"Is it?" asked Ferguson, looking up from his case with interest.
"How venerable are you, may I ask?"

"I don't feel very venerable as yet," said Harry, with a smile.  "I
am nineteen."

"You were sixteen when you entered the office."

"As printer's devil--yes."

"You have learned the business pretty thoroughly.  You are as good a
workman as I now, though I am fifteen years older."

"You are too modest, Mr. Ferguson."

"No, it is quite true.  You are as rapid and accurate as I am, and
you ought to receive as high pay."

"That will come in time.  You know I make something by writing for
the papers."

"That's extra work.  How much did you make in that way last year?"

"I can tell you, because I figured it up last night.  It was one
hundred and twenty-five dollars, and I put every cent into the
savings-bank."

"That is quite an addition to your income."

"I shall make more this year.  I am to receive two dollars a column,
hereafter, for my sketches."

"I congratulate you, Harry,--the more heartily, because I think you
deserve it.  Your recent sketches show quite an improvement over
those you wrote a year ago."

"Do you really think so?" said Harry, with evident pleasure.

"I have no hesitation in saying so.  You write with greater ease than
formerly, and your style is less that of a novice."

"So I have hoped and thought; but of course I was prejudiced in my
own favor."

"You may rely upon it.  Indeed, your increased pay is proof of it.
Did you ask it?"

"The increase?  No, the editor of the 'Standard' wrote me voluntarily
that he considered my contributions worth the additional amount."

"That must be very pleasant.  I tell you what, Harry, I've a great
mind to set up opposition to you in the story line."

"Do so," said Harry, smiling.

"I would if I had the slightest particle of imagination; but the fact
is, I'm too practical and matter-of-fact.  Besides, I never had any
talent for writing of any kind.  Some time I may become publisher of
a village paper like this; but farther than that I don't aspire."

"We are to be partners in that, you know, Ferguson."

"That may be, for a time; but you will rise higher than that, Harry."

"I am afraid you overrate me."

"No; I have observed you closely in the time we have been together,
and I have long felt that you are destined to rise from the ranks in
which I am content to remain.  Haven't you ever felt so, yourself,
Harry?"

Harry's cheek flushed, and his eye lighted up.

"I won't deny that I have such thoughts sometimes," he said; "but it
may end in that."

"It often does end in that; but it is only where ambition is not
accompanied by faithful work.  Now you are always at work.  You are
doing what you can to help fortune, and the end will be that fortune
will help you."

"I hope so, at any rate," said Harry, thoughtfully.  "I should like
to fill an honorable position, and do some work by which I might be
known in after years."

"Why not?  The boys and young men of to-day are hereafter to fill the
highest positions in the community and State.  Why may not the lot
fall to you?"

"I will try, at any rate, to qualify myself.  Then if
responsibilities come, I will try to discharge them."

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Mr.
Anderson, the editor of the "Gazette."  He was not as well or strong
as when we first made his acquaintance.  Then he seemed robust
enough, but now he was thinner, and moved with slower gait.  It was
not easy to say what had undermined his strength, for he had had no
severe fit of sickness; but certainly he was in appearance several
years older than when Harry entered the office.

"How do you feel this morning, Mr. Anderson?" asked Ferguson.

"I feel weak and languid, and indisposed to exertion of any kind."

"You need some change."

"That is precisely what I have thought myself.  The doctor advises
change of scene, and this very morning I had a letter from a brother
in Wisconsin, asking me to come out and visit him."

"I have no doubt it would do you good."

"So it would.  But how can I go?  I can't take the paper with me,"
said Mr. Andersen, rather despondently.

"No; but you can leave Harry to edit it in your absence."

"Mr. Ferguson!" exclaimed Harry, startled by the proposition.

"Harry as editor!" repeated Mr. Anderson.

"Yes; why not?  He is a practised writer.  For more than two years he
has written for two Boston papers."

"But he is so young.  How old are you, Harry?" asked the editor.

