"
"I should like to increase my income by writing for the city papers.
Even if I only made fifty dollars a year, it would all be clear gain."
Harry's desire was natural. He had no idea how many shared it.
Every editor of a successful weekly could give information on this
subject. Certainly there is no dearth of aspiring young
writers--Scotts and Shakspeares in embryo--in our country, and if all
that were written for publication succeeded in getting into print,
the world would scarcely contain the books and papers which would
pour in uncounted thousands from the groaning press.
When the two boys arrived in Boston they took a carriage to Oscar's
house. It was situated on Beacon Street, not far from the Common,--a
handsome brick house with a swell front, such as they used to build
in Boston. No one of the family was in, and Oscar and Harry went up
at once to the room of the former, which they were to share together.
It was luxuriously furnished, so Harry thought, but then our hero had
been always accustomed to the plainness of a country home.
"Now, old fellow, make yourself at home," said Oscar. "You can get
yourself up for dinner. There's water and towels, and a brush."
"I don't expect to look very magnificent," said Harry. "You must
tell your mother I am from the country."
"I would make you an offer if I dared," said Oscar.
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