Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

THE VINCENTS AT HOME.

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 the denouement (you’re a French scholar, so I’ll venture on the word) admirably.”

“I only hope the editor of the ‘Standard’ will think so.”

“If he doesn’t, there are other papers in Boston; the ‘Argus’ for instance.”

“I’ll try the ‘Standard’ first, because I have already written for it.”

“All right.  Don’t you want me to go to the office with you?”

“I wish you would.  I shall be bashful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am always open to a good offer.”

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

“Thank you, Oscar,” said Harry; “I’ll accept your offer to-morrow.”

“Why not to-day?”

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

“I understand,” said Oscar, with instinctive delicacy.

An hour later, the bell rang for dinner.

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

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

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

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

“This is my first visit,” said Harry.

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

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

“Shall you try that on me?” asked Harry.

“Very likely.”

“Then I’ll be prepared.”

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

“I will, if Oscar consents.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What paper are you connected with?” asked Mr. Vincent.

“The ‘Centreville Gazette.’”

“I have seen it.  It is quite a respectable paper.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not, young lady?”

“You need a guardian yourself.  You are young and frivolous.”

“And you, I suppose, are old and judicious.”

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

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

“I never discovered it, Oscar,” said Harry, smiling.

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

“I am afraid I don’t answer the description, Miss Maud.”

“I don’t doubt you will prove competent.  I wish you a pleasant walk.”

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

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

“You couldn’t pay her a higher compliment.  But come; we’ll take a walk on the Common.”

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

“Look there,” said Oscar, suddenly; “isn’t that Fitz Fletcher?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “but he doesn’t see us.”

“We’ll join him.  How are you, Fitz?”

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

“Only this morning; but you don’t see Harry Walton.”

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

“He is visiting me,” said Oscar.

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

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

“No; I only have a little vacation from it.”

“Ah, indeed!  It’s a very dirty business.  I would as soon be a chimney-sweep.”

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

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

“Would you?  At any rate, if you take it up, you’ll be sure to be well sooted.”

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

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

“I am not staying at any beastly school.”

“I mean the Academy.”

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

“I recite to a private tutor.”

“Well, we shall meet at ‘Harvard’ if we are lucky enough to get in.”

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

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