You. You know me as Benjamin Franklin, statesman, inventor, founding father, but back in 1720 when I was 14 way of making friends.

You, sir, are a fraud, a fake, a boy.

Sorry, Missy, too busy to argue the point.

My brother expects this paper of his to hit the street before he gets back I don't dare disappoint him

Have you no honor no shame confess mr Franklin there's no such person as Varacity Quince, the fame puzzle solver, and champion of the underdog.

You made the whole thing up.

You do me wrong, Eliza Boyd.

Mr. Varsity Quince is real, as real as you or I.

Then where is he?

Here, in my brain, every legendary exploit of Veracity Quince was conceived in this cranium and then carried out by yours truly.

Is that so?

Then why hide behind a make-believe name?

Because I've barely reached my 14th year. Who would believe that a mere... make believe

that a mere boy, as you called me, could work such wonders.

But my word is the word of Veracity Quinns

as he states it in this letter to the editor. I shall clear your name

and find the thief who stole your mistress's silver teapot. Why should I trust you?

Benjamin, you lazy lump. Where's my newspaper?

Hide, it's my brother.

I'm not afraid.

I am. Get inside the closet and don't make a sound.

And what have you been doing?

...