to deal with than his brother on the daily. Let us describe then forty-eight hours in the existence of a reporter, during a "busy time" on the staff of a daily journal.
The reporter, let us suppose, begins his day in the police court, where some case of importance occupies him till mid-day; and, as the evidence is taken in longhand, he will have finished possibly a report of a column or more when the court rises. A philanthropic meeting fills the afternoon, and having done justice in half-a-column to the statements and statistics submitted, the industrious scribe makes his way to the railway station for a journey of twenty miles perhaps, to report a parliamentary candidate who is to address an evening meeting. The last train home carries the reporter back to the newspaper office; and, if it is a slow train, he will have transcribed a good portion of his notes en route. Soon after midnight possibly, the reporter, if he is fortunate, will have finished his labors, and, having ascertained what he imagines will be his next engagement, makes his way home. There has been plenty of variety about the day's work, but it may be questioned whether our young friend in the commercial office—time ten to four—would consider that the variety compensated for the remarkably long hours.
But stay! His work is not yet finished. About two in the morning he is aroused from his slumbers by the vigorous ringing of the telephone which connects his house with the office, and he learns that a big fire is raging which demands immediate attention. A scamper through the streets, a hasty collection of facts, three-quarters of an hour of hurried scribbling at the office, and at daybreak, just before the paper goes to press, the reporter again makes his way homeward.
Unfortunately for our contemporary historian, he must be content with a short allowance of sleep. He is under orders to proceed by the first train to a flower-show at the
