"You did yourself credit, old boy!" said Oscar, seizing and wringing

the hand of Harry, as the latter resumed his seat.  "Why, you ought
to go on the stage!"

"Thank you," said Harry; "I am glad I got through well."

"Isn't Fitz mad, though?  He thought you'd break down.  Look at him!"

Harry looked over to Fletcher, who, with a sour expression, was
sitting upright, and looking straight before him.

"He don't look happy, does he?" whispered Oscar, comically.

Harry came near laughing aloud, but luckily for Fletcher's peace of
mind, succeeded in restraining himself.

"He won't call you up again in a hurry; see if he does," continued
Oscar.

"I am sure we have all been gratified by Mr. Walton's spirited
declamation," said the President, rising.  "We congratulate ourselves
upon adding so fine a speaker to our society, and hope often to have
the pleasure of hearing him declaim."

There was a fresh outbreak of applause, after which the other
exercises followed.  When the meeting was over the members of the
Society crowded around Harry, and congratulated him on his success.
These congratulations he received so modestly, as to confirm the
favorable impression he had made by his declamation.

"By Jove! old fellow," said Oscar, as they were walking home, "I am
beginning to be proud of you.  You are doing great credit to your
teacher."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry.  "Don't compliment me too much,
or I may become vain, and put on airs."

"If you do, I'll get Fitz to call, and remind you that you are only a
printer's devil, after all."




CHAPTER XIII.

VACATION BEGINS AT THE ACADEMY.

Not long after his election as a member of the Clionian Society, the
summer term of the Prescott Academy closed.  The examination took
place about the tenth of June, and a vacation followed, lasting till
the first day of September.  Of course, the Clionian Society, which
was composed of Academy students, suspended its meetings for the same
length of time.  Indeed, the last meeting for the season took place
during the first week in June, as the evenings were too short and too
warm, and the weather was not favorable to oratory.  At the last
meeting, an election was held of officers to serve for the following
term.  The same President and Vice-President were chosen; but as the
Secretary declined to serve another term, Harry Walton, considerably
to his surprise, found himself elected in his place.

Fitzgerald Fletcher did not vote for him.  Indeed, he expressed it as
his opinion that it was a shame to elect a "printer's devil"
Secretary of the Society.

"Why is it?" said Oscar.  "Printing is a department of literature,
and the Clionian is a literary society, isn't it?"

"Of course it is a literary society, but a printer's devil is not
literary."

"He's as literary as a tin-pedler," said Tom Carver, maliciously.

Fletcher turned red, but managed to say, "And what does that prove?"

"We don't object to you because you are connected with the tin
business."

"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Fletcher, angrily.  "What have I
to do with the tin business?"

"Oh, I beg pardon, it's your cousin that's in it."

"I deny the relationship," said Fletcher, "and I will thank you not
to refer again to that vulgar pedler."

"Really, Fitz, you speak rather roughly, considering he's your
cousin.  But as to Harry Walton, he's a fine fellow, and he has an
excellent handwriting, and I was very glad to vote for him."

Fitzgerald walked away, not a little disgusted, as well at the
allusion to the tin-pedler, as at the success of Harry Walton in
obtaining an office to which he had himself secretly aspired.  He had
fancied that it would sound well to put "Secretary of the Clionian
Society" after his name, and would give him increased consequence at
home.  As to the tin-pedler, it would have relieved his mind to hear
that Mr. Bickford had been carried off suddenly by an apoplectic fit,
and notwithstanding the tie of kindred, he would not have taken the
trouble to put on mourning in his honor.

Harry Walton sat in Oscar Vincent's room, on the last evening of the
term.  He had just finished reciting the last French lesson in which
he would have Oscar's assistance for some time to come.

"You have made excellent progress," said Oscar.  "It is only two
months since you began French, and now you take a long lesson in
translation."

"That is because I have so good a teacher.  But do you think I can
get along without help during the summer?"

"No doubt of it.  You may find some difficulties, but those you can
mark, and I will explain when I come back.  Or I'll tell you what is
still better.  Write to me, and I'll answer.  Shall I write in
French?"

"I wish you would, Oscar."

"Then I will.  I'm rather lazy with the pen, but I can find time for
you.  Besides, it will be a good way for me to keep up my French."

"Shall you be in Boston all summer, Oscar?"

"No; our family has a summer residence at Nahant, a sea-shore place
twelve miles from Boston.  Then I hope father will let me travel
about a little on my own account.  I want to go to Saratoga and Lake
George."

