“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.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

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.”