"Will you tell who the author is now?" asked James, impatient to obtain the long-sought information. "Perhaps I will if you are very anxious to know." "Of course I am, and every one else who is interested in the paper." That was the crisis to James. We can scarcely conceive of its interest to the boy-writer. His time of triumph had come. James had not treated him very well, and we think he enjoyed that moment of victory a little more for that reason. That would have been human, and Benjamin was human. His ruse had proved successful, and his talents, too. Now he could startle his brother as much as would a thunder-bolt out of a clear sky. So he answered his inquiry by saying,-- "Benjamin Franklin "; and he said it with emphasis and an air of triumph. If James' countenance could have been photographed at that moment, it would have shown a mixture of amazement, incredulity, and wonder. It was several moments before he so far recovered from the shock as to be able to speak. "What! Do you mean to say that you wrote those articles?" Benjamin might have discovered some doubt in James' tone and appearance when he spoke. "Certainly I do." "But it is not your handwriting." "It is my handwriting disguised. I wa' n't fool enough to let you have the articles in my own handwriting without disguise, when I wished to conceal the authorship." "What could possibly be your object in doing so?" "That the articles might be fairly examined. If I had proposed to write an article for your paper, you would have said that I, a printer-boy, could write nothing worthy of print." "But if I had seen and read the articles, knowing them to be yours, I should have judged them fairly," James insisted, evidently feeling somewhat hurt by his brother's last remark. Nevertheless, Benjamin was right. It is probable that his articles would have been rejected, had he offered them in his own name to the critics. "Well, that was my plan, and the articles have had a fair show, and I am satisfied, whether you are or not," was Benjamin's reply in an independent spirit. Here the conversation dropped. James bestowed no words of commendation upon his brother's ability. Perhaps he thought that he had praised the articles enough when he did not know who the author was. But he appeared to be abstracted in thought until some of the "knot of liberals" came in. "I have discovered who 'Silence Dogood' is," he said. "You have? Who can it be?" and the speaker was very much surprised. "No one that you have dreamed of." "Is that so? I am all the more anxious to learn who it is," he continued. "There he is," replied James, pointing to Benjamin, who was setting type a little more briskly than usual, as if he was oblivious to what was going on. "What! Benjamin? You are joking, surely," replied one. "Your brother out there!" exclaimed another, pointing to Benjamin; "you do not mean it!"