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[Illustration: “BOOKS! YOU GET RIGHT OUT OF THIS DOORWAY!–P. 112.”]




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               THE YOUNG
                               BOOK AGENT

                   Or, Frank Hardy’s Road to Success


                                   BY
                           HORATIO ALGER, JR.

          AUTHOR OF “LOST AT SEA,” “NELSON THE NEWSBOY,” “OUT
             FOR BUSINESS,”  “YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK,” “RAGGED
                      DICK SERIES,” “TATTERED TOM
                             SERIES,” ETC.


                    [Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]


                                NEW YORK
                        STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY
                                  1905




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            Copyright, 1905

                                   BY

                        STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                PREFACE


MANY years ago the author of the present volume resolved to write a long
series of books describing various phases of village and city life,
taking up in their turn the struggles of the bootblacks, the newsboys,
the young peddlers, the street musicians—the lives, in fact, of all
those who, though young in years, have to face the bitter necessity of
earning their own living.

In the present story are described the ups and downs of a boy book
agent, who is forced, through the misfortunes of his father, to help
provide for the family to which he belongs. He knows nothing of selling
books, when he starts, but he acquires a valuable experience rapidly,
and in the end gains a modest success which is well deserved.

It is the custom of many persons in ordinary life to sneer at a book
agent and show him scant courtesy, forgetting that the agent’s business
is a perfectly legitimate one and that he is therefore entitled to due
respect so long as he does that which is proper and gentlemanly. A kind
word costs nothing, and it often cheers up a heart which would otherwise
be all but hopelessly depressed.

After reading this volume it may be thought by some that the hero, Frank
Hardy, is above his class in tact, intelligence, and perseverance. This,
however, is not true. A book agent, or, in fact, an agent of any kind,
must possess all of these qualities in a marked degree, otherwise he
will undoubtedly make a failure of the undertaking. As in every other
calling, to win success one must first deserve it.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


                  CHAPTER                                 PAGE
                       I. FRANK AT HOME                      1
                      II. DOWN AT THE WRECK                  9
                     III. DISAGREEABLE NEWS                 17
                      IV. THE HUNT FOR A MISSING MAN        25
                       V. FRANK AT THE STORE                34
                      VI. THE RIVAL MERCHANTS               42
                     VII. A FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION      50
                    VIII. FRANK LOOKS FOR WORK              58
                      IX. FRANK MEETS A BOOK AGENT          67
                       X. FRANK GOES TO NEW YORK            76
                      XI. FRANK AS AN AGENT                 86
                     XII. A BRIGHT BEGINNING                96
                    XIII. FRANK ON THE ROAD                108
                     XIV. A BOY RUNAWAY                    118
                      XV. CAUGHT IN A STORM                127
                     XVI. AN IMPORTANT SALE                136
                    XVII. A CURIOUS HAPPENING              145
                   XVIII. THE WOULD-BE ACTOR               153
                     XIX. GIVING AN AUTOGRAPH              162
                      XX. FRANK’S REMARKABLE FIND          171
                     XXI. GABE FLECKER SHOWS HIS HAND      180
                    XXII. THE RIVAL BOOK AGENT             189
                   XXIII. NEWS FROM HOME                   197
                    XXIV. LOST IN A COAL MINE              205
                     XXV. FRANK MEETS FLECKER AGAIN        214
                    XXVI. AN ESCAPE                        224
                   XXVII. AT HOME ONCE MORE                232
                  XXVIII. FRANK STARTS FOR THE SOUTH       242
                    XXIX. A SCENE ON THE TRAIN             249
                     XXX. FRANK MEETS HIS BROTHER MARK     257
                    XXXI. A CLEVER CAPTURE—CONCLUSION      264




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT




                               CHAPTER I

                             FRANK AT HOME


FRANK HARDY came up the short garden path whistling merrily to himself.
He was a tall, good-natured looking boy of sixteen, with dark eyes and
dark, curly hair.

“One more week of school and then hurrah for a long vacation in the
country!” he murmured to himself as he mounted the piazza steps. “Oh,
but won’t we have a dandy time swimming and fishing when we get to
Cloverdale!”

His little dog Frisky was at the door to greet him with short, sharp
barks of pleasure. Frank caught the animal up and began to coddle him.

“Glad to see me, eh?” he cried. “Frisky, won’t you be glad when we get
to the country and you can roam all over the fields?”

For answer the dog barked again and wagged his tail vigorously. Still
holding the animal, Frank entered the dining room and passed into the
kitchen, where his mother was assisting the servant in the preparation
of the evening meal.

“Mother, is father back from Philadelphia yet?” he asked, as he hung up
his cap and slipped into the sink pantry to wash his hands.

“Not yet, Frank,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

“He must have quite some business to attend to, to stay away so late. I
thought I was late myself.”

“You are late, Frank—it is quarter after six. I expected your father in
on the half-past five train, but he must have missed that.”

“Then he won’t be here until nearly eight o’clock. Must I wait for my
supper?”

“No; we can have our supper directly. I know you must be hungry.”

“I am, mother. Baseball gives a fellow an appetite, especially if he
runs bases and plays in the field, as I did. We played the Hopeville
Stars and beat them 12 to 7. I made three runs.”

“You must certainly love the game?”

“I do. Sometimes I wish I could be a professional ball player.”

“I shouldn’t wish you to be that, Frank. I want you to go to college and
be a professional man,” added Mrs. Hardy, with a fond smile.

“Oh, I was only talking, mother. But some professional ball players are
college men.”

Frank entered the dining room and sat down to the table. He was soon
joined by his little brother, Georgie, and his sister, Ruth, who was
twelve years of age.

“How do you get along with your lessons?” he asked of Ruth, who had been
practicing on the piano in the parlor.

“I think I am doing real well,” returned the sister, who was very fair,
with golden hair and bright blue eyes. “Professor Hartman says I will
make a good player if I do plenty of practicing. And, oh, I love it so!”
added the girl, enthusiastically.

“The one who loves it is the one who is bound to make a good player,”
said Frank. “Now, there is Dan Dixon. His folks want him to learn to
play the violin, and he takes lessons. But he doesn’t like it at all,
and I am sure he will never make a player.”

“That is true in all things,” came from Mrs. Hardy, as she sat down to
pour the tea. “If one wants to do well at anything, one’s heart must be
in the work. I once knew a girl whose family wanted her to learn how to
paint. She hadn’t any talent for it, and though she took lessons for two
years she never drew or painted anything really worth showing.”

“I know what I like real well,” came from little Georgie. “I’m going to
keep a candy store when I grow up. I like that real well.”

“Good for you, Georgie!” laughed Frank. “Only don’t eat up all the stock
yourself.”

“Will you buy from me when I keep the store?” continued the little
fellow.

“To be sure, I will—or, maybe, I’ll be a salesman for you—and Ruth can
be the cashier.”

“What’s a cashier?”

“The one who takes in the money.”

“No, I want to take in the money myself,” came from Georgie, promptly.

Thus the talking went on, and while it is in progress and the family are
waiting for the return of Mr. Hardy from his business trip, let me take
the opportunity of introducing them more specifically than I have
already done.

The Hardy family were six in number, Mr. Thomas Hardy and his wife;
Mark, who was three years older than Frank, and the children already
introduced.

Mr. Hardy was a flour and feed dealer, and at one time had had the
principal store in that line in Claster, the town in which the family
resided. He had made considerable money, and the family were counted
well to do. But during the past two years two rivals with capital had
come into the field, and trade with the flour and feed merchant had
consequently fallen off greatly.

Mr. Hardy had expected to send his oldest son, Mark, to college, but the
youth had begged to be allowed to take an ocean trip, and had at last
been allowed to ship on a voyage to South America. He was to return home
in seven or eight months, but during the past three months nothing had
been heard of him.

Frank, Ruth, and little Georgie all attended the same school in Claster,
Georgie being in the kindergarten, and Ruth in one of the grammar
grades. Frank was in the graduating class, and after a vacation in the
country, expected to prepare himself for high school. He was just now
deep in his final examinations at the grammar school, and so far had
done well, much to his parents’ satisfaction.

“Mother, what took father to Philadelphia?” asked Frank, after a spell
of silence, during which he had devoted himself to the viands set before
him.

At this question a shade of anxiety crossed Mrs. Hardy’s face.

“He went on very important business, Frank. I cannot explain to you
exactly what it was. He was to see Mr. Garrison, the man he used to buy
flour from.”

“Jabez Garrison?”

“Yes.”

“I never liked that man, mother; did you?”

“I really can’t say, Frank—I never had much to do with him.”

“I saw him at the store several times—doing business with father. He
somehow put me in mind of a snake.”

“Oh, Frank!” burst in Ruth.

“A man don’t look like a snake,” was little Georgie’s sober comment.

“That is not a very complimentary thing to say, Frank,” said Mrs. Hardy,
somewhat severely.

“I can’t help it, mother. He has such an oily, smooth manner about him.”

“Your father has spoken of him as a very good friend in business. I
believe he gave your father prices which were better than he could get
elsewhere.”

“Well, he didn’t look it. If I were father, I’d keep my eyes on him.”

“He went to Philadelphia to make inquiries about Mr. Garrison. I cannot
tell you more than that just now.”

“Didn’t father loan him some money?”

“Not exactly that; but he went his security when Mr. Garrison was made
treasurer of a certain benevolent order in Philadelphia.”

“How much security?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“That’s a big sum of money.”

“Yes, Frank—but I was told that it was more a matter of form than
anything else.”

“I don’t see it, mother. If Jabez Garrison had a lot of money to handle,
he could steal it if he wanted to.”

“Frank, you are certainly not in love with Mr. Garrison. Did he ever say
anything to you?”

“Not a word. Only I don’t like his looks, that’s all.”

Further talk on this subject was cut off by Ruth, who chanced to look
out of the bay window of the dining room.

“There goes the hospital ambulance,” she cried. “Somebody must be hurt.”

Frank, filled with curiosity, leaped up and ran to the front door, and
then down to the gate.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked of a boy who was running past.

“Big accident on the railroad, down at Barber’s Cut,” answered the boy.
“Freight train ran into the Philadelphia local, and about a dozen
passengers have been killed or hurt.”

“The Philadelphia local!” echoed Frank, and for the moment his heart
almost stopped beating. “Can father have been on that train?”

He ran back into the house and told his mother the news. Mrs. Hardy was
almost prostrated, but quickly recovered.

“I will go down and see if your father is in that wreck,” she said.
“Frank, you can go along.” And a moment later they set out for the scene
of the disaster.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER II

                           DOWN AT THE WRECK


CLASTER was a thriving town of four thousand inhabitants, with several
churches and schools, a bank, two weekly newspapers, and six blocks of
stores. There was a neat railroad station at which two score of trains
stopped daily, bound either north or south, for the line ran from
Philadelphia to Jersey City.