"That would be splendid."

"I wish you could go with me, Harry."

"Thank you, Oscar, but perhaps you can secure Fletcher's company.
That will be much better than that of a 'printer's devil' like
myself."

"It may show bad taste, but I should prefer your company,
notwithstanding your low employment."

"Thank you, Oscar.  I am much obliged."

"Fitz has been hinting to me how nice it would be for us to go off
somewhere together, but I don't see it in that light.  I asked him
why he didn't secure board with his cousin, the tin-pedler, but that
made him angry, and he walked away in disgust.  But I can't help
pitying you a little, Harry."

"Why?  On account of my occupation?"

"Partly.  All these warm summer days, you have got to be working at
the case, while I can lounge in the shade, or travel for pleasure.
Sha'n't you have a vacation?"

"I don't expect any.  I don't think I could well be spared.  However,
I don't mind it.  I hope to do good deal of studying while you are
gone."

"And I sha'n't do any."

"Neither would I, perhaps, in your position.  But there's a good deal
of difference between us.  You are a Latin and Greek scholar, and can
talk French, while I am at the bottom of the ladder.  I have no time
to lose."

"You have begun to mount the ladder, Harry.  Don't be discouraged.
You can climb up."

"But I must work for it.  I haven't got high enough up to stop and
rest.  But there is one question I want to ask you, before you go."

"What is it?"

"What French book would you recommend after I have finished this
Reader?  I am nearly through now."

"Telemaque will be a good book to take next.  It is easy and
interesting.  Have you got a French dictionary?"

"No; but I can buy one."

"You can use mine while I am gone.  You may as well have it as not.
I have no copy of Telemaque, but I will send you one from Boston."

"Agreed, provided you will let me pay you for it."

"So I would, if I had to buy one.  But I have got an old copy, not
very ornamental, but complete.  I will send it through the mail."

"Thank you, Oscar.  How kind you are!"

"Don't flatter me, Harry.  The favors you refer to are but trifles.
I will ask a favor of you in return."

"I wish you would."

"Then help me pack my trunk.  There's nothing I detest so much.
Generally I tumble things in helter-skelter, and get a good scolding
from mother for doing it, when she inspects my trunk."

"I'll save you the trouble, then.  Bring what you want to carry home,
and pile it on the floor, and I'll do the packing."

"A thousand thanks, as the French say.  It takes a load off my mind.
By the way, here's a lot of my photographs.  Would you like one to
remember your professor by?"

"Very much, Oscar."

"Then take your choice.  They don't do justice to my beauty, which is
of a stunning description, as you are aware, nor do they convey an
idea of the lofty intellect which sits enthroned behind my classic
brow; but such as they are, you are welcome to one."

"Any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of
self-conceit, Oscar," said Harry, laughing.

"How do you know that I haven't?  Most people think they are
beautiful.  A photographer told my sister that he was once visited by
a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his 'picter
took.'  When the result was placed before him, he seemed
dissatisfied.  'Don't you think it like?' said the artist.--'Well,
ye-es,' he answered slowly, 'but it hasn't got my sweet expression
about the mouth!'"

"Very good," said Harry, laughing; "that's what's the matter with
your picture."

"Precisely.  I am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting.
But, hold! there's a knock.  It's Fitz, I'll bet a hat."

"Come in!" he cried, and Fletcher walked in.

"Good-evening, Fletcher," said Oscar.  "You see I'm packing, or
rather Walton is packing.  He's a capital packer."

"Indeed!" sneered Fletcher.  "I was not aware that Mr. Walton was in
that line of business.  What are his terms?"

"I refer you to him."

"What do you charge for packing trunks, Mr. Walton?"

"I think fifty cents would be about right," answered Harry, with
perfect gravity.  "Can you give me a job, Mr. Fletcher?"

"I might, if I had known it in time, though I am particular who
handles my things."

"Walton is careful, and I can vouch for his honesty," said Oscar,
carrying out the joke.  "His wages in the printing office are not
large, and he would be glad to make a little extra money."

"It must be very inconvenient to be poor," said Fletcher, with a
supercilious glance at our hero, who was kneeling before Oscar's
trunk.

"It is," answered Harry, quietly, "but as long as work is to be had I
shall not complain."

"To be sure!" said Fletcher.  "My father is wealthy, and I shall not
have to work."

"Suppose he should fail?" suggested Oscar.

