ome that day.

Indeed, these little bursts of confidence usually took place on the
evening Henry's weekly hamper arrived, but he had never noticed the
coincidence. A year or two later, perhaps, he might suspect there had
been some connection between the events; meanwhile, his bump of
observation had not been abnormally developed.

To-night the reporter appeared especially concerned for the welfare of
his young friend, and it occurred to him to ask if Henry had been trying
his hand at something more ambitious than mere paragraphs. He blushingly
admitted that he had.

"Then trot it out, my boy, and I'll tell you what it's worth in a couple
of ticks," said Trevor, quite unconcerned as to the length or character
of Henry's "something."

It is Nature's way that the rawest youths and maidens who desire to
follow a literary career invariably commence by writing essays on
aspects of life which world-worn men of fifty find impossible to discuss
with any approach to ripened knowledge. Henry's unpublished manuscript
now brought forth of his trunk proved to be a very long and absurdly
grandiloquent essay on "Liberty."

Neither the subject nor the wordiness of the manuscript dismayed the
hopeful Trevor, who took it in his hand and ran his eyes with lightning
rapidity over page after page.

"Ripping, my boy, ripping! That's the sort of stuff to make the critics
sit up."

Henry thrilled and reddened, but winced a little when he heard his
handiwork described as "stuff."

"Really? Do you think anybody would care to publish it?" he asked.

"Just the sort o' thing for the _Nineteenth Century_ or the
_Quarterly_," Trevor assured him gaily, although the rascal had never
set eyes on either of these reviews. "But I should hold it back a bit
until you have made your name, for the editors of these things never
give an unknown man a chance."

"Still, you think I ought to persevere?"

"Don't I just! I couldn't have written stuff like that at your age for a
mint of money. Take my tip, young 'un, you've got it in you to make a
name; and when you're riding down Fleet Street in your carriage and
pair, don't forget your humble servant who gave you the first leg-up.
That phrase of yours on the last page about liberty being born among the
stars and flying earthward to brighten all mankind is worthy of Carlyle
at his best."

"I always liked Carlyle; but I'll try very hard to do something even
better--I mean better than what I've written."