“You have some reason in what you say.  Still our ordinary rule is based on justice.  A distinction should be made between new contributors and old favorites.”

“Yes, sir.  Pay the first smaller sums.”

If the speaker had not been John Vincent’s son, it would have been doubtful if his reasoning would have prevailed.  As it was, the editor yielded.

“I may break over my rule in the case of your friend,” said the editor; “but he must be satisfied with a very small sum for the present.”

“Anything will satisfy me, sir,” said Harry, eagerly.

“Your story will fill two columns.  I commonly pay two dollars a column for such articles, if by practised writers.  I will give you half that.”

“Thank you, sir.  I accept it,” said Harry, promptly.

“In a year or so I may see my way clear to paying you more, Mr. Walton; but you must consider that I give you the opportunity of winning popularity, and regard this as part of your compensation, at present.”

“I am quite satisfied, sir,” said Harry, his heart fluttering with joy and triumph.  “May I write you some more sketches?”

“I shall be happy to receive and examine them; but you must not be disappointed if from time to time I reject your manuscripts.”

“No, sir; I will take it as a hint that they need improving.”

“I will revise my friend’s stories, sir,” said Oscar, humorously, “and give him such hints as my knowledge of the world may suggest.”

“No doubt such suggestions from so mature a friend will materially benefit them,” said the editor, smiling.

He opened his pocket-book, and, drawing out a two-dollar bill, handed it to Harry.

“I shall hope to pay you often,” he said, “for similar contributions.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry.

Feeling that their business was at an end, the boys withdrew.  As they reached the foot of the stairs, Oscar took off his cap, and bowed low.

“Mr. Lynn, I congratulate you,” he said.

“I can’t tell you how glad I feel, Oscar,” said Harry, his face radiant.

“Let me suggest that you owe me a commission for impressing upon the editor the propriety of paying you.”

“How much do you ask?”

“An ice-cream will be satisfactory.”

“All right.”

“Come round to Copeland’s then.  We’ll celebrate your success in a becoming manner.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. CLINTON’S PARTY.

When Oscar and Harry reached home they were met by Maud, who flourished in her hand what appeared to be a note.

“What is it, Maud?” asked Oscar.  “A love-letter for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Oscar.  No girl would be so foolish as to write you a love-letter.  It is an invitation to a party on Saturday evening.”

“Where?”

“At Mrs. Clinton’s.”