Chick never quite knew, when the boys talked to him, whether he was being addressed in jest or in earnest; and he didn’t know on this occasion. But he had usually found it safe to assume that those who gave him information or advice were treating him seriously and he proceeded now on that assumption. “It don’t make no difference to me what he says,” replied Chick. “He can’t scare me out. When I git a chance to jine, I’ll jine.” “That’s right! and I’d tell him so. I’d put it up to him squarely that his threats and warnings fall off of you like water off of a duck’s back.” “Oh, maybe I’ll see him some time an’ have it out with him.” “Good! But I wouldn’t wait. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ I say. I’d tackle him to-morrow about it if I were you.” But Chick was already shuffling away toward the stack-room and did not reply. The thing stayed on his mind, however, and the more he thought of it the more indignant he became. He was not satisfied that Donatello had had him in mind while writing the editorial. Probably that idea originated in the minds of the boys; it was not material anyway. The serious part of it was that, through his newspaper, Donatello had been making an effort to prevent young men generally from joining the National Guard; and that, in Chick’s estimation, was an offense which fell little short of actual treason. He wondered if Donatello did not know that it was the duty of every young man who was able to do so, to become a soldier of the State; that it was a patriotic privilege; that some of the very finest young men in town were members of Company E. If he didn’t know it, some one ought to tell him. And perhaps no one was better fitted for the task of telling him than was General Chick, himself. Perhaps from no one else in the city could the information so appropriately come. Many times that night Chick thought about it, and when morning came he had finally decided to call upon the editor of _The Disinherited_ and enlighten his mind upon this important subject. It was toward noon, however, before, having finished the performance of the various tasks which usually occupied his mornings, he found time to make the visit he had determined upon. When he mounted the rickety stairs and entered the one large room which was used alike for press-room, mailing-room and office, he found Donatello there alone, sitting at a case and setting type. The man recognized him at once and called him by his name. It was not the first time they had met each other. Chick looked around him with some curiosity. He had never before been in a press-room. This one was doubtless the humblest of its type, but newspapers were printed here, and that fact in itself made the place important. Donatello paused in his work and looked at his visitor inquiringly. “I ain’t never be’n in a printin’ shop before,” said Chick, “and I kind o’ wanted to see what it looked like.”