Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

THE OFFICE OF THE “STANDARD.”

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,—­a nom 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 Old
Nick 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 sail
  Through the air! 
  No other bird can compare
  With the tuneful song
  Which to thee doth belong. 
  I sit and hear thee sing,
  While with tireless wing
    Thou 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 by excellent judges in our village.”

“It is too exciting for our readers.  You had better carry it to ’The Weekly 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.”