"Nineteen to-day, sir."

"Nineteen.  That's very young for an editor."

"Very true; but, after all, it isn't so much the age as the
qualifications, is it, Mr. Anderson?"

"True," said the editor, meditatively.  "Harry, do you think you
could edit the paper for two or three months?"

"I think I could," said Harry, with modest confidence.  His heart
beat high at the thought of the important position which was likely
to be opened to him; and plans of what he would do to make the paper
interesting already began to be formed in his mind.

"It never occurred to me before, but I really think you could," said
the editor, "and that would remove every obstacle to my going.  By
the way, Harry, you would have to find a new boarding-place, for Mrs.
Anderson would accompany me, and we should shut up the house."

"Perhaps Ferguson would take me in?" said Harry.

"I should be glad to do so; but I don't know that my humble fare
would be good enough for an editor."

Harry smiled.  "I won't put on airs," he said, "till my commission is
made out."

"I am afraid that I can't offer high pay for your services in that
capacity," said Mr.  Anderson.

"I shall charge nothing, sir," said Harry, "but thank you for the
opportunity of entering, if only for a short time, a profession to
which it is my ambition to belong."

After a brief consultation with his wife, Mr. Anderson appointed
Harry editor pro tem., and began to make arrangements for his
journey.  Harry's weekly wages were raised to fifteen dollars, out of
which he waa to pay Ferguson four dollars a week for board.

So our hero found himself, at nineteen, the editor of an old
established paper, which, though published in a country village, was
not without its share of influence in the county and State.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE YOUNG EDITOR.

The next number of the Centreville "Gazette" contained the following
notice from the pen of Mr. Anderson:--

"For the first time since our connection with the 'Gazette,' we
purpose taking a brief respite from our duties.  The state of our
health renders a vacation desirable, and an opportune invitation from
a brother at the West has been accepted.  Our absence may extend to
two or three months.  In the interim we have committed the editorial
management to Mr. Harry Walton, who has been connected with the
paper, in a different capacity, for nearly three years.  Though Mr.
Walton is a very young man, he has already acquired a reputation, as
contributor to papers of high standing in Boston, and we feel assured
that our subscribers will have no reason to complain of the temporary
change in the editorship."

"The old man has given you quite a handsome notice, Harry," said
Ferguson.

"I hope I shall deserve it," said Harry; "but I begin now to realize
that I am young to assume such responsible duties.  It would have
seemed more appropriate for you to undertake them."

"I can't write well enough, Harry.  I like to read, but I can't
produce.  In regard to the business management I feel competent to
advise."

"I shall certainly be guided by your advice, Ferguson."

As it may interest the reader, we will raise the curtain and show our
young hero in the capacity of editor.  The time is ten days after Mr.
Anderson's absence.  Harry was accustomed to do his work as
compositor in the forenoon and the early part of the afternoon.  From
three to five he occupied the editorial chair, read letters, wrote
paragraphs, and saw visitors.  He had just seated himself, when a man
entered the office and looked about him inquisitively.

"I would like to see the editor," he said.

"I am the editor," said Harry, with dignity.

The visitor looked surprised.

"You are the youngest-looking editor I have met," he said.  "Have you
filled the office long?"

"Not long," said Harry.  "Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, sir, you can.  First let me introduce myself.  I am Dr.
Theophilus Peabody."

"Will you be seated, Dr. Peabody?"

"You have probably heard of me before," said the visitor.

"I can't say that I have."

"I am surprised at that," said the doctor, rather disgusted to find
himself unknown.  "You must have heard of Peabody's Unfailing
Panacea."

"I am afraid I have not."

"You are young," said Dr. Peabody, compassionately; "that accounts
for it.  Peabody's Panacea, let me tell you, sir, is the great remedy
of the age.  It has effected more cures, relieved more pain, soothed
more aching bosoms, and done more good, than any other medicine in
existence."

