“Now, youngster, _will_ you be quiet!” said John, in mock despair. “I’ll tell you what you can do for Seth, and do easily. Get him a place on some decent newspaper, in New York or one of the larger cities of the State, and let him have money enough to eke out a small salary at first, so that he can begin at editorial work instead of tramping up through the reporter’s treadmill, as I had to. That’s all Seth’ll ask, and it will be the making of him.” “Begin at editorial work--Seth? Nonsense!” “No nonsense about it. For two years back Seth has been doing some of the best work on my paper--work that’s been copied all over the State.” “Bless my soul, what a literary family we are!” said the lawyer. “Does Aunt Sabrina write, too? Perhaps those love poems you have on the last page are hers.” John continued without noticing the interjection. “Do you remember that long article on Civil Service Reform we had in the _Banner_ last January?” “I don’t think I do, John. To be frank, although we enjoy having you send us the _Banner_ immensely, occasionally it happens that the stress of professional duties compels me to miss reading a number.” “Well that article was reprinted in all the big papers, from Boston to Chicago. I never knew any other thing from a little village paper to travel so far, or attract so much attention. I had lots of letters about it, too. That article was Seth’s--all his own. I didn’t change a word in it. And he’s hardly seen any thing of the world yet, either.” The lawyer was heard chuckling, when John’s voice died away in the darkness. The cigars had long since burned out, and the men could with difficulty see one another. The two younger brothers waited, the one surprised, the other increasingly indignant, to learn the cause of Albert’s hilarity. “Do you realise, John,” he said at last, with merriment still in his voice, “what a delightful commentary on Civil Service Reform your words make. The best article on that doctrine is written by a youngster who has never left the farm, who doesn’t know the difference between a Custom House and a letter-box on a lamp-post! Ho, ho, I must tell that to Chauncey when I see him.” An hour later, John and Seth still leaned against the mossy curb, smoking and talking over the words of their elder brother, who sometime before had gone in to avoid the dew-fall. “I wonder if we _have_ misjudged him, after all,” said Seth. “I’m almost ashamed to accept his favors, after the way I pitched into him.” “I wonder what his scheme really is,” mused the more experienced village editor. CHAPTER VIII.--ALBERT’S PLANS.