Barber’s Cut was a nasty curve on the line, just south of the town. Here
there was a rocky hill, and in one spot the cut was twenty feet deep. At
the end of the cut was a hollow where a railroad bridge crossed Claster
Creek.

Frank and his mother found a great many of the townspeople hurrying to
the scene of the wreck. All sorts of rumors were afloat, and it was said
the passenger cars were on fire, and the helpless inmates were being
roasted alive. The local fire department was called out, but fortunately
the fire was confined to a freight car loaded with unfinished wagon
wheels, so but comparatively little damage was done through the
conflagration.

The rumor that a dozen passengers had been killed or hurt was false. But
four people on the passenger train had been injured, and only one
severely—this man having several ribs crushed in and an arm broken.

“I don’t see anything of father,” said Frank, after he and his mother
had looked at three of the injured persons. “I guess he wasn’t on this
train after all.”

“It is very fortunate.”

“Your father was on this train,” said a man standing near. “I was
talking to him just a short while before the smash-up occurred.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy. “Then where is he now?”

“There he is!” burst out Frank, and pointed to a form which four men
were carrying from a wrecked car. “Mother, he is—is hurt. You had better
go back and I’ll—I’ll tend to him.” Frank found he could scarcely speak,
he was so agitated.

“My husband!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and ran forward with Frank at her
side. “Oh, tell me, he is not—not dead?”

“No, ma’am, he isn’t dead,” came promptly from one of the men. “He got
his foot crushed, and he’s fainted, that’s all.”

“Thank Heaven it is no worse!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and when the men
laid her husband on the grass above the cut, she knelt beside him, and
sent Frank down to the creek for some water with which to wash Mr.
Hardy’s face, for it was covered with dust and dirt.

As Frank ran down to the creek for the water he saw something shiny
lying in the grass. He picked the object up, and was surprised to learn
that it was a silver spectacle case, containing a fine pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Somebody dropped those in the excitement,” he reasoned. “I’ll have to
look for the owner later;” and he shoved the case into his pocket.

Of the four that had been hurt two were removed to the hospital and the
others were taken to their homes. Mr. Hardy was carried to his
residence, and there his physician and his family did all they could to
make him comfortable.

“The foot is in rather bad shape,” said Doctor Basswood. “Yet I feel
certain I can bring it around so you can walk on it as before. But it
will take time.”

“How much time, doctor?” questioned Mr. Hardy, faintly.

“Four or five months, and perhaps longer. But that is much better than
having your foot amputated.”

“True. But I can’t afford to lay around the house for six months.”

At this the physician shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s the best I can do, Mr. Hardy.”

“Oh, it is not your fault, doctor. But——” Mr. Hardy paused.

“You are thinking of your store?”

“Yes.”

“It is a pity your son, Frank, isn’t older. He might be able to run it
for you.”

“Unfortunately, Frank knows little or nothing about the business. I have
kept him at school.”

“Perhaps you can get a good man to run it for you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”

“What do you do when you go away, as you did to-day?”

“I lock the place up, and leave a slate out for orders. Trade is not as
brisk as it used to be.”

“You mean as it was before Benning and Jack Peterson started in the
business?”

“That’s it. The town can’t support three flour and feed stores.”

“Won’t your old customers stick by you?”

“A few of them do; but both Benning and Peterson are doing their best to
get the trade away from me. They offer all sorts of inducements, and
sometimes sell at less than the goods cost, just to get a customer.”

“Nobody in business can afford to do that very long.”

“They want to drive me out, and each wants to drive out the other. Then
the one who is left will make prices to suit himself;” and here Mr.
Hardy had to stop talking, for he felt very much exhausted.

In the meantime Frank had been sent down to the drug store for several
articles which the doctor had said were needed for the injured man.
While he was waiting for the articles a burly and rather pleasant-faced
man came in and purchased a handful of cigars.

“Is there an optician in town?” questioned the man of the druggist. “I
was in that wreck, and somehow I lost my glasses, and I want to get
another pair.”

“The watchmaker across the way keeps spectacles,” answered the druggist.
“But if he can fit you or not I don’t know.”

“I’ll try him,” said the man, and started for the door.

“Excuse me,” put in Frank, stepping up. “What sort of spectacles did you
drop?”

“Did you find them?”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Mine were in a silver case. They are thick glasses, with a gold frame.”

“Then these must be yours,” and Frank drew the case from his pocket and
passed it over.

“They are mine!” cried the burly man, and looked well pleased to have
his property returned to him. “Where did you find them?”

“In the grass between the wreck and the creek. I was down at the creek
getting some water for my father, who was hurt. I almost stepped on the
case.”

“I see. So your father was hurt. Which one was he?”

“He had his foot crushed.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. They took him to your home up the street.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope the hurt isn’t serious?”

“It’s bad enough. But Doctor Basswood says he can save the foot.”

“Well, that’s a great consolation. It’s no fun to have a foot cut off.
May I ask your name?”

“Frank Hardy.”

“Mine is Philip Vincent. I am very much obliged for returning the
glasses to me.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Vincent. I was going to hunt up the owner as
soon as everything was all right at our house.”

“These glasses are a very fine pair, and I prize them exceedingly. Let
me reward you for returning them,” and Philip Vincent put his hand in
his pocket.

“I don’t want a reward, sir,” said Frank, promptly.

“But I want to show you that I appreciate having them returned,”
insisted the burly gentleman.

“It’s all right.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m in the book business in New York. I’ll
send you a good boy’s book. How will that suit you?” and the gentleman
smiled blandly.

“I must say I never go back on a good story book,” answered Frank,
honestly.

“Most boys like to read. I suppose you go to school here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I shan’t forget you,” concluded Philip Vincent, and shaking
hands, he left the drug store.

“What a pleasant kind of a man,” thought Frank. “I’d like to see more of
him.” And then he wondered what sort of a story book Mr. Vincent would
send him.

A little later Frank obtained the articles needed from the druggist, and
then he started for home. He did not dream of the disagreeable surprise
which was in store for him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III

                           DISAGREEABLE NEWS


“HOW is father feeling?” asked Frank, when he entered the house with his
packages under his arm.

“I think he is a little feverish,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

“Does his foot hurt him much?”

“He says not. Doctor Basswood put something on to ease the pain.” Mrs.
Hardy paused for a moment. “Your father brought bad news from
Philadelphia,” she continued.

“What bad news, mother?”

“It is about Mr. Garrison. He has got into trouble with that benevolent
order.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There is a shortage in the funds of the order.”

“For which Jabez Garrison is responsible?”

“So they claim.”

“What does Mr. Garrison say about it?”

“He told your father that it would all be straightened out in a week.”

“Does father believe it?”

“He won’t say. He is much worried, and I don’t wish to ask too many
questions for fear it might make your father worse.”

“Didn’t I say Garrison was a snake?” went on Frank. “I am sorry father
trusted him.”

“So am I—now. But it can’t be helped.”

“Do you know what father was going to do about it?”

“He said he had intended to go to Philadelphia again next Monday. But of
course, he can’t go now.”

“Can’t I go for him?”

“Possibly, although I don’t see what you can do.”

“I could have a talk with Mr. Garrison and also with the other men who
are interested in the order.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see how matters turn,” said Mrs. Hardy, with a
sigh.

The accident had happened on Saturday, and during Sunday Mr. Hardy was
decidedly feverish, so that the doctor had to come and attend him twice.
The night to follow was an anxious one for the whole family, but by
Monday noon the sufferer felt much better, although, on account of his
crushed foot, he did not dare to move.

The store had been closed, but before and after school Frank delivered
the orders that were left on the slate, and also went to such customers
as his father mentioned. Trade was indeed slow, and the boy could
readily see that the two rivals of his parent were doing the larger
portion of the business. And this was not to be wondered at, since each
had a fine location and made a very attractive display. If the truth
must be told, Mr. Hardy was a bit old-fashioned in his ways, and he
allowed his rivals to go ahead of him without much of a protest.

“I wish I knew all about the store,” thought Frank. “I’d go in for all
the business there was.”

A letter had been sent to Jabez Garrison by Mrs. Hardy—the letter being
dictated by her husband—but Wednesday passed without any answer being
received. On this day Frank returned from school, stating that the final
examination was at an end.

“And I received ninety-three per cent. out of a possible hundred,” said
he, with just a little pride.

“You have certainly done very well,” answered Mrs. Hardy, and gave him a
fond kiss. “Then you are sure of your grammar-school diploma?”

“Of course.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Frank.”

“How is father?”

“No different from what he was this morning. He is very anxious to hear
from Mr. Garrison.”

“Then you have no word yet?”

“None whatever.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I.”

“Perhaps I’d better go to Philadelphia for him after all.”

“He says he will wait another day.”

The next day passed and still no word was received.

“Frank, do you think you could talk to Mr. Garrison?” questioned the
boy’s father.

“Yes, sir—if you’ll tell me about what you’ll want me to say.”

“I want to find out just how he stands in relation to that benevolent
order. If you can’t find out from him I want you to go to Mr. Bardwell
Mason, the secretary. Here is his address on a card. I want to know
exactly how matters stand.”

“What shall I do if I find Mr. Garrison has used up some money that
doesn’t belong to him?”

“Tell him for me that he must straighten out the matter at once. If he
does not I shall apply to the authorities for protection.”

“Could the authorities make you pay that ten thousand dollars if Jabez
Garrison didn’t pay it?”

“Certainly, if he was in arrears that amount.”

“It’s a big sum of money, father.”

“To lose that amount would ruin me, Frank.”

“Ruin you?”

“Yes. Business is so bad that I need the money to help matters along. If
I lose the cash I’ll have to close up or sell out.”

“Then I think you ought to get after Mr. Garrison without delay—or let
me get after him.”

“I do not wish to appear too forward—in case everything turns out right,
Frank. Mr. Garrison has done me some good turns in business in the
past.”

Father and son had a talk lasting the best part of an hour, and then
Frank came up to his room to prepare himself for the journey.

The youth had been to Philadelphia several times during the past two
years, so he knew he would not feel as strange as though the city was
totally new to him.

The wreck on the railroad had been cleared away in a few hours after it
occurred, so there was nothing to hinder the trains from going through
on time. Frank left home at ten in the morning and promised to be back
by eight o’clock in the evening, or else to send a telegram stating why
he was detained. If necessary he was to stop over night at a hotel his
father mentioned to him.

The day was a bright, clear one in late June, and had our hero not had
so much on his mind he would have enjoyed the trip very much. As it was,
however, he could not help but think of what was before him, and of just
how he should approach Mr. Jabez Garrison when he met that individual.

“I mustn’t say too much,” he reasoned. “And yet it won’t do to say too
little. My opinion of it is, that father is altogether too easy on him.
A man who can’t act on the square when he is handling money belonging to
others doesn’t deserve nice treatment.”

