Catching the Mail.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume VIII, Issue 2, 1 May 1903, Page 128

Catching the Mail.

By REVILE

fHE hustling, bustling scene, " Catching the Mail/ is a familiar one in almost every evening newspaper office in the colony, especially so in up-country offices where the appliances are of the crudest, and eminently unfitted for speedy production. At a certain hour of the day a number of papers (perhaps only half-dozen copies), have to be printed, wrappered, and made up into parcels in order to be despatched by train, coach, or waggon service as the case may be. If the mail service is not punctually met, there is sure to be a row. The subscribers affected naturally growl and indite complaints to the editor, couched in the ; choicest back-blocks Billingsgate, about the irregular delivery of their penny rag — some even containing the ever ready threat to "Knock it off." In turn, the worried editor becomes exceeding wrath, and passes the' invective on to his staff, accusing them of bungling and every other misdeed under the sun. The causes which lead up to this " catching ike mail turmoil " are many and various. In the lirst place, the natural tendency to get as much copy in type as possible before the mail closes, or train departs, often proves disastrous, as it considerably limits the time for the proper arrangement of mechanical details. In some offices, there is no system or management ; on some of the struggling sheets only two men and a boy are employed, and consequently, " the staff " are always working at high pressure. Bad copy, dirty proofs, typograghi--cal mishaps, breakdown of machines

(monolines and linotypes in the larger offices not excepted), sickness, &c, all contribute to the trials and tribulations of newspaper life. As an example, we will select a bush township office, where the oft recurring " scene " is both excitingand amusing, as the following sketch will show : — It is a blazing hot day, and the afternoon express train from Kauriville to Gumtown is shortly due. The long-wooled, beery-faced, slo-venly-dressed, corpulent bush-edi-tor, canvasser, reporter, typesnatcher, etc., with streams of perspiration pouring down his frontispiece, struggles up-stairs to the composing room. In one hand he excitedly nourishes a number of proofs ; in the other, he holds a huge slice of bread and butter, which he ravenously devours in a couple of mouthfuls. The poor fellow is so hunprv and over-worked, that he cannot spare a moment to eat his meal in a dignified manner. The hurly-burly commences by the bush-editor howling out innumerable orders. " Now, Mooney," he shouts, "slap it together ; don't wait for anything ; cut it down ; those woodhen items can hold over ; and don't bother about that Grasstown gossip ! Express '11 be here in a few minutes ! Tompkins swears he's got no paper for over a week ! We'll lose every bloomin' subscriber if we don't catch that train today ! " Wobbling round to the printers' frames, he tears up all remaining copy, and terrifies the comps with, his wild gesticulations and fiery language.

" Here, you fellows, take up a proof each ; they're shockingly dirty, too ; full of abominable errors ; outs and doubles wholesale! Brainless lot— can't spell— got no idea of punctuation ! That fancy dress ball is all jumbled up into a hopeless mixture ! I'd get better work from niggers ! Plain reprint, too ! Bless my soul — can't — oh, I'm simply disgusted with such galoots ! " Recovering his breath, he continues : — " Here ! What's this ? Farmer Twinkle's death mixed up in sporting news : ' The deceased suffered from an internal complaint, and with 9st. up, led nearly all the way, till passing the grandstand when Sourgrass came with a tremendous rush, and the pie-bald gelding won by half a nose. He lived a goodly virgin's life, and despite the efforts of the medical man, passed peacefully away.' And here's another nice mess : ' The bride was given away by her father who looked charming, being prettily attired in a beautiful cretonne dress, and wearing the usual bridal veil. Great Heavens, that birth rate article of mine has got stuck in the stock report ! Grossly libellous mistakes ! Are you all mad ? You infernal empty-heads ! I'll get rid of the lot of you, making the paper ridiculous with your cursed silliness ! " " Better pay up thati six weeks' screw you owe me, or there'll he trouble," mutters Lean Bill from the corner frame. The B.E. disappears, and there is a lull for a few minutes until he again scrambles upstairs, and exclaims : " Come on, Mooney, move round, can't you ? Express is coming ; heard her whistling down the line ; and the other rag is out ! Now don't hang back, slap the stuff together ; we must make a rush for it ! " Mooney, the foreman, has not yet recovered from the previous night's carouse, and is not exerting himself in the least.

Vol. VIII. -No. 2.-9.

" Nearly a column short/ lie mutters sulkily in reply. " Goodness gracious ! whatever " gasps the B.E. in alarm. " You lazy hounds ! Stick in a couple of those Sarsparilla blocks ; and that Babbit Board Meeting can go in again, nobody' ll be any wiser." In a hurry-scurry fashion, the " matter " is carried downstairs, and is slid off. The B.E. is fearfully flurried, and as a consequence is responsible for piles of pye and sundry other damage. In one breath, he shouts, "Where's the mallet— find the plainer— get some leads — have you spaced out those columns ? — l've lost my rule — who's got the shooter ? — confound it ! that blessed boy hasn't altered the date line, careless young devil, not worth his salt ! " More delays occur. The B.E. is waxing yet more furious every moment, and vents Ms wrath on Mooney. " Why the devil don't you damp the galleys, Mooney. Been on the wine again, you drunken wretch, eh ? " Mooney is indignant, and a heated cross-fire follows. Mooney threatens to leave at once, but is subdued when the B.E. whispsrs something about " having a drink after." At last, the formes are on the machine, and the command is sounded, " Man at the wheel wanted." Lean Bill performs this duty, which consists in turning a handle attached to a dray wheel, three revolutions being given to each paper. The handle is released, and the lumbering, broken-down wharfdale set going. " She's in, and the five minutes' bell's just gone ! " exclaims " Peter the Devil."' A couple of papers have been printed, when Mooney cries out, " Stop, stop ! Type under the forme ! Column rules cutting the paper ! " The B.E. raves and swears. A

handful of pye is brought to light, and a fresh start made. Another cry from Mooney : "Hold on, no impression ; paper not printing." Terrible oaths from B.E. He experiments with the screw-driver. " Therei you are, go on, go on V " One, two, three," he counts up to twenty. " Here you are, don't stop to fold them ; never mind about the string ; hang the stamps !

Run for ~ your life, quick, quick ! There's the whistle ; she's off ! " The excitement is intense. Even odds are laid against Peter's chance of beating the train, but he fairly leaps over the ground, and covers the' distance in record time. He catches the eye of the guard, and springs forward to the van. The official grasps the parcel — thank heaven, the precious bundle's safe. The mail has been caught !