"That is a very improbable supposition," said Fletcher, loftily.

"But not impossible?"

"Nothing is impossible."

"Of course.  I say, Fitz, if such a thing should happen, you've got
something to fall back upon."

"To what do you refer?"

"Mr. Bickford could give you an interest in the tin business."

"Good-evening!" said Fletcher, not relishing the allusion.

"Good-evening!  Of course I shall see you in the city."

"I suppose I ought not to tease Fitz," said Oscar, after his visitor
had departed, "but I enjoy seeing how disgusted he looks."

In due time the trunk was packed, and Harry, not without regret, took
leave of his friend for the summer.




CHAPTER XIV.

HARRY BECOMES AN AUTHOR.

The closing of the Academy made quite a difference in the life of
Centreville.  The number of boarding scholars was about thirty, and
these, though few in number, were often seen in the street and at the
postoffice, and their withdrawal left a vacancy.  Harry Walton felt
quite lonely at first; but there is no cure for loneliness like
occupation, and he had plenty of that.  The greater part of the day
was spent in the printing office, while his evenings and early
mornings were occupied in study and reading.  He had become very much
interested in French, in which he found himself advancing rapidly.
Occasionally he took tea at Mr. Ferguson's, and this he always
enjoyed; for, as I have already said, he and Ferguson held very
similar views on many important subjects.  One evening, at the house
of the latter, he saw a file of weekly papers, which proved, on
examination, to be back numbers of the "Weekly Standard," a literary
paper issued in Boston.

"I take the paper for my family," said Ferguson.  "It contains quite
a variety of reading matter, stories, sketches and essays."

"It seems quite interesting," said Harry.

"Yes, it is.  I will lend you some of the back numbers, if you like."

"I would like it.  My father never took a literary paper; his means
were so limited that he could not afford it."

"I think it is a good investment.  There are few papers from which
you cannot obtain in a year more than the worth of the subscription.
Besides, if you are going to be an editor, it will be useful for you
to become familiar with the manner in which such papers are
conducted."

When Harry went home he took a dozen copies of the paper, and sat up
late reading them.  While thus engaged an idea struck him.  It was
this: Could not he write something which would be accepted for
publication in the "Standard"?  It was his great ambition to learn to
write for the press, and he felt that he was old enough to commence.

"If I don't succeed the first time, I can try again," he reflected.

The more he thought of it, the more he liked the plan.  It is very
possible that he was influenced by the example of Franklin, who,
while yet a boy in his teens, contributed articles to his brother's
paper though at the time the authorship was not suspected.  Finally
he decided to commence writing as soon as he could think of a
suitable subject.  This he found was not easy.  He could think of
plenty of subjects of which he was not qualified to write, or in
which he felt little interest; but he rightly decided that he could
succeed better with something that had a bearing upon his own
experience or hopes for the future.

Finally he decided to write on Ambition.

I do not propose to introduce Harry's essay in these pages, but will
give a general idea of it, as tending to show his views of life.

He began by defining ambition as a desire for superiority, by which
most men were more or less affected, though it manifested itself in
very different ways, according to the character of him with whom it
was found.  Here I will quote a passage, as a specimen of Harry's
style and mode of expression.

"There are some who denounce ambition as wholly bad and to be avoided
by all; but I think we ought to make a distinction between true and
false ambition.  The desire of superiority is an honorable motive, if
it leads to honorable exertion.  I will mention Napoleon as an
illustration of false ambition, which is selfish in itself, and has
brought misery and ruin, to prosperous nations.  Again, there are
some who are ambitious to dress better than their neighbors, and
their principal thoughts are centred upon the tie of their cravat, or
the cut of their coat, if young men; or upon the richness and style
of their dresses, if they belong to the other sex.  Beau Brummel is a
noted instance of this kind of ambition.  It is said that fully half
of his time was devoted to his toilet, and the other half to
displaying it in the streets, or in society.  Now this is a very low
form of ambition, and it is wrong to indulge it, because it is a
waste of time which could be much better employed."

Harry now proceeded to describe what he regarded as a true and
praiseworthy ambition.  He defined it as a desire to excel in what
would be of service to the human race, and he instanced his old
Franklin, who, induced by an honorable ambition, worked his way up to
a high civil station, as well as a commanding position in the
scientific world.  He mentioned Columbus as ambitious to extend the
limits of geographical knowledge, and made a brief reference to the
difficulties and discouragements over which he triumphed on the way
to success.  He closed by an appeal to boys and young men to direct
their ambition into worthy channels, so that even if they could not
leave behind a great name, they might at least lead useful lives, and
in dying have the satisfaction of thinking that they done some
service to the race.

