Neither the subject nor the wordiness of the manuscript dismayed the hopeful Trevor, who took it in his hand and ran his eyes with lightning rapidity over page after page.
"Ripping, my boy, ripping! That's the sort of stuff to make the critics sit up."
Henry thrilled and reddened, but winced a little when he heard his handiwork described as "stuff."
"Really? Do you think anybody would care to publish it?" he asked.
"Just the sort o' thing for the Nineteenth Century or the Quarterly," Trevor assured him gaily, although the rascal had never set eyes on either of these reviews. "But I should hold it back a bit until you have made your name, for the editors of these things never give an unknown man a chance."
"Still, you think I ought to persevere?"
"Don't I just! I couldn't have written stuff like that at your age for a mint of money. Take my tip, young 'un, you've got it in you to make a name; and when you're riding down Fleet Street in your carriage and pair, don't forget your humble servant who gave you the first leg-up. That phrase of yours on the last page about liberty being born among the stars and flying earthward to brighten all mankind is worthy of Carlyle at his best."
"I always liked Carlyle; but I'll try very hard to do something even better—I mean better than what I've written."
"And, by-the-by, my dear Henry, do you think you could stretch me another half-crown? I'm rather rocky just now, but am expecting a tidy sum for lineage next week," said Trevor, in an off-hand way, and ignoring his friend's confusion, as he lifted his hat and prepared to go out.
Henry stretched the half-crown—with difficulty, for it meant a week's pocket-money—and when his companion had left he executed a wild dance round the table. Ambition had been fired within him again. He determined that not even the Slough of Despond, to which he likened the shop of Mr. Griggs, would discourage him for a day in his onward march to that City Beautiful where one's life was spent in writing fine thoughts for mankind to read and remember.