It was some time before noon when Frank reached the Quaker City, as
Philadelphia is often called. The ride had made him hungry, but he
determined to call on Jabez Garrison before hunting up a restaurant for
lunch.

The office of the wholesale flour and feed merchant was on Broad Street,
and hither Frank found his way.

“Is Mr. Garrison in?” he asked of the clerk who came forward to meet
him.

“What name, please?”

“Frank Hardy. I was sent here by my father, Thomas Hardy, of Claster.”

“I’ll see if Mr. Garrison will see you. He is very busy at present.”

“Tell him it is very important.”

The clerk walked to the rear of the place and entered a private office,
closing the door behind him.

Frank heard some strong conversation for several minutes and then the
clerk returned.

“Mr. Garrison is very sorry, but just now he cannot see you, as he has
an important account to look after. He says if you will call at three
o’clock this afternoon he will see you, and explain everything to your
father’s entire satisfaction.”

“At three o’clock,” repeated Frank.

“That’s it. Just now he has got to look after an account that is worth
something like fifteen thousand dollars to him.”

“All right then. I’ll call at three o’clock sharp,” said our hero, and
left the place.

The statement the clerk had made was rather reassuring, for if Jabez
Garrison had an account of fifteen thousand dollars coming to him he
certainly could not be in a very bad condition financially.

“Perhaps this unpleasantness will all blow over after all,” thought
Frank. “Father may be right, and I may be misjudging this man.”

He found a restaurant that suited him, and as he had a long time to
wait, took his leisure in eating. Then he visited several department
stores, spending a full hour in the picture and book departments. Books
particularly interested him, and as he had a quarter to spend he let it
go in the purchase of a volume which was slightly soiled, and therefore
sold to him at one-third of its real value.

“I wouldn’t mind owning a bookstore of my own,” he said to himself, as
he set out once again for Jabez Garrison’s offices. “It’s a business
that would just suit me. I wonder if Mr. Philip Vincent has a place as
large as that department I just visited?” And then he wondered when the
gentleman from New York intended to send the book he had promised.

When Frank arrived at the flour dealer’s offices the clerk met him with
rather a troubled look on his face.

“Mr. Garrison isn’t here,” he said. “He went out about two hours ago,
and I can’t say how soon he’ll be back.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IV

                       THE HUNT FOR A MISSING MAN


ON entering the offices Frank had glanced at a clock on the wall and
found it was five minutes past three.

“You don’t know how soon he will be back?” he queried.

“No.”

“If you will remember, I had an appointment at three sharp.”

“I remember it very well.” The clerk hesitated. “Would you mind telling
me what your business was with Mr. Garrison?”

“It was a private matter.”

“Relating to money matters?”

“In a way, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I have reasons. Perhaps you had better sit down and wait for him.”

“That is what I intend to do. If necessary, I’ll wait for him until you
shut up,” added our hero, as he dropped into a chair.

“Then you are bound to see him.”

“I am.”

The clerk said no more, but turned to a set of books and began to write.
Frank remained silent for perhaps ten minutes.

“Did Mr. Garrison say where he was going?” he asked.

“Out to collect a bill.”

“Near by?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did he go out alone?”

“Yes.”

There was another spell of silence, and then the outer door opened
quickly, and two well-dressed men stepped in.

“We wish to see Mr. Garrison,” said one, while he looked about to see if
that individual was in sight.

“Sorry, sir; but he’s out,” said the clerk.

“When will he be back?” put in the second man.

“I can’t say.”

The two men exchanged glances, and one uttered a low whistle.

“Reckon we’re too late,” muttered the latter of the pair.

“It looks like it, Mason,” was the answer.

“What’s to do next?”

“Find him—if we can—and do it right away.”

“But it’s like looking for a pin in a haystack.”

“That’s true, too.” The man turned again to the clerk. “You are sure you
don’t know where to find Mr. Garrison?”

“I haven’t the least idea where he has gone to.”

The other man had walked to the rear and glanced into the private
office.

“Did Mr. Garrison have a satchel with him when he left?” he asked.

“He has a dress-suit case with him.”

“Humph!”

Frank listened to the talk with close attention. Then he arose and
turned to the man who had been addressed as Mason.

“Excuse me, sir, but is your name Bardwell Mason?” he questioned.

“It is. Who are you?”

“I am Frank Hardy. My father is Thomas Hardy, of Claster.”

“Phew! Then you are after Garrison, too, eh?”

“I wish to see him. He was here this morning and promised to see me at
three o’clock. It is now half-past three.”

“When did you call this morning?”

“About half-past eleven.”

“And you had a talk with him?”

“No, sir; I sent my name into the private office by this clerk.”

“Of course you want to see him about this security business.”

“Yes, sir. My father told me that if I couldn’t get any satisfaction
here I should call upon you.”

Bardwell Mason nodded. Then he bent forward and lowered his voice.

“I’m afraid the fat’s in the fire here,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Jabez Garrison knows he is found out and that he has
flown.”

“You mean that he has run away?” whispered Frank, in horror.

“It certainly looks that way. We have had an expert on his books for two
days, and it is a fact beyond question that he has swindled our
benevolent order out of at least thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“Then he ought to be locked up.”

“If we can lay our hands on him.”

“Why don’t you notify the police?”

“That’s what we will do—if he doesn’t come back pretty soon.”

“We must catch him by all means—for my father’s sake as much as for
yours.”

“True, my boy; but if he has really run away he has probably covered his
tracks well.”

