CHAPTER 8COMING BACK to the printshop from his early supper, Cappy Ayers found Bruce Powell at the box-like desk beside the type case, again looking over the latest issue of the Enterprise. Cappy belched in tribute to his evening meal and paused to repack his cheek with tobacco. Then he sighed. He was a man who asked very little of this world: a place to sleep, enough tobacco and food, and a printing press to work with. The arrangement at the Enterprise suited him thoroughly and he lived in hourly fear that the major would sometime follow up his periodic threat and stop issuing the paper.
“How’s she look?” He asked anxiously.
“A little smudged.” Powell spoke without looking up.
“Bad paper,” said Cappy defensively. “Next order we get will be better.”
Bruce Powell tossed the paper aside.
