CHAPTER XXVII.
THE OFFICE OF THE "STANDARD."
On the day after Thanksgiving, Harry brought out from his carpet-baghis manuscript story, and started with Oscar for the office of the"Weekly Standard." He bought the last copy of the paper, and thusascertained the location of the office.
Oscar turned the last page, and ran through a sketch of about thesame 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 forstories."
"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 feelingsof gratitude and pleasure."
"Better wait till you get it," said Harry, laughing. "Don't countyour chickens before they're hatched."
"The first egg is laid, and that's something. But here we are at theoffice."
It was a building containing a large number of offices. The names ofthe respective occupants were printed on slips of black tin at theentrance. From this, Harry found that the office of the "WeeklyStandard" was located at No. 6.
"My heart begins to beat, Oscar," said Harry, naturally excited inanticipation of an interview with one who could open the gates ofauthorship to him.
"Does it?" asked Oscar. "Mine has been beating for a number ofyears."
"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 thismight prove an embarrassment in the future, and he declined theproposal.
They climbed rather a dark, and not very elegant staircase, and foundthemselves before No. 6.
Harry knocked, or was about to do so, when a young lady with longringlets, and a roll of manuscript in her hand, who had followed themupstairs advanced confidently, and, opening the door, went in. Thetwo boys followed, thinking the ceremony of knocking needless.
They found themselves in a large room, one corner of which waspartitioned off for the editor's sanctum. A middle-aged man wasdirecting papers in the larger room, while piles of papers wereranged on shelves at the sides of the apartment.
The two boys hesitated to advance, but the young lady in ringletswent 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 younglady 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 ifyou have brought anything for examination you may leave it."
"I am not wholly unknown to fame," said the young lady, with an airof consequence. "You have probably heard of Prunella Prune."
"Possibly, but I don't at present recall it. We editors meet with somany 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 aswe can accept. Still we are always glad to welcome reallymeritorious poems."
"I trust my humble efforts will please you," said Prunella. "I havehere some lines to a nightingale, which have been very much praisedin 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 itall. 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 theloads 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 Ishould like to read to you."
"You may read the first paragraph, if you please. I haven't time tohear 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 tothe other. It was a landscape in Spain. From a rocky defile gaylypranced forth a masked cavalier, Roderigo di Lima, a famous banditchief.
"'"Ha! ha!" he laughed in demoniac glee, "the night is well fitted tomy purpose. Ere it passes, Isabella Gomez shall be mine."'"
"I think that will do," said Mr. Houghton, hastily. "I am afraidthat style won't suit our readers."
"Why not?" demanded Prunella, sharply. "I can assure you, sir, thatit has been praised by _excellent_ judges 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-fivedollars will be about right."
"I am afraid you will be disappointed. We can't afford to pay suchprices, 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 thatprice."
"Send us something suited to our paper, and we will pay for it atthat 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, andOscar, nudging Harry, said, "Now it is our turn. Come along. Followme, and don't be frightened."