the fourth roll, which has a torn cover; it will soon be rolled into the workshop. The three preceding ones are standing in front of it like hour-glasses; their turn will come, will surely come, and after that—death.
The heat in the printing-house increased with every puff of the vaporizer which moistens the paper; Kuba felt a rivulet of perspiration running down his shoulder-blades. But whenever he bent his head forward a stream of icy cold October air from outside struck his temples; his head was reeling with a fit of appalling toothache, and mad fury shook his whole fame.
This accursed, hellish pain had been the cause of all his troubles! Every night, as soon as he had taken his stand at the machine, it had seized upon him, and held his head as in a vice. Just a fortnight ago, on a night like this, Kuba had tried a remedy that some one had recommended, he did not remember who: ‘Drink half a pint of brandy in one draught, and in two twinks the pain will leave you . . . absolutely dead gone.’
He had never drunk brandy as long as he lived, but on that occasion he did. The pain really had left him, but when the overseer
