“To-day,” the commodore interrupted, “I am eighty-one years old. I am stronger----” “Is there any prospect of an immediate rise?” “I have never gone into the late-supper business,” the commodore answered, apparently not catching the drift of the question; “and I have always been a very temperate man. But how did you find out that this was my birthday?” “You hinted at the fact yourself,” the reporter replied. “Will the Erie troubles----” “The Erie troubles will not prevent me from beginning my eighty-second year with a young heart and a clear conscience.” “And with the prospect of seeing a good many more birthday anniversaries?” the reporter asked. “That, my dear boy,” said the commodore, “is one of those things that no fellow can tell about.” “Do you think that this is a good time to sell?” “No, it’s never a good time to sell after banking-hours.” “Good evening!” “Good evening! Drop in again.” [Illustration: JULIAN RALPH ] How did the _Sun_ reporters of the seventies compare with those of later years? As no two reporters are alike in vision and style, no two occasions identical in incident, no two dramatic moments twin, it is better to make comparison by choosing arbitrarily scenes far apart in years, but set on similar stages, and to lay before the reader the work of the _Sun_ reporter in each case. Let us take, because of their resemblance in public interest and the similarity of physical surroundings, the close of the trials, twenty years apart, of Edward S. Stokes for the murder of James Fisk, Jr.; of Lizzie Borden for the killing of her father and step-mother, and of Charles Becker for the assassination of Herman Rosenthal. The following is from the _Sun_ of January 6, 1873: Stokes took his accustomed place, and his relatives sat down facing the jurors. The judge entered and took his place. Then, amid the most solemn silence, the twelve jurymen filed in and seated themselves. The awful conclusion at which they had arrived could be read in their faces. Each juror’s name was called, and with the usual response. The judge turned toward them, and in a low, clear voice asked: “Gentlemen, have you agreed on a verdict?” The foreman of the jury arose and said, “We have.” Clerk of the Court: “Gentlemen of the jury, rise. Prisoner, stand up. Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. Prisoner, look upon the jury. What say you, gentlemen of the jury? Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?” Foreman of the Jury: “Guilty of murder in the first degree.” A passionate wail that made men’s hearts leap rose from the group that clustered round the prisoner, and the head of the horror-stricken girl, from whose bosom the anguished cry was rent, fell upon the shoulder of her doomed brother.