Canadian Film Weekly (May 21, 1947)

Page 4 the age of 13 a pal told me about a “Boy Wanted” sign hanging on the door of a printshop. I applied, was taken on, liked the craft, went through my “time” and stayed on for years as a journeyman. The composing Ge after I quit school .at room of a printing house is a great place for prodding the urge to learn. The little leaden soldiers of enlightenment, forever parading past, leave their footprints on the imagination. When I learned that the “comp room” had provided the personal background of some great writers I got busy— with boyish unangelic fool-rushing — and began to scribble. Much history was made between the time I entered that shop as a printer’s devil and ‘the day I said goodbye to sticks and stones to see if words would never hurt me. Being at best a minor literary craftsman, there were times when sticks and stones, with their sure weekly wage, seemed heavenly compared with what remuneration words brought forth. My first writing was done on the Chief’s best newsprint, torn four out of a 28x32 sheet. This papyri pilferage was made possible by his orders to use it for pulling proofs. A brass galley, turned upside down on the sloping service of a type rack, served as a desk. When this method wasn’t safe I set my thoughts directly in type. That’s an old trick of literary typos. Whitman, Twain, Harte and the rest of the old school of scribbling printers did that. Through the space. between the end of my type rack and a large post—a line of vision as accurate as a gun sight—one eye watched the Chief at his desk behind the rail. The other was devoted to the task sinister. The nearest ear was pointed to pick up the first scrape of his chair when he pushed it back to rise—a dead giveaway. Thus highly organized I parried his habit of popping up unexpectedly with new duties for me. The old Chief wasn’t fooled by either the singular quiet or the unusual activity of his devil. Mainly our breed was distinguished by the crafty clamor which signifieth delinquence. Once he caught me. But not a word came that proved him aware of my bravery. My conscience remained undisturbed. This -was the slow period between the departure of one Voter's List and the arrival of the next. After a few weeks work would start filtering in. rs oF % st Canadian FILM WEEKLY Lines From a Devil’s Notebook ) Probably showmen have a closer acquaintanceship with printing and printers than members of any other unrelated craft. Though many may not need an explanation of typo terminology as it appears in this article, I will nevertheless explain some words and avoid the use of quotation marks with them when they are repeated later. A “stick” is the hand-held article in which handset type is placed, after which it is transferred to a flat open-end implement known as a “galley,” then removed to a worktable now commonly made of steel but which is still called a “stone” be-_ cause in ancient days it was made of that. Outmoded terms are still used in the printing industry, perhaps because of their honorable history. A “barnstorming” printer wandered from one “office’’—as printing houses are still called—to another. Such typos, now almost extinct, were “tramps.” A composing-room apprentice is, of course, known as a “devil.” This article is used to fill On the Square because the time needed to attend the Los Angeles convention of the Variety Clubs made it impossible to gather the usual subject matter. Some of the staff would be called back from fishing grounds and ball games — perhaps an old journeyman and a young one, a pressman and an apprentice. Meanwhile the Chief sat at his desk and stared at the empty shop and silent machines, lost in retrospection. Did the ceiling-high racks of obsolete type that clung to one wall represent to him a last link with a well-loved past? They belonged to a vanished day when this very place was full of moustachio’d comrades with plunging arms. Not the tinkle and clatter of linotypes filled the ear then but a thousand little clicks of type being lined up on sticks. He loved to putter about the abandoned cases, mumbling praise of the old type’s lasting face and its staunch and silvery innards. They didn’t make type like that any more. Foundries wanted it to lend strength to the melting pot from which came the modern metal mollycoddles. No, it wasn’t for sale, And he was happy. For where is there greater peace than among machines resting quietly from duty well and profitably done? ELL he knew his devils, did this old one. Let the truant have his vagaries in this, the slack period. Had he not been one himself ‘Way Back When’’? Printers were the unknown soldiers of literature then, The composing room was the road to the —‘editorial chair, ‘the poor man’s university.” What were the “rule-twisters” of his youth but artists? Why, they could build. you a house with enough brass rule! The tang of those days was strong in those easy afternoons when the same old sun sneaked through the dingy windows, spinning a golden weave around the forgotten gas jets and decorating the well-chipped stone with shadowy lace. That stone had been sinning among other billiard tables when he bought it, ripped off its green mask and gave. it respectability. Though a bachelor, the Chief was the scion of a family that had served the Art Preservative of All Arts for almost a century and a half. For most of that time the firm had been the City Printers. For more than a half century those same windows had born the legend as proudly as a coat of arms. The men of the family, printers all, had borne the distinction . with dignity. Though now the firm received but a small share of municipal printing, the Chief still cherished the privilege. Cuts of civic crests, many worn thin and long unused, were isolated and guarded tenderly. As with his departed fellow, Ben Franklin, printing to him was more than a craft. It was a semi-sacred mystery, handed down by the favored of old to be held in trust for Mankind. Printers, in Incunabula' days, were ranking men. They supplemented the Church and squired Knowledge. Were not the places of work still known by the time May 21, 1947 honored term, “chapel’’? So they were known when monks “com posed” the first books five cen. turies ago and so they are know now. : This conviction led him to le several languages, patronize the Arts and concern himself with the needy. The Renaissance printer had been permitted to wear a sword as a mark of standing, The Chief still wore one mentally. Though the old-timers revered him, he was a symbol of terror to the careless, young and old alike. A mixed-up case of type was criminal. Lead poisoning was the result of neglected ablutions and thus deserved, Chewing tobacco was all right, old fellow, but don’t miss the target! The fast-fading tramp typos from other havens of the craft were thrice-welcome. But chronic topers were taboo — wanderer or settled brother of the stick. They couldn’t set their way out of an alcoholic drought in his office. No, by damn, no! Think not that his Olympian bearing removed from him the eapacity for just rage. To the conscientious he was a rewarding angel. But to the dishonest he was an agent of Purgatory calling to his own in a terrible voice. When angered the vernacular of his years of barnstorming came boiling out in 4 withering tide. And only one could shush him —that one the ancient dry-faced Alex he of the Iush grey Moustache dyed with the dribbled — brown of masticatory tobacco. Alex was a sort of honorary foreman. He had taught the Chief the trade and served his father before him. A DOZEN years hurried past + before I left the-shop and drifted from one thing and one place to another as a fret lance writer, a term which Covers a multitude of uncertainties. Then home again after one jour ney, I stood across the road and looked at the old shop. A score of years had gone by since I al swered that “Boy Wanted” sign. The grimy windows still advised that the City Printers carried on inside. The Chief, I thought, must still be sitting at his desk, play ing cat-and-mouse with his cur rent devil. I stood there, tempted to cross the street and re-enter the scene of my industrial youth. But I was afraid. As long 4% I stayed on the outside, no mat ter how close or how far away: to me the Chief would still bé® sitting there. But if I passed through that familiar door « - So after a while I went away: