"It is so far as I know, sir.  I don't think I ever read anything

like it."

"Of course there are some faults in the construction, and the
dialogue might be amended here and there.  But it is very creditable,
and I will use it in the 'Standard' if you desire it."

"I do, sir."

"And how much are you willing to pay for it?" Oscar struck in.

The editor hesitated.

"It is not our custom to pay novices just at first," he said.  "If
Mr. Walton keeps on writing, he would soon command compensation."

Harry would not have dared to press the matter, but Oscar was not so
diffident.  Indeed, it is easier to be bold in a friend's cause than
one's own.

"Don't you think it is worth being paid for, if it is worth
printing?" he persisted.

"Upon that principle, we should feel obliged to pay for poetry," said
the editor.

"Oh," said Oscar, "poets don't need money.  They live on flowers and
dew-drops."

The editor smiled.

"You think prose-writers require something more substantial?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will tell you how the matter stands," said the editor.  "Mr.
Walton is a beginner.  He has his reputation to make.  When it is
made he will be worth a fair price to me, or any of my brother
editors."

"I see," said Oscar; "but his story must be worth something.  It will
fill up two columns.  If you didn't print it, you would have to pay
somebody for writing these two columns."

"You have some reason in what you say.  Still our ordinary rule is
based on justice.  A distinction should be made between new
contributors and old favorites."

"Yes, sir.  Pay the first smaller sums."

If the speaker had not been John Vincent's son, it would have been
doubtful if his reasoning would have prevailed.  As it was, the
editor yielded.

"I may break over my rule in the case of your friend," said the
editor; "but he must be satisfied with a very small sum for the
present."

"Anything will satisfy me, sir," said Harry, eagerly.

"Your story will fill two columns.  I commonly pay two dollars a
column for such articles, if by practised writers.  I will give you
half that."

"Thank you, sir.  I accept it," said Harry, promptly.

"In a year or so I may see my way clear to paying you more, Mr.
Walton; but you must consider that I give you the opportunity of
winning popularity, and regard this as part of your compensation, at
present."

"I am quite satisfied, sir," said Harry, his heart fluttering with
joy and triumph.  "May I write you some more sketches?"

"I shall be happy to receive and examine them; but you must not be
disappointed if from time to time I reject your manuscripts."

"No, sir; I will take it as a hint that they need improving."

"I will revise my friend's stories, sir," said Oscar, humorously,
"and give him such hints as my knowledge of the world may suggest."

"No doubt such suggestions from so mature a friend will materially
benefit them," said the editor, smiling.

He opened his pocket-book, and, drawing out a two-dollar bill, handed
it to Harry.

"I shall hope to pay you often," he said, "for similar contributions."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry.

Feeling that their business was at an end, the boys withdrew.  As
they reached the foot of the stairs, Oscar took off his cap, and
bowed low.

"Mr. Lynn, I congratulate you," he said.

"I can't tell you how glad I feel, Oscar," said Harry, his face
radiant.

"Let me suggest that you owe me a commission for impressing upon the
editor the propriety of paying you."

"How much do you ask?"

"An ice-cream will be satisfactory."

"All right."

"Come round to Copeland's then.  We'll celebrate your success in a
becoming manner."




CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. CLINTON'S PARTY.

When Oscar and Harry reached home they were met by Maud, who
flourished in her hand what appeared to be a note.

"What is it, Maud?" asked Oscar.  "A love-letter for me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Oscar.  No girl would be so foolish as to
write you a love-letter.  It is an invitation to a party on Saturday
evening."

"Where?"

"At Mrs. Clinton's."

"I think I will decline," said Oscar.  "I wouldn't like to leave
Harry alone."

"Oh, he is included too.  Mrs. Clinton heard of his being here, and
expressly included him in the invitation."

"That alters the case.  You'll go, Harry, won't you?"

"I am afraid I shouldn't know how to behave at a fashionable party,"
said Harry.

"Oh, you've only got to make me your model," said Oscar, "and you'll
be all right."

"Did you ever see such conceit, Mr. Walton?" said Maud.

"It reminds me of Fletcher," said Harry.

"Fitz Fletcher?  By the way, he will probably be there.  His family
are acquainted with the Clintons."

"Yes, he is invited," said Maud.

"Good!  Then there's promise of fun," said Oscar.  "You'll see Fitz
with his best company manners on."

"I am afraid he won't enjoy meeting me there," said Harry.

"Probably not."

"I don't see why," said Maud.

"Shall I tell, Harry?"

"Certainly."

"To begin with, Fletcher regards himself as infinitely superior to
Walton here, because his father is rich, and Walton's poor.  Again,
Harry is a printer, and works for a living, which Fitz considers
degrading.  Besides all this, Harry was elected President of our
Debating Society,--an office which Fitz wanted."

"I hope" said Maud, "that Mr. Fletcher's dislike does not affect your
peace of mind, Mr. Walton."

"Not materially," said Harry, laughing.

"By the way, Maud," said Oscar, "did I ever tell you how Fletcher's
pride was mortified at school by our discovering his relationship to
a tin-pedler?"

"No, tell me about it."

The story, already familiar to the reader, was graphically told by
Oscar, and served to amuse his sister.

"He deserved the mortification," she said.  "I shall remember it if
he shows any of his arrogance at the party."

"Fletcher rather admires Maud," said Oscar, after his sister had gone
out of the room; "but the favor isn't reciprocated.  If he undertakes
to say anything to her against you, she will take him down, depend
upon it."

Saturday evening came, and Harry, with Oscar and his sister, started
for the party.  Our hero, having confessed his inability to dance,
had been diligently instructed in the Lancers by Oscar, so that he
felt some confidence in being able to get through without any serious
blunder.

"Of course you must dance, Harry," he said.  "You don't want to be a
wall-flower."

"I may have to be," said Harry.  "I shall know none of the young
ladies except your sister."

"Maud will dance the first Lancers with you, and I will get you a
partner for the second."

"You may dispose of me as you like, Oscar."

"Wisely said.  Don't forget that I am your Mentor."

When they entered the brilliantly lighted parlors, they were already
half full.  Oscar introduced his friend to Mrs. Clinton.

"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Walton," said the hostess,
graciously.  "Oscar, I depend upon you to introduce your friend to
some of the young ladies."

"You forget my diffidence, Mrs. Clinton."

"I didn't know you were troubled in that way.'"

"See how I am misjudged.  I am painfully bashful."

"You hide it well," said the hostess, with a smile.

"Escort my sister to a seat, Harry," said Oscar.  "By the way, you
two will dance in the first Lancers."

"If Miss Maud will accept so awkward a partner," said Harry.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Walton.  I'll give you a hint if you are going wrong."

Five minutes later Fletcher touched Oscar on the shoulder.

"Oscar, where is your sister?" he asked.

"There," said Oscar, pointing her out.

Fletcher, who was rather near-sighted, did not at first notice that
Harry Walton was sitting beside the young lady.

He advanced, and made a magnificent bow, on which he rather prided
himself.

"Good-evening, Miss Vincent," he said.

"Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher."

"I am very glad you have favored the party with your presence."

"Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.  Don't turn my head with your compliments."

"May I hope you will favor me with your hand in the first Lancers?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but I am engaged to Mr. Walton.  I believe
you are acquainted with him."

Fletcher for the first time observed our hero, and his face wore a
look of mingled annoyance and scorn.

"I have met the gentleman," he said, haughtily.

"Mr. Fletcher and I have met frequently," said Harry, pleasantly.

"I didn't expect to meet you _here_," said Fletcher with marked
emphasis.

"Probably not," said Harry.  "My invitation is due to my being a
friend of Oscar's."

"I was not aware that you danced," said Fletcher who was rather
curious on the subject.

"I don't--much."

"Where did you learn--in the printing office?"

"No, in the city."

"Ah!  Indeed!"

Fletcher thought he had wasted time enough on our hero, and turned
again to Maud.

"May I have the pleasure of your hand in the second dance?" he asked.

"I will put you down for that, if you desire it."

"Thank you."

It so happened that when Harry and Maud took the floor, they found
Fletcher their _vis-a-vis_.  Perhaps it was this that made Harry more
emulous to get through without making any blunders.  At any rate, he
succeeded, and no one in the set suspected that it was his first
appearance in public as a dancer.

Fletcher was puzzled.  He had hoped that Harry would make himself
ridiculous, and throw the set into confusion.  But the dance passed
off smoothly, and in due time Fletcher led out Maud.  If he had known
his own interest, he would have kept silent about Harry, but he had
little discretion.

"I was rather surprised to see Walton here," he began.

"Didn't you know he was in the city?

"Yes, I met him with Oscar."

"Then why were you surprised?"

"Because his social position does not entitle him to appear in such a
company.  When I first knew him, he was only a printer's apprentice."

Fletcher wanted to say printer's devil, but did not venture to do so
in presence of a young lady.

"He will rise higher than that."

"I dare say," said Fletcher, with a sneer, "he will rise in time to
be a journeyman with a salary of fifteen dollars a week."

"If I am not mistaken in Mr. Walton, he will rise much higher than
that.  Many of our prominent men have sprung from beginnings like
his."

"It must be rather a trial to him to come here.  His father is a
day-laborer, I believe, and of course he has never been accustomed to
any refinement or polish."

"I don't detect the absence of either," said Maud, quietly.

"Do you believe in throwing down all social distinctions, and meeting
the sons of laborers on equal terms?"

"As to that," said Maud, meeting her partner's glance, "I am rather
democratic.  I could even meet the son of a tin-pedler on equal
terms, provided he were a gentleman."

The blood rushed to Fletcher's cheeks.

"A tin-pedler!" he ejaculated.

"Yes!  Suppose you were the son, or relation, of a tin-pedler, why
should I consider that?  It would make you neither better nor worse."

"I have no connection with tin-pedlers," said Fletcher, hastily.
"Who told you I had?"

"I only made a supposition, Mr. Fletcher."

But Fletcher thought otherwise.  He was sure that Maud had heard of
his mortification at school, and it disturbed him not a little, for,
in spite of her assurance, he felt that she believed the story, and
it annoyed him so much that he did not venture to make any other
reference to Harry.

"Poor Fitz!" said Oscar, when on their way home Maud gave an account
of their conversation, "I am afraid he will murder the tin-pedler
some time, to get rid of such an odious relationship."




CHAPTER XXX.

TWO LETTERS FROM THE WEST.

The vacation was over all too soon, yet, brief as it was, Harry
looked back upon it with great satisfaction.  He had been kindly
received in the family of a man who stood high in the profession
which he was ambitious to enter; he had gratified his curiosity to
see the chief city of New England; and, by no means least, he had
secured a position as paid contributor for the "Standard."

"I suppose you will be writing another story soon," said Oscar.

"Yes," said Harry, "I have got the plan of one already."

"If you should write more than you can get into the 'Standard,' you
had better send something to the 'Weekly Argus.'"

"I will; but I will wait till the 'Standard' prints my first sketch,
so that I can refer to that in writing to the 'Argus.'"

"Perhaps you are right.  There's one advantage to not presenting
yourself.  They won't know you're only a boy."

"Unless they judge so from my style."

"I don't think they would infer it from that.  By the way, Harry,
suppose my father could find an opening for you as a reporter on his
paper,--would you be willing to accept it?"

"I am not sure whether it would be best for me," said Harry, slowly,
"even if I were qualified."

"There is more chance to rise on a city paper."

"I don't know.  If I stay here I may before many years control a
paper of my own.  Then, if I want to go into politics, there would be
more chance in the country than in the city."

"Would you like to go into politics?"

"I am rather too young to decide about that; but if I could be of
service in that way, I don't see why I should not desire it."

"Well, Harry, I think you are going the right way to work."

"I hope so.  I don't want to be promoted till I am fit for it.  I am
going to work hard for the next two or three years."

"I wish I were as industrious as you are, Harry."

"And I wish I knew as much as you do, Oscar."

"Say no more, or we shall be forming a Mutual Admiration Society,"
said Oscar, laughing.

Harry received a cordial welcome back to the printing office.  Mr.
Anderson asked him many questions about Mr. Vincent; and our hero
felt that his employer regarded him with increased consideration, on
account of his acquaintance with the great city editor.  This
consideration was still farther increased when Mr. Anderson learned
our hero's engagement by the "Weekly Standard."

Three weeks later, the "Standard" published Harry's sketch, and
accepted another, at the same price.  Before this latter was printed,
Harry wrote a third sketch, which he called "Phineas Popkin's
Engagement."  This he inclosed to the "Weekly Argus," with a letter
in which he referred to his engagement by the "Standard." In reply he
received the following letter:--


"BOSTON, Jan., 18--,

"MR. FRANK LYNN,--Dear Sir: We enclose three dollars for your
sketch,--'Phineas Popkin's Engagement.'  We shall be glad to receive
other sketches, of similar character and length, and, if accepted, we
will pay the same price therefor.

"I. B. FITCH & Co."


This was highly satisfactory to Harry.  He was now an accepted
contributor to two weekly papers, and the addition to his income
would be likely to reach a hundred dollars a year.  All this he would
be able to lay up, and as much or more from his salary on the
"Gazette."  He felt on the high road to success.  Seeing that his
young compositor was meeting with success and appreciation abroad,
Mr. Anderson called upon him more frequently to write paragraphs for
the "Gazette."  Though this work was gratuitous, Harry willingly
undertook it.  He felt that in this way he was preparing himself for
the career to which he steadily looked forward.  Present
compensation, he justly reasoned, was of small importance, compared
with the chance of improvement.  In this view, Ferguson, who proved
to be a very judicious friend, fully concurred.  Indeed Harry and he
became more intimate than before, if that were possible, and they
felt that Clapp's departure was by no means to be regretted.  They
were remarking this one day, when Mr. Anderson, who had been
examining his mail, looked up suddenly, and said, "What do you think,
Mr. Ferguson?  I've got a letter from Clapp."

"A letter from Clapp?  Where is he?" inquired Ferguson, with interest.

"This letter is dated at St. Louis.  He doesn't appear to be doing
very well."

"I thought he was going to California."

"So he represented.  But here is the letter." Ferguson took it, and,
after reading, handed it to Harry.

It ran thus:--


"ST. LOUIS, April 4, 18--.

"JOTHAM ANDERSON, ESQ.,--Dear Sir: Perhaps you will be surprised to
hear from me, but I feel as if I would like to hear from Centreville,
where I worked so long.  The man that induced me and Harrison to come
out here left us in the lurch three days after we reached St. Louis.
He said he was going on to San Francisco, and he had only money
enough to pay his own expenses.  As Luke and I were not provided with
money, we had a pretty hard time at first, and had to pawn some of
our clothes, or we should have starved.  Finally I got a job in the
'Democrat' office, and a week after, Luke got something to do, though
it didn't pay very well.  So we scratched along as well as we could.
Part of the time since we have been out of work, and we haven't found
'coming West' all that it was cracked up to be.

"Are Ferguson and Harry Walton still working for you?  I should like
to come back to the 'Gazette' office, and take my old place; but I
haven't got five dollars ahead to pay my travelling expenses.  If you
will send me out thirty dollars, I will come right on, and work it
out after I come back.  Hoping for an early reply, I am,

"Yours respectfully,
"HENRY CLAPP."


"Are you going to send out the money, Mr. Anderson?" asked Ferguson.

"Not I.  Now that Walton has got well learnt, I don't need another
workman.  I shall respectfully decline his offer."

Both Harry and Ferguson were glad to hear this, for they felt that
Clapp's presence would be far from making the office more agreeable.

"Here's a letter for you, Walton, also post-marked St. Louis," said
Mr. Anderson, just afterward.

Harry took it with surprise, and opened it at once.

"It's from Luke Harrison," he said, looking at the signature.

"Does he want you to send him thirty dollars?" asked Ferguson.

"Listen and I will read the letter."


"DEAR HARRY," it commenced, "you will perhaps think it strange that I
have written to you; but we used to be good friends.  I write to tell
you that I don't like this place.  I haven't got along well, and I
want to get back.  Now I am going to ask of you a favor.  Will you
lend me thirty or forty dollars, to pay my fare home?  I will pay you
back in a month or two months sure, after I get to work.  I will also
pay you the few dollars which I borrowed some time ago.  I ought to
have done it before, but I was thoughtless, and I kept putting it
off.  Now, Harry, I know you have the money, and you can lend it to
me just as well as not, and I'll be sure to pay it back before you
need it.  Just get a post-office order, and send it to Luke Harrison,
17 R---- Street, St. Louis, and I'll be sure to get it.  Give my
respects to Mr. Anderson, and also to Mr. Ferguson.

"Your friend,
"LUKE HARRISON."


"There is a chance for a first-class investment, Harry," said
Ferguson.

"Do you want to join me in it?"

"No, I would rather pay the money to have 'your friend' keep away."

"I don't want to be unkind or disobliging," said Harry, "but I don't
feel like giving Luke this money.  I know he would never pay me back."

"Say no, then."

"I will.  Luke will be mad, but I can't help it."

So both Mr. Anderson and Harry wrote declining to lend.  The latter,
in return, received a letter from Luke, denouncing him as a "mean,
miserly hunks;" but even this did not cause him to regret his
decision.




CHAPTER XXXI.

ONE STEP UPWARD.

In real life the incidents that call for notice do not occur daily.
Months and years pass, sometimes, where the course of life is quiet
and uneventful.  So it was with Harry Walton.  He went to his daily
work with unfailing regularity, devoted a large part of his leisure
to reading and study, or writing sketches for the Boston papers, and
found himself growing steadily wiser and better informed.  His
account in the savings-bank grew slowly, but steadily; and on his
nineteenth birthday, when we propose to look in upon him again, he
was worth five hundred dollars.

Some of my readers who are favored by fortune may regard this as a
small sum.  It is small in itself, but it was not small for a youth
in Harry's position to have saved from his small earnings.  But of
greater value than the sum itself was the habit of self-denial and
saving which our hero had formed.  He had started in the right way,
and made a beginning which was likely to lead to prosperity in the
end.  It had not been altogether easy to save this sum.  Harry's
income had always been small, and he might, without incurring the
charge of excessive extravagance, have spent the whole.  He had
denied himself on many occasions, where most boys of his age would
have yielded to the temptation of spending money for pleasure or
personal gratification; but he had been rewarded by the thought that
he was getting on in the world.

"This is my birthday, Mr. Ferguson," he said, as he entered the
printing-office on that particular morning.