A month in the establishment of Mr. Ephraim Griggs had left him wondering if he were a footstep nearer his goal than he had been before he bade farewell to Hampton. If the Temple of Literature which he had builded in his brain had not exactly crumbled into nothingness, it was no longer possible to rub shoulders with the slatternly Griggs and the insipid Pemble, and still to dream dreams such as had held his mind when he determined to fare forth an adventurer into the unknown realms of Bookland. The weeks dragged on wearily. So rude had been Henry's experience of the second-hand book-shop, in disgust he had almost concluded that after all there was as much glory in his father's business as in that of Mr. Griggs. Trevor Smith, however, had appeared on the scene at an opportune moment, and sent his thoughts off at a tangent. Clearly, journalism was the high road to literature. It enabled one to get into print, and that, at least, was a great matter. Already the agreeable Trevor could pose as Henry's literary godfather. He had allowed him to write one or two simple notes about the visit of a circus to the town and the annual flower-show, and these had actually appeared in type in the _Guardian_. The fact that Trevor had twice borrowed half-a-crown from his fellow-lodger, and had twenty times forgotten to repay, while he had also assimilated innumerable examples of Mrs. Charles's baking, had probably something to do with his readiness in opening his columns to the youth. But that did not in the least detract from the bursting joy with which Henry read his own little paragraphs a score of times; nor did Edward John suspect that the first appearance of his young hopeful in the splendour of print was due to such adventitious aid. Henry's masterpiece was a letter to the editor of the _Guardian_ protesting against the charge of sixpence exacted for admission to view the grave of Shakespeare. This was signed "Thespian," at the suggestion of Trevor, who never by any chance wrote of actors or of the theatre, but always of "sons of Thespis," or of "the temple of Thespis." Quite a lively correspondence ensued in the columns of the paper, and it was a great delight to Henry that he and Trevor Smith alone knew who the correspondents were. Between them they did it all. Oh, Henry was learning what journalism meant! "Take my word for it, Henry, journalism's your game," his merry mentor assured him. "That last par of yours about the Christ Church muffin-struggle is nearly as good as I could have done myself. You're cut out for a journalist as sure as eggs is eggs. All that you want is an opportunity to show what's in you." Yes, only the opportunity was awanting. And how to get it? "Look at me," Mr. Trevor Smith continued, "I was only a common clerk in the _Guardian_ office--a common clerk, mind you--but I had the sense to learn shorthand, and got the first opening as a reporter--and here I am!"