"It must be a satisfaction to you to have conferred such a blessing
on mankind," said Harry, inclined to laugh at the doctor's
magniloquent style.

"It is.  I consider myself one of the benefactors of mankind; but,
sir, the medicine has not yet been fully introduced.  There are
thousands, who groan on beds of pain, who are ignorant that for the
small sum of fifty cents they could be restored to health and
activity."

"That's a pity."

"It is a pity, Mr. ----"

"Walton."

"Mr. Walton,--I have called, sir, to ask you to co-operate with me in
making it known to the world, so far as your influence extends."

"Is your medicine a liquid?"

"No, sir; it is in the form of pills, twenty-four in a box.  Let me
show you."

The doctor opened a wooden box, and displayed a collection of very
unwholesome-looking brown pills.

"Try one, sir; it won't do you any harm."

"Thank you; I would rather not.  I don't like pills.  What will they
cure?"

"What won't they cure?  I've got a list of fifty-nine diseases in my
circular, all of which are relieved by Peabody's Panacea.  They may
cure more; in fact, I've been told of a consumptive patient who was
considerably relieved by a single box.  You won't try one?"

"I would rather not."

"Well, here is my circular, containing accounts of remarkable cures
performed.  Permit me to present you a box."

"Thank you," said Harry, dubiously.

"You'll probably be sick before long," said the doctor, cheerfully,
"and then the pills will come handy."

"Doctor," said Ferguson, gravely, "I find my hair getting thin on top
of the head.  Do you think the panacea would restore it?"

"Yes," said the doctor, unexpectedly.  "I had a case, in Portsmouth,
of a gentleman whose head was as smooth as a billiard-ball.  He took
the pills for another complaint, and was surprised, in the course of
three weeks, to find young hair sprouting all over the bald spot.
Can't I sell you half-a-dozen boxes?  You may have half a dozen for
two dollars and a half."

Ferguson, who of course had been in jest, found it hard to forbear
laughing, especially when Harry joined the doctor in urging him to
purchase.

"Not to-day," he answered.  "I can try Mr. Walton's box, and if it
helps me I can order some more."

"You may not be able to get it, then," said the doctor, persuasively.
"I may not be in Centreville."

"If the panacea is well known, I can surely get it without
difficulty."

"Not so cheap as I will sell it."

"I won't take any to-day," said Ferguson, decisively.

"You haven't told me what I can do for you," said Harry, who found
the doctor's call rather long.

"I would like you to insert my circular to your paper.  It won't take
more than two columns."

"We shall be happy to insert it at regular advertising rates."

"I thought," said Dr. Peabody, disappointed, "that you might do it
gratuitously, as I had given you a box."

"We don't do business on such terms," said Harry.  "I think I had
better return the box."

"No, keep it," said the doctor.  "You will be willing to notice it,
doubtless."

Harry rapidly penned this paragraph, and read it aloud:--

"Dr. Theophilus Peabody has left with us a box of his Unfailing
Panacea, which he claims will cure a large variety of diseases."

"Couldn't you give a list of the diseases?" insinuated the doctor.

"There are fifty-nine, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I am afraid we must decline."

Harry resumed his writing, and the doctor took his leave, looking far
from satisfied.

"Here, Ferguson," said Harry, after the visitor had retired, "take
the pills, and much good may they do you.  Better take one now for
the growth of your hair."

It was fortunate that Dr. Peabody did not hear the merriment that
followed, or he would have given up the editorial staff of the
Centreville "Gazette" as maliciously disposed to underrate his
favorite medicine.

"Who wouldn't be an editor?" said Harry.

"I notice," said Ferguson, "that pill-tenders and blacking
manufacturers are most liberal to the editorial profession.  I only
wish jewellers and piano manufacturers were as free with their
manufactures.  I would like a good gold watch, and I shall soon want
a piano for my daughter."

"You may depend upon it, Ferguson, when such gifts come in, that I
shall claim them as editorial perquisites."

