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“Piffle!” said Alf. “Any one could edit a paper like that old sheet of yours, Joe. It’s most all ads, anyhow.”

It was the last week in March, and Alf, Tom, and Dan and Joe Chambers were clustered around the fireplace in 7 Dudley. The weather had been so mild that over in the heating plant the boilers had been allowed to go out, and to-night, with a northerly March wind rattling the windows, it was decidedly cold in the room; or had been until Alf had lighted a fire in the little grate. Joe Chambers stretched his long legs out and smiled indulgently.

“That’s all right,” he replied, “but I wish you had it to do for awhile. It may seem simple enough to you chaps, but just let me tell you that getting out The Scholiast is no joke.”

“No, it’s a very serious proposition,” murmured Tom, who had been on the verge of slumber several times. “A joke now and then would help it like anything.”

“Of course,” went on Joe, warming to his subject, “I have three fellows to help me, but—well, you see how it is: nobody can know as well as you do just what you want. So, in a way, I have to be pretty nearly the whole thing down there.”

“That ought to please you,” said Alf, gravely.

“I think The Scholiast is a mighty good paper,” remarked Dan. “It’s a heap better than any I’ve seen—any school paper, I mean.” Alf sniffed.

“Why say school paper?” he asked. “Why, The Scholiast has the New York Sun and Herald and everything else beat a mile! It’s the only gen-oo-ine, all-wool, yard-wide journal in existence! Talk about your Danas and your James Gordon Bennetts and—and your Hearsts! Why, they’ll be swallowed in eternal gloom while the name of Joseph Chambers still—er—flares athwart the—the——”

“Oh, shut up, Alf! You talk like one of Joe’s editorials,” said Tom, disgustedly. “After all, it is a pretty good little weekly——”

“Yes, a little weakly,” murmured Alf.

“But every one knows that it’s Holmes who makes it go. Holmes is the real thing on The Scholiast.” Tom winked at Dan. “Why, it’s Holmes who gets the advertising, looks after the circulation, pays the bills, and does the whole big stunt. I know, because he told me so himself.”

Joe smiled pityingly. “Holmes is a mighty smart business editor,” he said, “but there’s some difference between soliciting advertisements and writing copy; to say nothing of editing it after it’s written!”

“But think of the glory!” exclaimed Alf, rapturously. “Think what it is to be a Molder of Public Opinion! And as a molder of Public Opinion, Joe, you’re just about the moldiest ever!”

“You’re having a pretty nice little time knocking me to-night, aren’t you?” asked Joe, with a suspicion of heat. “Well, you may make all the fun you want to, but I’d like to see you hold down my job for ten minutes, you smart Aleck!”

Alf, having at length succeeded in getting a fall out of Joe, as he would have expressed it, smiled joyfully.

“Nonsense, Joe! I could get out a better paper than that with my eyes shut and one hand tied behind me!”

“Yes, you could!” sneered Joe, with an inflection that belied his words. “That’s what they all say! Every fellow thinks he can edit a newspaper.”

“I’m not saying anything about newspapers,” retorted Alf, sweetly. “The Scholiast is not a newspaper, Joseph. It never had any news in it since it started.”

“Cut it out, Alf,” growled Tom. “Don’t be nasty.”

“It’s a fact,” declared his roommate, warming to his subject the more as he saw Joe Chambers losing his temper. “For instance, there’s a new plank walk put down from Merle to the gym steps on Monday. The following Friday The Scholiast comes out with the startling information that ‘A new plank walk has been established from Merle Hall to the Gymnasium, and is meeting with much favor from those who have occasion to pass that way.’ News! Poppycock!”

“Anything connected with the school,” said Joe with much dignity, “is of interest to the readers of The Scholiast.”

“Then why don’t you put in something that every one doesn’t know? Why don’t you tell about Old Toby’s new wig? That’s real hot stuff for your readers. Why, Toby hasn’t had a new wig before in the memory of the oldest inhabitant!”

“You’re a silly ass,” grunted Joe. “I’m glad I don’t have to edit your copy.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to write for your paper,” Alf retorted. “If I did, though, I’ll bet I’d get some more interesting stuff in it.”

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Joe, getting up. “You’re a regular Mister Fixit. You couldn’t hold down a reporter’s job for ten minutes.”

“Fancy that! Joe, I’ll bet you—I’ll bet you a feed at Farrell’s for the crowd that I can get out a livelier number of The Scholiast than you ever have. What do you say?”

“I say you’re a silly idiot,” replied Joe from the doorway.

“Take me up?” Alf insisted.

“What’s the good? You’ll never get the chance to try.”

“All right; then you’re safe? Bet me?”

“Yes, I’ll bet you.” Joe smiled pityingly at the others. “You may know something about football and hockey, Alf, but you couldn’t write a two-line paragraph that The Scholiast would publish.”

After which parting fling, Joe nodded to the rest and took his leave. As the door closed behind him Alf chuckled with wicked glee.

“Got a fall out of him, though, didn’t I? He’s a chesty youth, is Joe.”

“What did you want to rag him so for?” inquired Dan, who, while he had enjoyed the hostilities, didn’t quite approve. Alf shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know. Felt like it, I suppose. Joe sort of got on my nerves to-night. He’s such a know-it-all. I really like him, but it does him a heap of good to be taken down a few pegs now and then. Besides, what I said was true. He fills that sheet up with a lot of the dullest, stalest, messiest old trash I ever read.”

“Well, there isn’t much to publish, I guess,” murmured Tom. “He does the best he can, most probably.”

Alf made no response. He was gazing fixedly at the flames in the grate. Dan pulled himself out of his chair and found his cap.

“I’m off,” he announced. “Good night, you chaps.”

“Good night,” said Tom. “See you to-morrow.”

Alf only waved a hand.

The next evening Alf haled Tom over to Cambridge Society. Tom was a member of Oxford, but occasionally allowed himself to be led astray, as he termed it. Dan had received summons to be present, and was on hand with Gerald.

“Come over here in the corner,” said Alf, mysteriously. “I wouldst a tale unfold. Come on, Gerald; you can keep a secret, I guess.”

He led the way to an uninhabited corner of the big room and pulled four chairs together. When they were all seated with heads close together, Alf began with lowered voice:

“Remember Joe Chambers’s wager last night?” he asked. Tom and Dan nodded. “You don’t, Gerald, because you weren’t there. But Joe bet me a feed at Farrell’s that I couldn’t get out a livelier number of The Scholiast than he had ever published.” Alf leaned back and grinned at the puzzled faces. “Well, I’m going to do it.”

“Do it! How can you?” asked Dan.

“You don’t suppose for a minute, do you, that Joe’s going to let you get out The Scholiast for him?” inquired Tom.

“No, my slow-witted friend,” replied Alf, engagingly, “but he can’t prevent me—us, I mean—from getting out a Scholiast of our own, can he?”