Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

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.”