"We won't quarrel about them till they come, Harry."

Our hero here opened a bulky communication.

"What is that?" asked Ferguson.

"An essay on 'The Immortality of the Soul,'--covers fifteen pages
foolscap.  What shall I do with it?"

"Publish it in a supplement with Dr. Peabody's circular."

"I am not sure but the circular would be more interesting reading."

"From whom does the essay come?"

"It is signed 'L. S.'"

"Then it is by Lemuel Snodgrass, a retired schoolteacher, who fancies
himself a great writer."

"He'll be offended if I don't print it, won't he?"

"I'll tell you how to get over that.  Say, in an editorial paragraph,
'We have received a thoughtful essay from 'L. S.', on 'The
Immortality of the Soul.' We regret that its length precludes our
publishing it in the 'Gazette.'  We would suggest to the author to
print it in a pamphlet.'  That suggestion will be regarded as
complimentary, and we may get the job of printing it."

"I see you are shrewd, Ferguson.  I will follow your advice."




CHAPTER XXXIII.

AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.

During his temporary editorship, Harry did not feel at liberty to
make any decided changes in the character or arrangement of the
paper; but he was ambitious to improve it, as far as he was able, in
its different departments.  Mr. Anderson had become rather indolent
in the collection of local news, merely publishing such items as were
voluntarily contributed.  Harry, after his day's work was over, made
a little tour of the village, gathering any news that he thought
would be of interest to the public.  Moreover he made arrangements to
obtain news of a similar nature from neighboring villages, and the
result was, that in the course of a month he made the "Gazette" much
more readable.

"Really, the 'Gazette' gives a good deal more news than it used to,"
was a common remark.

It was probably in consequence of this improvement that new
subscriptions began to come in, not from Centreville alone, but from
towns in the neighborhood.  This gratified and encouraged Harry, who
now felt that he was on the right tack.

There was another department to which he devoted considerable
attention.  This was a condensed summary of news from all parts of
the world, giving the preference and the largest space, of course, to
American news.  He aimed to supply those who did not take a daily
paper with a brief record of events, such as they would not be
likely, otherwise, to hear of.  Of course all this work added to his
labors as compositor; and his occasional sketches for Boston papers
absorbed a large share of his time.  Indeed, he had very little left
at his disposal for rest and recreation.

"I am afraid you are working too hard, Harry," said Ferguson.  "You
are doing Mr. Anderson's work better than he ever did it, and your
own too."

"I enjoy it," said Harry.  "I work hard I know, but I feel paid by
the satisfaction of finding that my labors are appreciated."

"When Mr. Anderson gets back, he will find it necessary to employ you
as assistant editor, for it won't do to let the paper get back to its
former dulness."

"I will accept," said Harry, "if he makes the offer.  I feel more and
more that I must be an editor."

"You are certainly showing yourself competent for the position."

"I have only made a beginning," said our hero, modestly.  "In time I
think I could make a satisfactory paper."

One day, about two months after Mr. Anderson's departure, Ferguson
and Harry were surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by the
entrance of John Clapp and Luke Harrison.  They looked far from
prosperous.  In fact, both of them were decidedly seedy.  Going West
had not effected an improvement in their fortunes.

"Is that you, Clapp?" asked Ferguson.  "Where did you come from?"

"From St. Louis."

"Then you didn't feel inclined to stay there?"

"Not I.  It's a beastly place.  I came near starving."

Clapp would have found any place beastly where a fair day's work was
required for fair wages, and my young readers in St. Louis,
therefore, need not heed his disparaging remarks.

"How was it with you, Luke?" asked Harry.  "Do you like the West no
better than Clapp?"

"You don't catch me out there again," said Luke.  "It isn't what it's
cracked up to be.  We had the hardest work in getting money enough to
get us back."

As Luke did not mention the kind of hard work by which the money was
obtained, I may state here that an evening's luck at the faro table
had supplied them with money enough to pay the fare to Boston by
railway; otherwise another year might have found them still in St.
Louis.