A half-hour went by, and leaving Frank to watch at the office, Bardwell
Mason and his companion went off to interview the police.

“I guess the boss is getting himself in hot water,” said the clerk to
Frank, when the two were again left alone.

“It begins to look that way,” answered our hero. “But I don’t feel like
saying too much.”

“It’s over that benevolent order affair, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you know anything about it?”

“Oh, I heard the boss and Mr. Mason talking about it one day in the
office. They had it pretty hot. I made up my mind then matters were
coming to a head.”

“What will you do if Mr. Garrison doesn’t come back?”

“Shut up and go home at six o’clock.”

“Will you open up in the morning?”

“The boy does that. He’s out on an errand for me now.”

“Have you any stock on hand—I mean flour and feed?”

“We don’t keep stock any more. We simply sell on commission.”

At this announcement Frank felt more depressed than ever. There would
then be nothing to attach, in case Jabez Garrison had really fled. He
looked at the office furniture. It was old and dilapidated, and if put
up at auction would probably not fetch over twenty or thirty dollars.

“Does Mr. Garrison own any property?”

“Not that I know of. He used to have a house on Walnut Street, but he
sold that about a year ago.”

Here was more cause for regret, and Frank heaved a deep sigh. He felt
that the news he would carry home would nearly prostrate his parents.

“And just when father is helpless with that crushed foot,” he thought.
“It’s too bad! Oh! if only I could catch this Jabez Garrison and make
him give up what he has stolen.”

It was after five o’clock when Bardwell Mason returned.

“Have you seen anything of him?” he asked, briefly.

“Nothing whatever,” answered Frank.

“He has flown beyond a doubt.”

“What have you done, Mr. Mason?”

“I have placed the police and a first-class detective on his track.”

At these words the clerk looked up in wonder.

“Do you mean to say Mr. Garrison has run away?” he demanded.

“We think he has, young man—anyway, he is not to be found, and at the
place where he boarded he removed the best of his clothing this noon.”

“Was he married?” asked Frank.

“No, he was a bachelor.”

The clerk was now all attention, and asked for some details, which were
given to him. He asked what he had best do regarding the offices.

“Better consult the police about that,” said Mr. Mason, and the clerk
promised to do so.

“This is rough on me,” he said. “I haven’t been paid last week’s salary,
and now I’m out of a job without a minute’s warning.”

“It certainly is rough on you,” said Frank.

The clerk locked up the place and walked off, and Frank and Bardwell
Mason also took their departure.

“Mr. Mason, if Mr. Garrison is not found will my father have to make
good the amount of the bond on which he went security?” asked our hero,
as the pair took themselves to the gentleman’s office.

“Certainly; and he’ll have to make good anyway, unless Garrison pays
back what he has appropriated.”

“It will be a great blow to my father.”

“I presume it will be. But that is not my fault, nor the fault of
anybody in our order. Your father made a great mistake when he went
security for such a slick rascal as Jabez Garrison.”

“Do you think the police will catch him?”

“Possibly. But he may have taken a steamer to some foreign land from
which it will be impossible to bring him back.”

Frank hardly knew what to do next, but decided to call on the police
himself. At headquarters he was informed that everything possible would
be done to find Jabez Garrison.

“Mr. Mason has placed a very shrewd detective on the track,” said an
officer to our hero. “He will probably learn something sooner or later.”

Before leaving Philadelphia Frank called at the house where the missing
man had boarded. He was met at the door by a sharp-faced woman with a
high-pitched voice.

“Yes, I guess he has run away and for good,” she said, tartly. “They say
he stole fifty thousand dollars. He owed me for two weeks’ board, and
seventy-five cents that I paid only two days ago for his laundry. He was
a villain if ever there was one.”

“Didn’t he leave anything behind?”

“Yes, a lot of old clothing and worn-out shoes worth about fifty cents
to the junkman. Oh, I wish I could catch hold of him! I’d tear his eyes
out!”

“I wish I could get hold of him, too,” returned Frank, and there being
nothing more to say he withdrew.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V

                           FRANK AT THE STORE


WHEN Frank returned home and told of what had occurred in Philadelphia,
there was consternation in the Hardy family. Mr. Hardy shook his head
over and over again, and Mrs. Hardy shed bitter tears.

“I was a fool to trust Garrison,” said the disabled husband. “Now, here
he is running away while I cannot even make a search for him.”

“I am afraid that such a search would be useless,” responded his wife.
“And even if he were captured what good would it do, if he has
squandered the money?”

“No good, so far as I am concerned, my dear.” Mr. Hardy heaved a long
sigh. “Do you realize what this means for me?” he went on, bitterly.

“You will have to pay that ten thousand dollars.”

“Assuredly.”

“How much money have you in the bank, Thomas?”

“Nine thousand five hundred dollars.”

“Indeed! I thought you had more.”

“I used to have more, but the competition in business has forced me to
put in additional capital, which I took from the savings bank.”

“Then you will have to take all the money in the bank and make up five
hundred dollars besides?”

“Yes, if they call on me to make good the amount for which I went
security.”

“Can you spare the five hundred out of the business?”

At this question Mr. Hardy hung his head.

“I am afraid I cannot, Margy. Business has been very bad lately, and I
have many bills coming due inside of thirty and sixty days.”

At this candid statement Mrs. Hardy grew very pale.

“Oh, Thomas, do you mean that we—we——”

“This will drive me to the wall.” Mr. Hardy gave another sigh and his
voice shook. “I am ruined.”

“Ruined!”

