Another serious incident--to be also kept from the invalid--shortly followed. The article in the “Clarion” had borne its fruit. The third day after his resignation a rival paper sharply retorted. “The cowardly insinuations against the record of a justly honored capitalist,” said the “Pioneer,” “although quite in keeping with the brazen 'Clarion,' might attract the attentions of the slandered party, if it were not known to his friends as well as himself that it may be traced almost directly to a cast-off member of his own family, who, it seems, is reduced to haunting the back doors of certain blatant journals to dispose of his cheap wares. The slanderer is secure from public exposure in the superior decency of his relations, who refrain from airing their family linen upon editorial lines.” This was the journal to which John Milton had hopefully turned for work. When he read it there seemed but one thing for him to do--and he did it. Gentle and optimistic as was his nature, he had been brought up in a community where sincere directness of personal offense was followed by equally sincere directness of personal redress, and--he challenged the editor. The bearer of his cartel was one Jack Hamlin, I grieve to say a gambler by profession, but between whom and John Milton had sprung up an odd friendship of which the best that can be said is that it was to each equally and unselfishly unprofitable. The challenge was accepted, the preliminaries arranged. “I suppose,” said Jack carelessly, “as the old man ought to do something for your wife in case of accident, you've made some sort of a will?” “I've thought of that,” said John Milton, dubiously, “but I'm afraid it's no use. You see”--he hesitated--“I'm not of age.” “May I ask how old you are, sonny?” said Jack with great gravity. “I'm almost twenty,” said John Milton, coloring. “It isn't exactly vingt-et-un, but I'd stand on it; if I were you I wouldn't draw to such a hand,” said Jack, coolly.