“Send us something suited to our paper, and we will pay for it at that 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, and Oscar, nudging Harry, said, “Now it is our turn.  Come along.  Follow me, and don’t be frightened.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

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?”