“That is the one word to use. Competition has almost forced me out of
business, and this affair will take away nearly every cent I possess.”

After this confession the matter was discussed freely until Mr. Hardy
grew so feverish that his wife told him he must be quiet and left to
himself. She passed down into the sitting room and there met Frank.

“Mother, you have been crying,” said the boy, coming up and embracing
her.

“I cannot deny it, Frank; this blow is an awful one.”

“Perhaps it won’t be so bad as you think.”

The lady of the house shook her head.

“It won’t take all of father’s money, will it?”

“Every dollar, Frank.”

“But he will still have the business, won’t he?”

“Not free and clear. He will have to take out of it five hundred
dollars, and pay some bills besides.”

“That’s bad.”

“Your father says he is ruined, and I really think he is. The business
will have to be sold for what it will bring.”

“And what will father do then?”

“I am sure I don’t know. He will have to get well first.”

“I wish I could catch Jabez Garrison. I’d—I’d strangle him!”

“Frank, you mustn’t speak like that!”

“I don’t care, mother. See what mischief he has created.”

“Well, we must face the truth, Frank.” Mrs. Hardy wrung her hands. “I am
sure I do not know what we shall do.”

“I know what I am going to do, mother,” he returned, quickly. “I’ve been
thinking it over ever since I got home.”

“What is that?”

“I’m going to work.”

The fond mother smiled faintly.

“Yes; I’m afraid we shall no longer be able to support you unless you do
something.”

“I shall find something to do just as soon as I can, and bring all my
wages home to you. Maybe they won’t be much, but they’ll be something.”

The mother embraced him again.

“Frank, you are truly a son worth having. But it will be too bad to keep
you from high school.”

“Never mind; perhaps I can study at night.”

“If you do that, I’ll help you all I can. But I am sure I do not know
where you can get a position.”

“Oh, I’ll get something. But first of all, I’m going down to father’s
store and do all I can to sell what goods he has on hand.”

“Yes; I was going to ask you to do that.”

True to his word, Frank opened the store bright and early the next
morning. He felt that he must do something, and during the day cleaned
the windows and arranged the goods on the shelves and in the big
storeroom. He also called on several regular customers and asked if they
did not wish fresh supplies.

“So you are going to help your father out, eh?” said one old gentleman.
“I’m glad to see it. Yes, you can send me two bags of oats and a bushel
of corn, and also a barrel of that best flour for the house. I’ll help
you all I can.” And Frank went away delighted with the order.

But the work was not all so agreeable. Some found fault, and others said
they were buying elsewhere. Looking over the old store books, the boy
soon learned that the receipts had been falling off steadily for six
months—ever since the opposition had started.

“I guess it needs an experienced man with more capital than we now have
to make a success of this,” he reasoned, and he was correct in his
surmise. The two rivals carried big stocks, and both were very active,
consequently more than three-quarters of the business of the town and
vicinity went to them.

A few days later Mr. Hardy received a formal notification of what Jabez
Garrison had done and was told that he must “make good” without delay or
the benevolent order would sue him. Following this, Mr. Bardwell Mason
paid him a visit.

“I am very sorry this has occurred,” said the gentleman from
Philadelphia. “But business is business, and the order looks to me to
have this matter straightened out.”

“I do not see what I can do excepting to give the bank notice to hold
that money for you until we have time to look for Jabez Garrison,”
answered Mr. Hardy.

“Have you the whole amount in the bank?”

“I have it, less five hundred dollars.”

“Where is that to come from, if I may ask?”

“I own my business and this house.”

“I see. Then there will be no trouble, Mr. Hardy. I am sorry to bother
you at such a time as this. It looks like hitting a man when he is down.
But you know what these orders are. They look to me to do my duty, and
if I don’t do it some of the members will be sure to make trouble for
me.”

“They are not very benevolent in my case.”

“Well, you see, you are not a member.”

The talk was continued for a good hour, and in the end, Mr. Hardy sent a
note down to the bank introducing Mr. Mason, and relating the object of
that gentleman’s call. By this means, the account was, for the time
being, tied up so that Mr. Hardy could not touch it.

On Monday of the following week, Frank was in the store packing up a
small order for delivery, when a dapper young man entered.

“Is Mr. Hardy around?” questioned the newcomer.

“No, sir; my father is at home with a crushed foot,” answered our hero.

“How did he crush it, in the store?”

“No; he had it crushed on the railroad.”

“Oh, was he in that wreck near here?”

“He was.”

“Then I suppose he’ll soak the railroad company good for it?”

“I think he expects them to pay something.”

“I’d soak them for all I was worth,” went on the dapper young man,
sitting down across the counter. “They can stand it, and he can put in
any kind of an old bill he wants to.”

To this Frank did not answer, but continued to put up the order upon
which he had been working.

“I suppose you don’t know who I am,” went on the young man, after he had
lit a cigarette.

“I do not.”

“I’m the representative of the Blargo-Leeds Flour Company. There’s a
bill due us and I want to find out why it hasn’t been paid. Your father
promised to pay it some time ago.”

“How much is it?” asked Frank uneasily, although he knew something of
the bill already.

“Two hundred and sixty-eight dollars. It’s been due now for three
weeks.”

“Well, I’ll try to find out for you.”

“Can’t you pay it now?”

“No.”

“My firm says that bill has got to be paid inside of the next ten days.”

“Very well; we’ll try to pay it.”

“If you don’t they will sue.” The young man leaped down from the
counter. “Sure you can’t pay it now?”

“No; I haven’t the money.”

