worked the lever, drew out the carriage, and lifted the frisket and tympan, all with as much agility as the youngest of the tribe.  The press, handled in this sort, creaked aloud in such fine style that you might have thought some bird had dashed itself against the window pane and flown away again.

“Where is the English press that could go at that pace?” the parent asked of his astonished son.

Old Sechard hurried to the second, and then to the third in order, repeating the manoeuvre with equal dexterity.  The third presenting to his wine-troubled eye a patch overlooked by the apprentice, with a notable oath he rubbed it with the skirt of his overcoat, much as a horse-dealer polishes the coat of an animal that he is trying to sell.

“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 Angouleme 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.