Everybody did like Mr. Smith. It was part of his business to be well liked, and if there was a good deal of humbug about him, he was still excellent value to the _Guardian_ for the twenty-one shillings which the proprietors of that journal paid him each week. One does not expect genius for a guinea a week; not even the ability to write English. But it is a mistake to suppose the latter is ever required of a district reporter. The essential qualifications are a working knowledge of shorthand and a good conceit of oneself. Mr. Trevor Smith was deficient in neither; certainly not in the latter quality. He was generously impressed with the magnitude of his importance, and had chosen the Miltonic motto for his "Stratford Notes and Comments": "GIVE ME THE LIBERTY TO KNOW, TO THINK, AND TO UTTER FREELY ABOVE ALL OTHER LIBERTIES." He took this liberty whenever he knew that the weight of local opinion tended in a certain direction. At other times he was lavish in his use of complimentary adjectives concerning every one he wrote about, from the Mayor to the town crier. No wonder he was popular. The notes which appeared in the _Guardian_ during its reporter's holiday were from another hand, but Henry looked forward with pleasure to reading Trevor's contributions when his mighty pen was at work again. It is one of the strangest experiences that comes to the writing man--this interest of the layman in anyone who writes words that are printed. We seldom feel interested in the personality of the man who made our watch, but the fellow who wrote the report of the tea-meeting we attended last week--ah, there's something to stir the blood! Now that they had met, these two, Henry was throbbing with excitement to hear what his new friend had to tell him of life and its wonders. Nor was Trevor loth to unclench his soul to the youth. "By Jove, London's the place," he observed to Henry as he dug his teeth into a juicy tart--one of many received that day in Henry's weekly hamper from home. "London's the place! Just fancy, I saw the huge building of the _Morning Sunburst_, Johnnies at the door in livery, hundreds of people running out and in; and the chap that edits that paper used to be a fifteen-bob-a-week reporter on that rag the _Stratford Times_, which isn't a patch on the _Guardian_." "He must be very clever." "Clever! Bless you, they reckoned him mighty small beer in Stratford," pursued the lively Trevor, helping himself to a third tart from Henry's store. "Then there's Wilkins of the _Pictorial Globe_, a glorious crib--fifteen hundred a year, I'll bet. He used to run that rocky little rag-bag the _Arden Advertiser_. You should see his office in the Strand. By gum--a palace, my boy, a palace!" "But perhaps he knows all about pictures." "Pictures! He doesn't know a wall-poster from a Joshua Reynolds!" "Then how do they get these grand situations?"