The fact that Trevor had twice borrowed half-a-crown from his fellow-lodger, and had twenty times forgotten to repay, while he had also assimilated innumerable examples of Mrs. Charles's baking, had probably something to do with his readiness in opening his columns to the youth. But that did not in the least detract from the bursting joy with which Henry read his own little paragraphs a score of times; nor did Edward John suspect that the first appearance of his young hopeful in the splendour of print was due to such adventitious aid.
Henry's masterpiece was a letter to the editor of the Guardian protesting against the charge of sixpence exacted for admission to view the grave of Shakespeare. This was signed "Thespian," at the suggestion of Trevor, who never by any chance wrote of actors or of the theatre, but always of "sons of Thespis," or of "the temple of Thespis." Quite a lively correspondence ensued in the columns of the paper, and it was a great delight to Henry that he and Trevor Smith alone knew who the correspondents were. Between them they did it all. Oh, Henry was learning what journalism meant!
"Take my word for it, Henry, journalism's your game," his merry mentor assured him. "That last par of yours about the Christ Church muffin-struggle is nearly as good as I could have done myself. You're cut out for a journalist as sure as eggs is eggs. All that you want is an opportunity to show what's in you."
Yes, only the opportunity was awanting. And how to get it?
"Look at me," Mr. Trevor Smith continued, "I was only a common clerk in the Guardian office—a common clerk, mind you—but I had the sense to learn shorthand, and got the first opening as a reporter—and here I am!"
He helped himself to a luscious pear from the stock which Henry had just received from home that day.
Indeed, these little bursts of confidence usually took place on the evening Henry's weekly hamper arrived, but he had never noticed the coincidence. A year or two later, perhaps, he might suspect there had been some connection between the events; meanwhile, his bump of observation had not been abnormally developed.
To-night the reporter appeared especially concerned for the welfare of his young friend, and it occurred to him to ask if Henry had been trying his hand at something more ambitious than mere paragraphs. He blushingly admitted that he had.
"Then trot it out, my boy, and I'll tell you what it's worth in a couple of ticks," said Trevor, quite unconcerned as to the length or character of Henry's "something."
It is Nature's way that the rawest youths and maidens who desire to follow a literary career invariably commence by writing essays on aspects of life which world-worn men of fifty find impossible to discuss with any approach to ripened knowledge. Henry's unpublished manuscript now brought forth of his trunk proved to be a very long and absurdly grandiloquent essay on "Liberty."