"This," explained Mr. Hawley, "is the stereotype-casting room of which I
told you. It is here that the _papier-mache_ forms made from the forms
you saw in linotype are brought and cast in solid pieces for the
presses. Let us watch the process. You can see how they fasten the paper
impression around this mold so that the cast of it can be taken. The hot
metal is run in, and pressed into every depression of the cardboard.
The thickness of these semi-cylindrical casts is carefully specified and
over there is a machine that pares off or smooths away all superfluous
material so that they come out exactly the proper thickness; otherwise
they would not fit the rollers of the press."

Paul watched. Sure enough! After being cast, the sections of stereotype
were put into the machine indicated and moved quickly along, being
planed off as they went; when they emerged the wrong side of them was
smooth and even.

"This kettle or tank of hot metal," went on Mr. Hawley, pointing to a
vat of seething composition, "has to be kept, as I explained to you, at
a specified degree of heat if we are to get successful stereotypes of
our forms. Therefore a great deal depends on the skill and judgment of
the man who prepares and melts down the mixture bubbling in that kettle.
Without his brain and experience there could be no newspapers."

As he spoke Mr. Hawley waved a salutation to the workman in blue
overalls who was studying the indicator beside the furnace.

"That indicator tells the exact temperature of the melted solution in
the kettle; also the temperature of the furnace. There can be no
variation in heat without hindering the work of casting, and perhaps
wrecking the casts and wasting a quantity of material. So on that
little chap over there by the fire hangs our fate."

The workman heard the words and smiled, and Paul smiled in return.

"Do they make stereotypes for circular rollers and print books this same
way?" he asked.

"No. Most books are electrotyped, the machinery being much less complex
than is the newspaper press. A rotary press cannot do such fine or
accurate work."

For a moment they lingered, watching the busy scene with its shifting
figures. Then they stepped into the elevator and were shot up to the
street level. The hands of the clock stood at eleven when at last they
emerged upon the sidewalk.

Paul sighed.

"Tired?"

"Rather, sir; aren't you?"

"Well, I just feel as if I had played sixteen holes of golf,