“Not the least doubt, not the least,” replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing “copy” for the first number of “The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation.”  He hasn’t got black eyes now; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink.  Not all settled, for a few daubs of the “blood of the world,” as the dark fluid has been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect,—­so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly an hour.  He would sit and think.  Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser.  Then he threw himself back into his chair,—­thought, thought, thought.  At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast.  He was able to pen a few words, and wrote “The war with Mexico-”

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent.  Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are.  “The war with Mexico are.”  Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop.  “The war with Mexico are a indisputable fact.”  That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

“Copy, sir, copy!” shouted the printer’s boy, as he stood with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

“Copy what?” inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

“Here,” said he, “take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him ’t is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date.”

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of Ms., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o’er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame.