“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.