“Yes.”
“Hoe rotary?”
“Do you mean a lightning press?”
“Right.”
“Yes.”
“Potter cylindrical?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Hughes furrowed his brows. He seemed to think for a few seconds before wetting his lips. “Where’d you learn?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Jesse swallowed thickly, a sudden swell of nervousness in his throat.
“Before I came to Putnam, I trained elsewhere.”
Mr. Hughes hummed. He shook his head a little, the movement practically imperceptible, while his blue eyes continued to bore into Jesse’s soul. All of a sudden, Jesse found Mr. Hughes so surprisingly stunning that he could barely even breathe.
“Not at Hughes Press,” the man said. He leaned in closer. “I would have remembered you.” Jesse’s heart slammed into his rib cage from the unspeakablesomethingin Mr. Hughes’s voice. Before Jesse could even begin to react to it, Mr. Arthur Hughes cleared his throat and straightened his posture, like maybe he had suddenly remembered himself. “What I meant to say is that not many engineers wind up working as pressmen. Do they?”
All Jesse could manage was a very soft “no.”
No, not many engineers were in Jesse’s position. Because most had finished college.
Mr. Hughes covered the lower half of his face with his hand. Spinning around, he tapped his lips with his index finger a couple of times like he was thinking something over. Jesse was still trying to process their exchange when Mr. Hughes then whirled back to face him, clapping his hands with a flourish.
“Mr. O’Connor, I’d like for you to come in next Sunday. I need to learn how every single one of these presses operate. All of the presses here as well as the ones I have over at Hughes.”
Jesse spluttered an incredulous, “Why?”
He wasn’t fond of the idea of coming in on a Sunday, not when he’d already have come in on Saturday to print one of the Sunday papers as well. Most importantly, he wasn’t fond of the idea of spending more time with Mr. Hughes.
In response to Jesse’s show of incredulity, Mr. Hughes simply smiled. It wasn’t a fake smile this time, but one that lit up his whole face, brightening his striking facial features.
“Have you heard of the World’s Columbian Exposition?” he asked, his voice tinged with something Jesse couldn’t exactly place. Almost... child-like enthusiasm.
“Hasn’t everyone?” Jesse said.
Mr. Hughes spread out his hands in front of him as though to say “there you have it.” Did the man really think that bringing up the upcoming World’s Fair sufficiently explained his sudden desire to learn how printing presses worked?
Jesse cocked an eyebrow—a silent request for further explanation.
Mr. Hughes exclaimed, “Well, it is my sincerest hope to become one of the fair’s exhibitors!”
Mr. Hughes’s excited tone suggested that, to him, the possibility of exhibiting in the fair was the highest honor that a person could ever earn. And for some people—innovators who had come from more modest means—perhaps it would be. But Jesse couldn’t really fathom why someone like Arthur Hughes would care about such a thing.
Mr. Hughes was ridiculously wealthy. In every single way. Prestige? Money? Notoriety? Arthur had them in spades. Just by being born into the Hughes family, those things had been bestowed upon him. Arthur Hughes had enough money invested in various businesses that he could remain in bed for an entire decade doing nothing except gorging himself on the most expensive and lavish delicacies and he’dstillmake over ten-fold more than Jesse ever could in that time, even if Jesse worked harder than he ever had before in his life.
Arthur Hughes had everything. And he still wanted more.
Jesse curled his lip as these thoughts flitted through his head. At least Mr. Hughes’s selfishness and conceit had momentarily made him moderately less bewitching.
“Sunday,” Jesse repeated with a sigh. “Alright, fine.”
"Fantastic. What time of day works for you?"
