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?"
"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."