“I have brought you in a story,” said Harry, blushing.  “It is my first attempt, and may not suit you, but I shall be glad if you will take the trouble to examine it.”

“With pleasure,” said the editor.  “Is it long?”

“About two columns.  It is of a humorous character.”

The editor reached out his hand, and, taking the manuscript, unrolled it.  He read the first few lines, and they seemed to strike his attention.

“If you will amuse yourselves for a few minutes, I will read it at once,” he said.  “I don’t often do it, but I will break over my custom this time.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry.

“There are some of my exchanges,” said the editor, pointing to a pile on the floor.  “You may find something to interest you in some of them.”

They picked up some papers, and began to read.  But Harry could not help thinking of the verdict that was to be pronounced on his manuscript.  Upon that a great deal hinged.  If he could feel that he was able to produce anything that would command compensation, however small, it would make him proud and happy.  He tried, as he gazed furtively over his paper at the editor’s face, to anticipate his decision, but the latter was too much accustomed to reading manuscript to show the impression made upon him.

Fifteen minutes passed, and he looked up.

“Well, Mr. Walton,” he said, “your first attempt is a success.”

Harry’s face brightened.

“May I ask if the plot is original?”

“It is so far as I know, sir.  I don’t think I ever read anything like it.”

“Of course there are some faults in the construction, and the dialogue might be amended here and there.  But it is very creditable, and I will use it in the ‘Standard’ if you desire it.”

“I do, sir.”

“And how much are you willing to pay for it?” Oscar struck in.

The editor hesitated.

“It is not our custom to pay novices just at first,” he said.  “If Mr. Walton keeps on writing, he would soon command compensation.”

Harry would not have dared to press the matter, but Oscar was not so diffident.  Indeed, it is easier to be bold in a friend’s cause than one’s own.

“Don’t you think it is worth being paid for, if it is worth printing?” he persisted.

“Upon that principle, we should feel obliged to pay for poetry,” said the editor.

“Oh,” said Oscar, “poets don’t need money.  They live on flowers and dew-drops.”

The editor smiled.

“You think prose-writers require something more substantial?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will tell you how the matter stands,” said the editor.  “Mr. Walton is a beginner.  He has his reputation to make.  When it is made he will be worth a fair price to me, or any of my brother editors.”

“I see,” said Oscar; “but his story must be worth something.  It will fill up two columns.  If you didn’t print it, you would have to pay somebody for writing these two columns.”