Gluck nodded his head.

“There are seventy thousand orthodox Jews in London alone,” said De Haan, with rotund enunciation.  “So you see what you may have to print.  It’ll be worth your while to do it extra cheap.”

Gluck agreed readily, naming a low figure.  After half an hour’s discussion it was reduced by ten per cent.

“Good-bye, then,” said De Haan.  “So let it stand.  We shall start with a thousand copies of the first number, but where we shall end, the Holy One, blessed be He, alone knows.  I will now leave you and the editor to talk over the rest.  To-day’s Monday.  We must have the first number out by Friday week.  Can you do that, Mr. Leon?”

“Oh, that will be ample,” said Raphael, shooting out his arms.

He did not remain of that opinion.  Never had he gone through such an awful, anxious time, not even in his preparations for the stiffest exams.  He worked sixteen hours a day at the paper.  The only evening he allowed himself off was when he dined with Mrs. Henry Goldsmith and met Esther.  First numbers invariably take twice as long to produce as second numbers, even in the best regulated establishments.  All sorts of mysterious sticks and leads, and fonts and forms, are found wanting at the eleventh hour.  As a substitute for gray hair-dye there is nothing in the market to compete with the production of first numbers.  But in Gluck’s establishment, these difficulties were multiplied by a hundred.  Gluck spent a great deal of time in going round the corner to get something from a brother printer.  It took an enormous time to get a proof of any article out of Gluck.

“My men are so careful,” Gluck explained.  “They don’t like to pass anything till it’s free from typos.”

The men must have been highly disappointed, for the proofs were invariably returned bristling with corrections and having a highly hieroglyphic appearance.  Then Gluck would go in and slang his men.  He kept them behind the partition painted “Private.”

The fatal Friday drew nearer and nearer.  By Thursday not a single page had been made up.  Still Gluck pointed out that there were only eight, and the day was long.  Raphael had not the least idea in the world how to make up a paper, but about eleven little Sampson kindly strolled into Gluck’s, and explained to his editor his own method of pasting the proofs on sheets of paper of the size of the pages.  He even made up one page himself to a blithe vocal accompaniment.  When the busy composer and acting-manager hurried off to conduct a rehearsal, Raphael expressed his gratitude warmly.  The hours flew; the paper evolved as by geologic stages.  As the fateful day wore on, Gluck was scarcely visible for a moment.  Raphael was left alone eating his heart out in the shop, and solacing himself with huge whiffs of smoke.  At immense intervals Gluck appeared from behind the partition bearing a page or a galley slip.  He said his men could not be trusted to do their work