Not only their noise alone suggested the surf. These machines, standing side by side and oscillating with a measured clatter, brought to mind the seething foam on the sea-shore, the restless stirring of the pebbles, and the splashing waves that storm the boulders with impotent fury. The metal lilies set by the compositor contain thoughts and images. The galleys the pages of a future book are tightly locked in neat frames. Sheets of white paper slip down the chute to the drum.
Black rollers slide rhythmically over the type held in the chase.
Metal fingers take the printed pages off the drum and place them on the pile growing beside the machine. This was the first night that Mihas Lazunok was in charge of a flat printing press. The boy was filled with the joy of labour. All Mihas had to do was to see that the machine ran smoothly, but that did not prevent him from feeling that he was the foreman. From the eminence of his fifteen years, he gazed down importantly at the machine.