"Hard work doesn't suit your constitution, does it?" said Ferguson,
slyly.

"I can work as well as anybody," said Luke; "but I haven't had the
luck of some people."

"You were lucky enough to have your fare paid to the West for you."

"Yes, and when we got there, the rascal left us to shift for
ourselves.  That aint much luck."

"I've always had to shift for myself, and always expect to," was the
reply.

"Oh, you're a model!" sneered Clapp.  "You always were as sober and
steady as a deacon.  I wonder they didn't make you one."

"And Walton there is one of the same sort," said Luke.  "I say,
Harry, it was real mean in you not to send me the money I wrote for.
You hadn't it, had you?"

"Yes," said Harry, firmly; "but I worked hard for it, and I didn't
feel like giving it away."

"Who asked you to give it away?  I only wanted to borrow it."

"That's the same thing--with you.  You were not likely to repay it
again."

"Do you mean to insult me?" blustered Luke.

"No, I never insult anybody.  I only tell the truth.  You know, Luke
Harrison, whether I have reason for what I say."

"I wouldn't leave a friend to suffer when I had plenty of money in my
pocket," said Luke, with an injured air.  "If you had been a
different sort of fellow I would have asked you for five dollars to
keep me along till I can get work.  I've come back with empty
pockets."

"I'll lend you five dollars if you need it," said Harry, who judged
from Luke's appearance that he told the truth.

"Will you?" said Luke, brightening up.  "That's a good fellow.  I'll
pay you just as soon as I can."

Harry did not place much reliance on this assurance; but he felt that
he could afford the loss of five dollars, if loss it should prove,
and it might prevent Luke's obtaining the money in a more
questionable way.

"Where's Mr. Anderson?" asked Clapp, looking round the office.

"He's been in Michigan for a couple of months."

"You don't say so!  Why, who runs the paper?"

"Ferguson and I," said Harry.

"I mean who edits it?"

"Harry does that," said his fellow-workman.

"Whew!" ejaculated Clapp, in surprise.  "Why, but two years ago you
was only a printer's devil!"

"He's risen from the ranks," said Ferguson, "and I can say with truth
that the 'Gazette' has never been better than since it has been under
his charge."

"How much does old Anderson pay you for taking his place?" asked
Luke, who was quite as much surprised as Clapp.

"I don't ask anything extra.  He pays me fifteen dollars a week as
compositor."

"You're doing well," said Luke, enviously.  "Got a big pile of money
laid up, haven't you?"

"I have something in the bank."

"Harry writes stories for the Boston papers, also," said Ferguson.
"He makes a hundred or two that way."

"Some folks are born to luck," said Clapp, discontentedly.  "Here am
I, six or eight years older, out of a place, and without a cent to
fall back upon.  I wish I was one of your lucky ones."

"You might have had a few hundred dollars, at any rate," said
Ferguson, "if you hadn't chosen to spend all your money when you were
earning good wages."

"A man must have a little enjoyment.  We can't drudge all the time."

"It's better to do that than to be where you are now."

But Clapp was not to be convinced that he was himself to blame for
his present disagreeable position.  He laid the blame on fortune,
like thousands of others.  He could not see that Harry's good luck
was the legitimate consequence of industry and frugality.

After a while the two left the office.  They decided to seek their
old boarding-house, and remain there for a week, waiting for
something to turn up.

The next day Harry received the following letter from Mr. Anderson:--


"DEAR WALTON:  My brother urges me to settle permanently at the West.
I am offered a partnership in a paper in this vicinity, and my health
has much improved here.  The West seems the place for me.  My only
embarrassment is the paper.  If I could dispose of the 'Gazette' for
two thousand dollars cash, I could see my way clear to remove.  Why
can't you and Ferguson buy it?  The numbers which you have sent me
show that you are quite capable of filling the post of editor; and