"Do you really think so, Oscar?"
"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't say so."

"I thought you might say so out of friendship."

"I don't say it is the best I ever read, mind you, but I have read a
good many that are worse.  I think you managed the _denouement_
(you're a French scholar, so I'll venture on the word) admirably."

"I only hope the editor of the 'Standard' will think so."

"If he doesn't, there are other papers in Boston; the 'Argus' for
instance."

"I'll try the 'Standard' first, because I have already written for
it."

"All right.  Don't you want me to go to the office with you?"

"I wish you would.  I shall be bashful."

"I am not troubled that way.  Besides, my father's name is well
known, and I'll take care to mention it.  Sometimes influence goes
farther than merit, you know."

"I should like to increase my income by writing for the city papers.
Even if I only made fifty dollars a year, it would all be clear gain."

Harry's desire was natural.  He had no idea how many shared it.
Every editor of a successful weekly could give information on this
subject.  Certainly there is no dearth of aspiring young
writers--Scotts and Shakspeares in embryo--in our country, and if all
that were written for publication succeeded in getting into print,
the world would scarcely contain the books and papers which would
pour in uncounted thousands from the groaning press.

When the two boys arrived in Boston they took a carriage to Oscar's
house.  It was situated on Beacon Street, not far from the Common,--a
handsome brick house with a swell front, such as they used to build
in Boston.  No one of the family was in, and Oscar and Harry went up
at once to the room of the former, which they were to share together.
It was luxuriously furnished, so Harry thought, but then our hero had
been always accustomed to the plainness of a country home.

"Now, old fellow, make yourself at home," said Oscar.  "You can get
yourself up for dinner.  There's water and towels, and a brush."

"I don't expect to look very magnificent," said Harry.  "You must
tell your mother I am from the country."

"I would make you an offer if I dared," said Oscar.

"I am always open to a good offer."

"It's this: I'm one size larger than you, and my last year's suits
are in that wardrobe.  If any will fit you, they are yours."

"Thank you, Oscar," said Harry; "I'll accept your offer to-morrow."

"Why not to-day?"

"You may not understand me, but when I first appear before your
family, I don't want to wear false colors."

"I understand," said Oscar, with instinctive delicacy.

An hour later, the bell rang for dinner.

Harry went down, and was introduced to his friend's mother and
sister.  The former was a true lady, refined and kindly, and her
smile made our hero feel quite at home.

"I am glad to meet you, Mr.  Walton," she said.  "Oscar has spoken of
you frequently."

With Oscar's sister Maud--a beautiful girl two years younger than
himself--Harry felt a little more bashful; but the young lady soon
entered into an animated conversation with him.

"Do you often come to Boston, Mr. Walton?" she asked.

"This is my first visit," said Harry.

"Then I dare say Oscar will play all sorts of tricks upon you.  We
had a cousin visit us from the country, and the poor fellow had a
hard time."

"Yes," said Oscar, laughing, "I used to leave him at a street corner,
and dodge into a doorway.  It was amusing to see his perplexity when
he looked about, and couldn't find me."

"Shall you try that on me?" asked Harry.

"Very likely."

"Then I'll be prepared."

"You might tie him with a rope, Mr. Walton," said Maud, "and keep
firm hold."

"I will, if Oscar consents."

"I will see about it.  But here is my father.  Father, this is my
friend, Harry Walton."

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Walton," said Mr. Vincent.  "Then you
belong to my profession?"

"I hope to, some time, sir; but I am only a printer as yet."

"You are yet to rise from the ranks.  I know all about that.  I was
once a compositor."

Harry looked at the editor with great respect.  He was stout,
squarely built, with a massive head and a thoughtful expression.  His
appearance was up to Harry's anticipations.  He felt that he would be
prouder to be Mr. Vincent than any man in Boston, He could hardly
believe that this man, who controlled so influential an organ, and
was so honored in the community, was once a printer boy like himself.

"What paper are you connected with?" asked Mr. Vincent.

"The 'Centreville Gazette.'"

"I have seen it.  It is quite a respectable paper."

"But how different," thought Harry, "from a great city daily!"

"Let us go out to dinner," said Mr. Vincent, consulting his watch.
"I have an engagement immediately afterward."

At table Harry sat between Maud and Oscar.  If at first he felt a
little bashful, the feeling soon wore away.  The dinner hour passed
very pleasantly.  Mr. Vincent chatted very agreeably about men and
things.  There is no one better qualified to shine in this kind of
conversation than the editor of a city daily, who is compelled to be
exceptionally well informed.  Harry listened with such interest that
he almost forgot to eat, till Oscar charged him with want of appetite.

"I must leave in haste," said Mr. Vincent, when dinner was over.
"Oscar, I take it for granted that you will take care of your friend."

"Certainly, father.  I shall look upon myself as his guardian,
adviser and friend."

"You are not very well fitted to be a mentor, Oscar," said Maud.

"Why not, young lady?"

"You need a guardian yourself.  You are young and frivolous."

"And you, I suppose, are old and judicious."

"Thank you.  I will own to the last, and the first will come in time."

"Isn't it singular, Harry, that my sister should have so much
conceit, whereas I am remarkably modest?"

"I never discovered it, Oscar," said Harry, smiling.

"That is right, Mr. Walton," said Maud.  "I see you are on my side.
Look after my brother, Mr. Walton.  He needs an experienced friend."

"I am afraid I don't answer the description, Miss Maud."

"I don't doubt you will prove competent.  I wish you a pleasant walk."

"My sister's a jolly girl, don't you think so?" asked Oscar, as Maud
left the room.

"That isn't exactly what I should say of her, but I can describe her
as even more attractive than her brother."

"You couldn't pay her a higher compliment.  But come; we'll take a
walk on the Common."

They were soon on the Common, dear to every Bostonian, and sauntered
along the walks, under the pleasant shade of the stately elms.

"Look there," said Oscar, suddenly; "isn't that Fitz Fletcher?"

"Yes," said Harry, "but he doesn't see us."

"We'll join him.  How are you, Fitz?"

"Glad to see you, Oscar," said Fletcher, extending a gloved band,
while in the other he tossed a light cane.  "When did you arrive?"

"Only this morning; but you don't see Harry Walton."

Fletcher arched his brows in surprise, and said coldly, "Indeed, I
was not aware Mr. Walton was in the city."

"He is visiting me," said Oscar.

Fletcher looked surprised.  He knew the Vincents stood high socially,
and it seemed extraordinary that they should receive a printer's
devil as a guest.

"Have you given up the printing business?" he asked superciliously.

"No; I only have a little vacation from it."

"Ah, indeed!  It's a very dirty business.  I would as soon be a
chimney-sweep."

"Each to his taste, Fitz," said Oscar.  "If you have a taste for
chimneys, I hope your father won't interfere."

"I haven't a taste for such a low business," said Fletcher,
haughtily.  "I should like it as well as being a printer's devil
though."

"Would you?  At any rate, if you take it up, you'll be sure to be
well _sooted_."

Fletcher did not laugh at the joke.  He never could see any wit in
jokes directed at himself.

"How long are you going to stay at that beastly school?" he asked.

"I am not staying at any beastly school."

"I mean the Academy."

"Till I am ready for college.  Where are you studying?"

"I recite to a private tutor."

"Well, we shall meet at 'Harvard' if we are lucky enough to get in."

Fletcher rather hoped Oscar would invite him to call at his house,
for he liked to visit a family of high social position; but he waited
in vain.

"What a fool Oscar makes of himself about that country clod-hopper!"
thought the stylish young man, as he walked away.  "The idea of
associating with a printer's devil!  I hope I know what is due to
myself better."




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE OFFICE OF THE "STANDARD."

On the day after Thanksgiving, Harry brought out from his carpet-bag
his manuscript story, and started with Oscar for the office of the
"Weekly Standard." He bought the last copy of the paper, and thus
ascertained the location of the office.

Oscar turned the last page, and ran through a sketch of about the
same length as Harry's.

"Yours is fully as good as this, Harry," he said.

"The editor may not think so."

"Then he ought to."

"This story is by one of his regular contributors, Kenella Kent."

"You'll have to take a name yourself,--a _nom de plume_, I mean."

"I have written so far over the name of Franklin."

"That will do very well for essays, but is not appropriate for
stories."

"Suppose you suggest a name, Oscar."

"How will 'Fitz Fletcher' do?"

"Mr. Fletcher would not permit me to take such a liberty."

"And you wouldn't want to take it."

"Not much."

"Let me see.  I suppose I must task my invention, then.  How will Old
Nick do?"

"People would think you wrote the story."

"A fair hit.  Hold on, I've got just the name.  Frank Lynn."

"I thought you objected to that name."

"You don't understand me.  I mean two names, not one.  Frank Lynn!
Don't you see?"

"Yes, it's a good plan.  I'll adopt it."

"Who knows but you may make the name illustrious, Harry?"

"If I do, I'll dedicate my first boot to Oscar Vincent."

"Shake hands on that.  I accept the dedication with mingled feelings
of gratitude and pleasure."

"Better wait till you get it," said Harry, laughing.  "Don't count
your chickens before they're hatched."

"The first egg is laid, and that's something.  But here we are at the
office."

It was a building containing a large number of offices.  The names of
the respective occupants were printed on slips of black tin at the
entrance.  From this, Harry found that the office of the "Weekly
Standard" was located at No. 6.

"My heart begins to beat, Oscar," said Harry, naturally excited in
anticipation of an interview with one who could open the gates of
authorship to him.

"Does it?" asked Oscar.  "Mine has been beating for a number of
years."

"You are too matter-of-fact for me, Oscar.  If it was your own story,
you might feel differently."

"Shall I pass it off as my own, and make the negotiation?"

Harry was half tempted to say yes, but it occurred to him that this
might prove an embarrassment in the future, and he declined the
proposal.

They climbed rather a dark, and not very elegant staircase, and found
themselves before No. 6.

Harry knocked, or was about to do so, when a young lady with long
ringlets, and a roll of manuscript in her hand, who had followed them
upstairs advanced confidently, and, opening the door, went in.  The
two boys followed, thinking the ceremony of knocking needless.

They found themselves in a large room, one corner of which was
partitioned off for the editor's sanctum.  A middle-aged man was
directing papers in the larger room, while piles of papers were
ranged on shelves at the sides of the apartment.

The two boys hesitated to advance, but the young lady in ringlets
went on, and entered the office through the open door.

"We'll wait till she is through," said Harry.

It was easy to hear the conversation that passed between the young
lady and the editor, whom they could not see.

"Good-morning, Mr. Houghton," she said.

"Good-morning.  Take a seat, please," said the editor, pleasantly.
"Are you one of our contributors?"

"No, sir, not yet," answered the young lady, "but I would become so."

"We are not engaging any new contributors at present, but still if
you have brought anything for examination you may leave it."

"I am not wholly unknown to fame," said the young lady, with an air
of consequence.  "You have probably heard of Prunella Prune."

"Possibly, but I don't at present recall it.  We editors meet with so
many names, you know.  What is the character of your articles?"

"I am a poetess, sir, and I also write stories."

"Poetry is a drug in the market.  We have twice as much offered us as
we can accept.  Still we are always glad to welcome really
meritorious poems."

"I trust my humble efforts will please you," said Prunella.  "I have
here some lines to a nightingale, which have been very much praised
in our village.  Shall I read them?"

"If you wish," said the editor, by no means cheerfully.

Miss Prune raised her voice, and commenced:--

"O star-eyed Nightingale,
How nobly thou dost sail
Through the air!
No other bird can compare
With the tuneful song
Which to thee doth belong.
I sit and hear thee sing,
While with tireless wing
Thou dost fly.
And it makes me feel so sad,
It makes me feel so bad,
I know not why,
And I heave so many sighs,
O warbler of the skies!"

"Is there much more?" asked the editor.

"That is the first verse.  There are fifteen more," said Prunella.

"Then I think I shall not have time at present to hear you read it
all.  You may leave it, and I will look it over at my leisure."

"If it suits you," said Prunella, "how much will it be worth?"

"I don't understand."

"How much would you be willing to pay for it?"

"Oh, we never pay for poems," said Mr. Houghton.

"Why not?" asked Miss Prune, evidently disappointed.

"Our contributors are kind enough to send them gratuitously."

"Is that fostering American talent?" demanded Prunella, indignantly.

"American poetical talent doesn't require fostering, judging from the
loads of poems which are sent in to us."

"You pay for stories, I presume?"

"Yes, we pay for good, popular stories."

"I have one here," said Prunella, untying her manuscript, "which I
should like to read to you."

"You may read the first paragraph, if you please.  I haven't time to
hear more.  What is the title?"

"'The Bandit's Bride.'  This is the way it opens:--

"'The night was tempestuous.  Lightnings flashed in the cerulean sky,
and the deep-voiced thunder rolled from one end of the firmament to
the other.  It was a landscape in Spain.  From a rocky defile gayly
pranced forth a masked cavalier, Roderigo di Lima, a famous bandit
chief.

"'"Ha! ha!" he laughed in demoniac glee, "the night is well fitted to
my purpose.  Ere it passes, Isabella Gomez shall be mine."'"

