How different is the working of the great brain-engine above stairs! Here man rubs against man, jealousy and discontent and favoritism do what they can to clog the machinery; and the more one knows about the inner life of a newspaper-office, the more the wonder grows that the newspaper of to-day approximates so closely to the highest journalistic ideal. You may find flaws, gentle reader, in what your favorite journal says, but its typographical make-up is always perfect. Bear in mind that the brain-machine that turns out the ideas it presents is laboring under the obstacles that poor, weak, erring human nature begets, while the engines that deal with the materialistic make-up of the paper are influenced neither by jealousy nor heart-burning, neither by revenge nor malice. If the harmony that prevails in the workings of the press-room could dominate the editorial departments, an ideal newspaper would be the result--a result that will not be obtained until the millennium has done its elevating work. It is just possible that Mr. Robinson was not altogether at ease in his mind over the advance that John Fenton had made in his outward bearing and in his position and influence on the _Trumpet_. One of the chief occupations of an editor in charge of a great newspaper consists in keeping his mind awake to possible rivals. That Fenton had become in the last few months a very important factor in the office was apparent to the most insignificant reporter; and to Mr. Robinson the desirability of checking the rise of a possible competitor seemed imperative. But hard steel or cold poison is not available in these days for the removal of a man who stands in our way. In a newspaper-office, however, there are weapons that take their place. One is promotion, the other is exile. In the case of John Fenton, Mr. Robinson had decided, after mature consideration, to combine both. “I have sent for you, Mr. Fenton,” remarked the editor, smiling cordially as he wheeled around in his chair and motioned to his subordinate to be seated, “to discuss quite an important matter.” “_Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes_,” muttered Fenton to himself, as he drew up a chair and looked at his chief inquiringly. “Pardon me, I didn’t catch your remark?” and Mr. Robinson looked at Fenton suspiciously. “‘I am at your service Mr. Robinson,’ I said,” answered Fenton, smiling. “Ah, very good of you! Well, now tell me, Mr. Fenton, what is your opinion of young Stoughton? You have seen a great deal of him, have you not?” “Yes; he’s a very clever boy. I’m exceedingly fond of him.” “You find him thoroughly companionable?” “Extremely so,” answered Fenton, wondering what the editor was getting at. Mr. Robinson did not waste time in the afternoon on unimportant gossip. “And now, Mr. Fenton,” continued Robinson, putting the tips of his fingers together, after a habit that pertained to his more Machiavellian moods, “how long is it since you were on the other side?”