Harry was doubly glad that he was now in receipt of a moderate salary. He welcomed it as an evidence that he was rising in the estimation of his employer, which was of itself satisfactory, and also because in his circumstances the money was likely to be useful.
"Five dollars a week!" said Harry to himself. "Half of that ought to be enough to pay for my clothes and miscellaneous expenses, and the rest I will give to father. It will help him take care of the rest of the family."
Our hero at once made this proposal by letter. This is a paragraph from his father's letter in reply:—
"I am glad, my dear son, to find you so considerate and dutiful, as your offer indicates. I have indeed had a hard time in supporting my family, and have not always been able to give them the comforts I desired. Perhaps it is my own fault in part. I am afraid I have not the faculty of getting along and making money that many others have. But I have had an unexpected stroke of good fortune. Last evening a letter reached your mother, stating that her cousin Nancy had recently died at St. Albans, Vermont, and that, in accordance with her will, your mother is to receive a legacy of four thousand dollars. With your mother's consent, one-fourth of this is to be devoted to the purchase of the ten acres adjoining my little farm, and the balance will be so invested as to yield us an annual income of one hundred and eighty dollars. Many would think this a small addition to an income, but it will enable us to live much more comfortably. You remember the ten-acre lot to the east of us, belonging to the heirs of Reuben Todd. It is excellent land, well adapted for cultivation, and will fully double the value of my farm.
"You see, therefore, my dear son, that a new era of prosperity has opened for us. I am now relieved from the care and anxiety which for years have oppressed me, and feel sure of a comfortable support. Instead of accepting the half of your salary, I desire you, if possible, to save it, depositing in some reliable savings institution. If you do this every year till you are twenty-one, you will have a little capital to start you in business, and will be able to lead a more prosperous career than your father. Knowing you as well as I do, I do not feel it necessary to caution you against unnecessary expenditures. I will only remind you that extravagance is comparative, and that what would be only reasonable expenditure for one richer than yourself would be imprudent in you."
Harry read this letter with great joy. He was warmly attached to the little home circle, and the thought that they were comparatively provided for gave him fresh courage. He decided to adopt his father's suggestion, and the very next week deposited three dollars in the savings bank.
"That is to begin an account," he thought. "If I can only keep that up, I shall feel quite rich at the end of a year."
Several weeks rolled by, and Thanksgiving approached.
Harry was toiling at his case one day, when Oscar Vincent entered the office.
"Hard at work, I see, Harry," he said.
"Yes," said Harry; "I can't afford to be idle."
"I want you to be idle for three days," said Oscar.
Harry looked up in surprise.
"How is that?" he asked.
"You know we have a vacation from Wednesday to Monday at the Academy."
"Over Thanksgiving?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am going home to spend that time, and I want you to go with me."
"What, to Boston?" asked Harry, startled, for to him, inexperienced as he was, that seemed a very long journey.
"Yes. Father and mother gave me permission to invite you. Shall I show you the letter?"
"I'll take it for granted, Oscar, but I am afraid I can't go."
"Nonsense! What's to prevent?"
"In the first place, Mr. Anderson can't spare me."
"Ask him."
"What's that?" asked the editor, hearing his name mentioned.
"I have invited Harry to spend the Thanksgiving vacation with me inBoston, and he is afraid you can't spare him?"
"Does your father sanction your invitation?"
"Yes, he wrote me this morning—that is, I got the letter this morning—telling me to ask Harry to come."
Now the country editor had a great respect for the city editor, who was indeed known by reputation throughout New England as a man of influence and ability, and he felt disposed to accede to any request of his.
So he said pleasantly, "Of course, Harry, we shall miss you, but if Mr. Ferguson is disposed to do a little additional work, we will get along till Monday. What do you say, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I shall be very glad to oblige Harry," said the older workman, "andI hope he will have a good time."
"That settles the question, Harry," said Oscar, joyfully. "So all you've got to do is to pack up and be ready to start to-morrow morning. It's Tuesday, you know, already."
Harry hesitated, and Oscar observed it.
"Well, what's the matter now?" he said; "out with it."
"I'll tell you, Oscar," said Harry, coloring a little. "Your father is a rich man, and lives handsomely. I haven't any clothes good enough to wear on a visit to your house."
"Oh, hang your clothes!" said Oscar, impetuously. "It isn't your clothes we invite. It's yourself."
"Still, Oscar—"
"Come, I see you think I am like Fitz Fletcher, after all. Say you think me a snob, and done with it."
"But I don't," said Harry, smiling.
"Then don't make any more ridiculous objections. Don't you think they are ridiculous, Mr. Ferguson?"
"They wouldn't be in some places," said Ferguson, "but here I think they are out of place. I feel sure you are right, and that you value Harry more than the clothes he wears."
"Well, Harry, do you surrender at discretion?" said Oscar. "You seeFerguson is on my side."
"I suppose I shall have to," said Harry, "as long as you are not ashamed of me."
"None of that, Harry."
"I'll go."
"The first sensible words you've spoken this morning."
"I want to tell you how much I appreciate your kindness, Oscar," saidHarry, earnestly.
"Why shouldn't I be kind to my friend?"
"Even if he was once a printer's devil."
"Very true. It is a great objection, but still I will overlook it.By the way, there is one inducement I didn't mention."
"What is that?"
"We may very likely see Fitz in the city. He is studying at home now, I hear. Who knows but he may get up a great party in your honor?"
"Do you think it likely?" asked Harry, smiling.
"It might not happen to occur to him, I admit. Still, if we made him a ceremonious call—"
"I am afraid he might send word that he was not at home."
"That would be a loss to him, no doubt. However, we will leave time to settle that question. Be sure to be on hand in time for the morning train."
"All right, Oscar."
Harry had all the love of new scenes natural to a boy of sixteen. He had heard so much of Boston that he felt a strong curiosity to see it. Besides, was not that the city where the "Weekly Standard" was printed, the paper in which he had already appeared as an author? In connection with this, I must here divulge a secret of Harry's. He was ambitious not only to contribute to the literary papers, but to be paid for his contributions. He judged that essays were not very marketable, and he had therefore in his leisure moments written a humorous sketch, entitled "The Tin Pedler's Daughter." I shall not give any idea of the plot here; I will only say that it was really humorous, and did not betray as much of the novice as might have been expected. Harry had copied it out in his best hand, and resolved to carry it to Boston, and offer it in person to the editor of the "Standard" with an effort, if accepted, to obtain compensation for it.
When Harry rather bashfully imparted to Oscar his plans respecting the manuscript, the latter entered enthusiastically into them, and at once requested the privilege of reading the story. Harry awaited his judgment with some anxiety.
"Why, Harry, this is capital," said Oscar, looking up from the perusal.
"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 thedenouement(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 wellsooted."
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."
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,—anom 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 OldNick 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 sailThrough the air!No other bird can compareWith the tuneful songWhich to thee doth belong.I sit and hear thee sing,While with tireless wingThou 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 byexcellentjudges in our village."
"It is too exciting for our readers. You had better carry it to 'TheWeekly 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."
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,—'TheCentreville 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 yournom 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?"
"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. "IfMr. 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."
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 leaveHarry 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 toWalton here, because his father is rich, and Walton's poor. Again,Harry is a printer, and works for a living, which Fitz considersdegrading. Besides all this, Harry was elected President of ourDebating 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 byOscar, 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 thatHarry 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 youhere," 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 theirvis-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."
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 thatClapp's presence would be far from making the office more agreeable.
"Here's a letter for you, Walton, also post-marked St. Louis," saidMr. 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," saidFerguson.
"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.