And the two were synonymous.
There was no distance between Mr. Beecher and his "Plymouth boys."
Each understood the other. The tie was that of absolute comradeship.
"I don't believe in it, boys," said Mr. Beecher when Edward and his
friend broached the syndicate letter to him. "No one yet ever made a
cent out of my supposed literary work."
All the more reason, was the argument, why some one should.
Mr. Beecher smiled! How well he knew the youthful enthusiasm that
rushes in, etc.
"Well, all right! I like your pluck," he finally said. "I'll help you
if I can."
The young editors agreed to pay Mr. Beecher a weekly sum of two hundred
and fifty dollars--which he knew was considerable for them.
When the first article had been written they took him their first
check. He looked at it quizzically, and then at the boys. Then he
said simply: "Thank you." He took a pin and pinned the check to his
desk. There it remained, much to their curiosity.
The following week he had written the second article and the boys gave
him another check.
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