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job to keep the various printing teams supplied, bringing to them
whatever was needed as it was needed; and by-my-word those lads hustled
throughout the day every day.)
Then, when done, the entire composing process had to be reversed.
First, each piece had to be cleaned before it could be put away and then
put away with even greater speed and accuracy than when it was first
removed, back into its proper drawer or the whole shop would be thrown
into an uproar at the misplaced characters with pressmen accusing each
other of sabotage or some other such ridiculous thing, taking it out on
the apprentices, smacking them about, which was totally unnecessary.
Now, once an initial print was made, the paper had to be proofread,
which was done by the Pressman, the Compositor and Mr. Watt; and if
it passed we set about printing thousands of pages; and according to our
standards, we could print upwards to 240 pages, on one side, in an hour
or four per minute or one every 15 seconds; or, if you prefer, 2,880 sheets
in a 12 hour working day, providing that we started straight away at 7
A.M., as we normally did, and that everything worked perfectly, which
WILLIAM M. CULLEN 57
it didn t. Typically, we could print up over 2,500 sheets on a very good
day. Therefore, speed, endurance, timing and materials are all essential
to good printing, with typesetting, as mentioned, restricted to daylight
hours only because by candlelight, errors can be made, and that, as I have
said, has proven to be quite costly. And speaking of expenses, to give you
some idea Dear Reader, typical wages are 6 pence for 1,000 letters set and
printed with the largest share going to the Pressman; thereby, allowing
me to make about £1.20p/week, on average. An average tradesman earns
£40/yr. or 77p/week. Therefore, I was getting very good pay.
What made the printer s work even tougher was that most of the men
at Watt s, like at Palmer s, liked to drink beer all day long; and being a
Puritan that did not sit well with me. They had beer for their breaks, their
mid-day meals, and . . . , whenever they could get it. These men would
argue that Strong beer makes for strong work. I had to get them to stop
it, or at least cut back, and that is when the smearing, or the lack thereof,
improved. That s what I had to do over at Palmer s Print Shop, as well,
before coming to work at Watt s.
Before leaving work that day, I asked Mr. Crook if he would make me
a few prints of the girl s image with his copper etching, which he gladly
did, allowing me to have a few prints to take along with me for showing
around, to see if I could get anyone to recognize her even tho the picture
would be in Wednesday s edition as well. (I told Crook I would pay him
for these, but he said not to worry about it.) However, I wanted to get the
image, and news, of her death out there as soon as I possibly could; thus,
that is why I wanted Wygate with me this night, so we could continue
what we had started last night. (Secretly, I had hoped that no one in
Whitechapel would recognize her, for if they did, then my instincts about
her social status could be proven wrong.)
Even tho it was just past five o clock, and I still hadn t heard back
from Mr. Watt about whether Wygate would be allowed to go into
Whitechapel with me; therefore, I decided to seek out Wygate and to ask
him if he would like to go along with me anyways, after work, imagining
that he might not after a hard day of hawking and delivering papers.
Are you kidding me? he answered enthusiastically but, then, getting
a rather glum look upon his face.
What s the problem? I asked.
My parents, he said glumly. They don t want me going anywhere
nears the East End, let alone going into Whitechapel.
58 THE PRINTER S VAMPYR
Ah, I replied. Wise parents indeed, but don t you worry about that
for I ll think of something, and then we ll then slip into . . . Suddenly,
Wygate stood a little more erect than usual, glaring at someone who was
coming up from behind me. I turned to look. It was Mr. Trundle.
Ah, Franklin, he said. I hear you want to go into Whitechapel, for
your story.
John Trundle, my fellow pressman and our chapel-shop Foreman, was a
stout and hearty Scotsman; a man who is nearly twice my age. John was
born and raised in Glasgow and has a bit of a cock of-walk about him
having grown up as a working-class kid. He had told me that he had been
in a couple of hard scraps when he was a lad but mostly I found him
to be an easy going, hard-working man. He seemed to live by a simple
code, which is if you respected him and were fair he would be the same
towards you. His hair was black with shades of gray slipping in around
his ears, making him look more mature than he sometimes was; plus, he
had these deep, dark, brown eyes that held a hint of Scottish mischief
about them. He was certainly not a man that I would want as an enemy,
but as a friend.
Aye John, I do, I replied, being a bit surprised that he was interested
in my plans, realizing that Mr. Watt must have spoken to him.
And you can t be serious about taking that boy . . . , pointing at
Wygate while addressing me directly with his thick Scottish brogue, into
that bloody district alone, are you?
Aye, I answered. I figured we would be over and back within an
hour s time.
He just shook his head. That place is filled with murdering thieves
who would not give a damn about killing the likes of you two for a
shilling.
Aye; but I want us to see where those other girls had been left.
And why is that so important to you?
It ll give me an idea into how this killer thinks.
How he thinks? he said, scoffing at me. I ll tell you how he thinks,
he thinks like a bloody madman.
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