This was personal--every body said it was personal--the lanky member said it must be wiped out with blood--the storekeeper swore that John must “eat the other fellar's gizzard,” and the ladies of B-------- resolved, at a tea party, that the death of the lower town editor could alone atone for the many indignities he had heaped upon them, and John was the very man to offer himself up as a sacrifice. All the subscribers to the Eagle were interested in the matter, for they would gain in any event, as how: If the lower town editor was removed, an enemy had perished; if John fell, a creditor's accounts were closed, so they were unanimous for a duel. The lanky member informed John of the general opinion of the public as to what he should do, and urged the sending of a challenge forthwith, which he offered to bear. John intimated that he must have a day to practise before he sent the missive, and this was acceded to as prudent, but bowie knives were recommended by his friend as much the safest and sure means of killing. Our hero seated himself in the Eagle office that night, where the ghost of his departed greatness visited his waking thoughts, to laugh at his present misery. Of his one hundred and fifty dollars, but twenty-five remained--his clothes were nearly worn out--his board bill unpaid--his subscriptions and advertisements ditto, and the supply of paper and ink was insufficient for another issue, besides a duel on hand with another poor devil of an editor, and the whole town thirsting for the bloody transaction. A thought flashed upon his brain--he would go see his antagonist. No sooner was the idea conceived than he put it in execution. Gathering up his remaining twenty-five dollars he set off in the night for the lower town, where he arrived about daylight. After a hasty breakfast at the inn, he entered the “Herald office,” and seating himself upon the only chair in the establishment, inquired for the editor. A little pale man, engaged at case, lay down his composing stick and advanced, expecting a new subscriber, but started to run as soon as he was informed that the editor of the “Eagle” was before him. John stopped his egress and made him sit down while he talked to him. A conversation brought on mutual apologies, and he found his antagonist as great a sufferer as himself--the mere hack of county politicians, who had been lured by the same phantom--greatness, until he had worn himself to a corresponding shadow, chasing the vision. The two typo editors shook hands in friendship, and our hero departed homeward.