This will give a very fair idea of Harry's essay.  There was nothing
remarkable about it, and no striking originality in the ideas, but it
was very creditably expressed for a boy of his years, and did even
more credit to his good judgment, since it was an unfolding of the
principles by which he meant to guide his own life.

It must not be supposed that our hero was a genius, and that he wrote
his essay without difficulty.  It occupied him two evenings to write
it, and he employed the third in revising and copying it.  It covered
about five pages of manuscript, and, according to his estimate, would
fill about two-thirds of a long column in the "Standard."

After preparing it, the next thing was to find a _nom de plume_, for
he shrank from signing his own name.  After long consideration, he at
last decided upon Franklin, and this was the name he signed to his
maiden contribution to the press.

He carried it to the post-office one afternoon, after his work in the
printing office was over, and dropped it unobserved into the
letter-box.  He did not want the postmaster to learn his secret, as
he would have done had he received it directly from him, and noted
the address on the envelope.

For the rest of the week, Harry went about his work weighed down with
his important secret--a secret which he had not even shared with
Ferguson.  If the essay was declined, as he thought it might very
possibly be, he did not want any one to know it.  If it were
accepted, and printed, it would be time enough then to make it known.
But there were few minutes in which his mind was not on his literary
venture.  His preoccupation was observed by his fellow-workmen in the
office, and he was rallied upon it, good-naturedly, by Ferguson, but
in a different spirit by Clapp.

"It seems to me you are unusually silent, Harry," said Ferguson.
"You're not in love, are you?"

"Not that I know of," said Harry, smiling.  "It's rather too early
yet."

"I've known boys of your age to fancy themselves in love."

"He is is more likely thinking up some great discovery," said Clapp,
sneering.  "You know he's a second Franklin."

"Thank you for the compliment," said our hero, good-humoredly, "but I
don't deserve it.  I don't expect to make any great discovery at
present."

"I suppose you expect to set the river on fire, some day," said
Clapp, sarcastically.

"I am afraid it wouldn't do much good to try," said Harry, who was
too sensible to take offence.  "It isn't so easily done."

"I suppose some day we shall be proud of having been in the same
office with so great a man," pursued Clapp.

"Really, Clapp, you're rather hard on our young friend," said
Ferguson.  "He doesn't put on any airs of superiority, or pretend to
anything uncommon."

"He's very kind--such an intellect as he's got, too!" said Clapp.

"I'm glad you found it out," said Harry.  "I haven't a very high idea
of my intellect yet.  I wish I had more reason to do so."

Finding that he had failed in his attempt to provoke Harry by his
ridicule, Clapp desisted, but he disliked him none the less.

The fact was, that Clapp was getting into a bad way.  He had no high
aim in life, and cared chiefly for the pleasure of the present
moment.  He had found Luke Harrison a congenial companion, and they
had been associated in more than one excess.  The morning previous,
Clapp had entered the printing office so evidently under the
influence of liquor, that he had been sharply reprimanded by Mr.
Anderson.

"I don't choose to interfere with your mode of life, unwise and
ruinous as I may consider it," he said, "as long as it does not
interfere with your discharge of duty.  But to-day you are clearly
incapacitated for labor, and I have a right to complain.  If it
happens again, I shall be obliged to look for another journeyman."

Clapp did not care to leave his place just at present, for he had no
money saved up, and was even somewhat in debt, and it might be some
time before he got another place.  So he rather sullenly agreed to be
more careful in future, and did not go to work till the afternoon.
But though circumstances compelled him to submit, it put him in bad
humor, and made him more disposed to sneer than ever.  He had an
unreasoning prejudice against Harry, which was stimulated by Luke
Harrison, who had this very sufficient reason for hating our hero,
that he had succeeded in injuring him.  As an old proverb has it "We
are slow to forgive those whom we have injured."




CHAPTER XV.

A LITERARY DEBUT.

Harry waited eagerly for the next issue of the "Weekly Standard." It
was received by Mr. Anderson in exchange for the "Centreville
Gazette," and usually came to hand on Saturday morning.  Harry was
likely to obtain the first chance of examining the paper, as he was
ordinarily sent to the post-office on the arrival of the morning mail.

His hands trembled as he unfolded the paper and hurriedly scanned the
contents.  But he looked in vain for his essay on Ambition.  There
was not even a reference to it.  He was disappointed, but he soon
became hopeful again.

"I couldn't expect it to appear so soon," he reflected.  "These city
weeklies have to be printed some days in advance.  It may appear yet."

So he was left in suspense another week, hopeful and doubtful by
turns of the success of his first offering for the press.  He was
rallied from time to time on his silence in the office, but he
continued to keep his secret.  If his contribution was slighted, no
one should know it but himself.

At last another Saturday morning came around and again he set out for
the post-office.  Again he opened the paper with trembling fingers,
and eagerly scanned the well-filled columns.  This time his search
was rewarded.  There, on the first column of the last page, in all
the glory of print, was his treasured essay!

A flash of pleasure tinged his cheek, and his heart beat rapidly, as
he read his first printed production.  It is a great event in the
life of a literary novice, when he first sees himself.  Even Byron
says,--

"'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's self in print."

To our young hero the essay read remarkably well--better than he had
expected; but then, very likely he was prejudiced in its favor.  He
read it through three times on his way back to the printing office,
and each time felt better satisfied.

"I wonder if any of the readers will think it was written by a boy?"
thought Harry.  Probably many did so suspect, for, as I have said,
though the thoughts were good and sensible, the article was only
moderately well expressed.  A practised critic would readily have
detected marks of immaturity, although it was a very creditable
production for a boy of sixteen.

"Shall I tell Ferguson?" thought Harry.

On the whole he concluded to remain silent just at present.  He knew
Ferguson took the paper, and waited to see if he would make any
remark about it.

"I should like to hear him speak of it, without knowing that I was
the writer," thought our hero.

Just before he reached the office, he discovered with satisfaction
the following editorial reference to his article:--

"We print in another column an essay on 'ambition' by a new
contributor.  It contains some good ideas, and we especially commend
it to the perusal of our young readers.  We hope to hear from
'Franklin' again."

"That's good," thought Harry.  "I am glad the editor likes it.  I
shall write again as soon as possible."

"What makes you look so bright, Harry?" asked Ferguson, as he
re-entered the office.  "Has any one left you a fortune?"

"Not that I know of," said Harry.  "Do I look happier than usual?"

"So it seems to me."

Harry was spared answering this question, for Clapp struck in,
grumbling, as usual: "I wish somebody'd leave me a fortune.  You
wouldn't see me here long."

"What would you do?" asked his fellow-workman.

"Cut work to begin with.  I'd go to Europe and have a jolly time."

"You can do that without a fortune."

"I should like to know how?"

"Be economical, and you can save enough in three years to pay for a
short trip.  Bayard Taylor was gone two years, and only spent five
hundred dollars."

"Oh, hang economy!" drawled Clapp.  "It don't suit me.  I should like
to know how a feller's going to economize on fifteen dollars a week."

"I could."

"Oh, no doubt," sneered Clapp, "but a man can't starve."

"Come round and take supper with me, some night," said Ferguson,
good-humoredly, "and you can judge for yourself whether I believe in
starving."

Clapp didn't reply to this invitation.  He would not have enjoyed a
quiet evening with his fellow-workman.  An evening at billiards or
cards, accompanied by bets on the games, would have been much more to
his mind.

"Who is Bayard Taylor, that made such a cheap tour in Europe?" asked
Harry, soon afterward.

"A young journalist who had a great desire to travel.  He has lately
published an account of his tour.  I don't buy many books, but I
bought that.  Would you like to read it?"

"Very much."

"You can have it any time."

"Thank you."

On Monday, a very agreeable surprise awaited Harry.

"I am out of copy," he said, going up to Mr. Anderson's table.

"Here's a selection for the first page," said Mr. Anderson.  "Cut it
in two, and give part of it to Clapp."

Could Harry believe his eyes!  It was his own article on ambition,
and it was to be reproduced in the "Gazette."  Next to the delight of
seeing one's self in print for the first time, is the delight of
seeing that first article copied.  It is a mark of appreciation which
cannot be mistaken.

Still Harry said nothing, but, with a manner as unconcerned as
possible, handed the lower half of the essay to Clapp to set up.  The
signature "Franklin" had been cut off, and the name of the paper from
which the essay had been cut was substituted.

"Wouldn't Clapp feel disgusted," thought Harry, "if he knew that he
was setting up an article of mine.  I believe he would have a fit."

He was too considerate to expose his fellow-workman to such a