"I think that will do," said Mr. Houghton, hastily.  "I am afraid
that style won't suit our readers."

"Why not?" demanded Prunella, sharply.  "I can assure you, sir, that
it has been praised by _excellent_ judges in our village."

"It is too exciting for our readers.  You had better carry it to 'The
Weekly Corsair.'"

"Do they pay well for contributions?"

"I really can't say.  How much do you expect?"

"This story will make about five columns.  I think twenty-five
dollars will be about right."

"I am afraid you will be disappointed.  We can't afford to pay such
prices, and the 'Corsair' has a smaller circulation than our paper."

"How much do you pay?"

"Two dollars a column."

"I expected more," said Prunella, "but I will write for you at that
price."

"Send us something suited to our paper, and we will pay for it at
that price."

"I will write you a story to-morrow.  Good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning, Miss Prune."

The young lady with ringlets sailed out of the editor's room, and
Oscar, nudging Harry, said, "Now it is our turn.  Come along.  Follow
me, and don't be frightened."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

ACCEPTED.

The editor of the "Standard" looked with some surprise at the two
boys.  As editor, he was not accustomed to receive such young
visitors.  He was courteous, however, and said, pleasantly:--

"What can I do for you, young gentlemen?"

"Are you the editor of the 'Standard'?" asked Harry, diffidently.

"I am.  Do you wish to subscribe?"

"I have already written something for your paper," Harry continued.

"Indeed!" said the editor.  "Was it poetry or prose?"

Harry felt flattered by the question.  To be mistaken for a poet he
felt to be very complimentary.  If he had known how much trash weekly
found its way to the "Standard" office, under the guise of poetry, he
would have felt less flattered.

"I have written some essays over the name of 'Franklin,'" he hastened
to say.

"Ah, yes, I remember, and very sensible essays too.  You are young to
write."

"Yes, sir; I hope to improve as I grow older."

By this time Oscar felt impelled to speak for his friend.  It seemed
to him that Harry was too modest.

"My friend is assistant editor of a New Hampshire paper,--'The
Centreville Gazette,'" he announced.

"Indeed!" said the editor, looking surprised.  "He is certainly young
for an editor."

"My friend is not quite right," said Harry, hastily.  "I am one of
the compositors on that paper."

"But you write editorial paragraphs," said Oscar.

"Yes, unimportant ones."

"And are you, too, an editor?" asked the editor of the "Standard,"
addressing Oscar with a smile.

"Not exactly," said Oscar; "but I am an editor's son.  Perhaps you
are acquainted with my father,--John Vincent of this city."

"Are you his son?" said the editor, respectfully.  "I know your
father slightly.  He is one of our ablest journalists."

"Thank you, sir."

"I am very glad to receive a visit from you, and should be glad to
print anything from your pen."

"I am not sure about that," said Oscar, smiling.  "If I have a talent
for writing, it hasn't developed itself yet.  But my friend here
takes to it as naturally as a duck takes to water."

"Have you brought me another essay, Mr. 'Franklin'?" asked the
editor, turning to Harry.  "I address you by your _nom de plume_, not
knowing your real name."

"Permit me to introduce my friend, Harry Walton," said Oscar.
"Harry, where is your story?"

"I have brought you in a story," said Harry, blushing.  "It is my
first attempt, and may not suit you, but I shall be glad if you will
take the trouble to examine it."

"With pleasure," said the editor.  "Is it long?"

"About two columns.  It is of a humorous character."

The editor reached out his hand, and, taking the manuscript, unrolled
it.  He read the first few lines, and they seemed to strike his
attention.

"If you will amuse yourselves for a few minutes, I will read it at
once," he said.  "I don't often do it, but I will break over my
custom this time."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry.

"There are some of my exchanges," said the editor, pointing to a pile
on the floor.  "You may find something to interest you in some of
them."

They picked up some papers, and began to read.  But Harry could not
help thinking of the verdict that was to be pronounced on his
manuscript.  Upon that a great deal hinged.  If he could feel that he
was able to produce anything that would command compensation, however
small, it would make him proud and happy.  He tried, as he gazed
furtively over his paper at the editor's face, to anticipate his
decision, but the latter was too much accustomed to reading
manuscript to show the impression made upon him.

Fifteen minutes passed, and he looked up.

"Well, Mr. Walton," he said, "your first attempt is a success."

Harry's face brightened.

"May I ask if the plot is original?"