in his leisure moments written a humorous sketch, entitled “The Tin Pedler’s Daughter.”  I shall not give any idea of the plot here; I will only say that it was really humorous, and did not betray as much of the novice as might have been expected.  Harry had copied it out in his best hand, and resolved to carry it to Boston, and offer it in person to the editor of the “Standard” with an effort, if accepted, to obtain compensation for it.

CHAPTER XXVI.

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.”