A compositor does not look at the letters when he sets type. His eyes remain fixed on the manuscript copy pinned to the visor of his composing stick. His right hand moves across the wooden compartments of the California Job Case like a pianist’s fingers across keys he has known since childhood.
The letter 'e' lives in the largest compartment, right in the center, worn smooth by a hundred thousand thumb movements. The 'q' and 'x' are tucked into small bins in the upper corner, cold and rarely visited.
Donald MacLean would stand behind me with a folded rule in his fist. If my hand hesitated for more than half a breath over the compartment for the lowercase 'h', the rule would tap against the rim of my composing stick.
"You're not searching for an idea, Montgomery," he would say in that low Highland rumble. "The idea is already written. You are simply giving it iron teeth."