“I’ve heard your father is in a peck of trouble over some bond he went
on. I’m sorry for him. But that bill must be paid, remember that. In ten
days, or it’s a suit at law.” And lighting another cigarette, the dapper
young man hurried out as quickly as he had entered.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER VI

                          THE RIVAL MERCHANTS


WHEN Frank went home to dinner he expected to tell both his father and
his mother about the visit from the dapper young man; but he found both
of them so much worried that he did not say a word. He ate his meal in
silence, and hurried back to the place of business as soon as he could.

“I’ll tell them to-night or to-morrow,” he thought. “One thing is
certain: we can’t pay that bill, for we haven’t the money on hand with
which to do it.”

The youth worked hard during the afternoon, and made several sales which
were rather gratifying—one of some middlings which had become slightly
spoiled and which his father had despaired of selling. Frank sold the
stuff for just what it was, so that no fault might be found later.

He was placing the nine dollars he had received in the transaction in
the money drawer, when a dark, middle-aged man came in, and looked
around.

“I suppose Mr. Hardy isn’t here?” he said.

“No, sir; my father is at home with a crushed foot,” answered Frank,
telling what he had repeated many times before.

“I am Jackson Devore, the feed man. I have a bill of ninety dollars that
has been running for some time. I want to know when your father intends
to pay it.”

“I guess he’ll pay it as soon as he can, Mr. Devore.”

“That is what he told me when I saw him last. This bill has got to be
paid at once.”

“I can’t pay it now.”

“Well, if it isn’t paid by the day after to-morrow, I’ll bring suit.”

“The day after to-morrow is the Fourth of July.”

“Well, then, the next day,” snarled Jackson Devore. “And tell your
father I won’t wait a minute longer. He has let his business run down
and go to pieces, and it looks to me like he didn’t intend to pay
anything.” And out of the store bounded the man, shaking his head and
his fist at the same time.

“This is certainly getting interesting,” said Frank to himself. “We will
have to do something soon; that is certain.”

He had exactly twenty-seven dollars on hand, and this cash he took home
at supper time. Then he told his parents of what had happened during the
day.

“I expected it,” groaned Mr. Hardy. “To keep the store going longer
would be folly. I may as well sell out as best I can, and settle these
bills as best I can, too.”

“Who will you sell out to?” asked Frank.

“I’m sure I don’t know. I might offer the place to my rivals.”

“They wouldn’t buy anything but the stock.”

“They might be able to use the fixtures, such as they are.”

“I’ll tell you what I can do,” said Frank. “I can go to each of our
rivals and get them to submit offers. Perhaps they will bid pretty well
against each other—for each wants the business in this town, and they
know your good will is worth something.”

“That is a good idea!” said Mr. Hardy, brightening. “You might go and
see both of them this evening, if you wish.”

“Frank looks tired,” interposed his mother.

“Never mind, mother, I’ll go anyway. Perhaps Mr. Benning and Mr.
Peterson will walk over here and see father.”

“Yes, you might ask them to call,” said the sick man.

A little later Frank went to see Andrew Benning, who lived but a short
distance from the Hardy homestead. He found the storekeeper, who was a
shrewd Yankee, reading the local weekly paper.

“Your father would like to see me, eh?” said the man. “What about,
Frank?”

“He is going to sell out and thought you might like to buy.”

“Hum! Has he set any figger?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I’ll call an’ see him first thing in the morning. I don’t reckon
as how the place is wuth much—it’s so run down.”

“Oh, there is quite some stock,” answered our hero. “What time shall I
say you will call?”

“About nine o’clock. I’ll take a look at the place first. Will you be
around there early?”

“At seven o’clock.”

“All right.”

From the Benning home, Frank hurried to the place where Mr. Peterson,
the other rival, boarded.

“I’m sorry for your father,” said Mr. Peterson, who was a young man and
rather pleasant. “I might buy him out if he’ll sell cheap enough.”

“He’ll sell at a fair figure.”

“Do you know what he has on hand?”

“Yes, sir, in a general way.”

“Very well. I’ll go up with you now and see him.” And in a minute more
the two were on the way. When they reached the Hardy home the rival
flour and feed man shook hands cordially with Mrs. Hardy and also with
the sick man.

“So you are going to sell out,” said he to Frank’s father. “Well, I
thought one of us would have to give up pretty soon. The town can’t
support three dealers.”

The matter was talked over, and it soon developed that John Peterson was
as shrewd as Andrew Benning. The best offer he would make was seventy
per cent. of the wholesale value of the stock and a hundred dollars for
the fixtures and good will.

“Seventy per cent. is not enough,” said Mr. Hardy. “I think I can get
more elsewhere.”

“I think Mr. Benning will give more,” said Frank.

“Is he going to have a chance to buy it?” cried John Peterson.

“I shall sell to the highest bidder,” answered Mr. Hardy.

“Oh, then you want us to bid against each other, eh?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Hardy—but it don’t just look right either. I’ll tell
you what I’ll do—I’ll give you seventy-five per cent. of the value of
the stock.”

“Make it ninety and I’ll take you up.”

“No, that is my best figure.”

“Then I’ll let you know by to-morrow night.”

“Very well,” answered John Peterson, and soon after this he left.

“Do you think that is a fair price, father?” asked Frank, after the
visitor had departed.

“No, my son. But what shall I do?”

“Perhaps Andrew Benning will make a better offer.”

“Let us hope so.”

Early the next morning Frank went to the store and arranged the stock to
the best possible advantage. He was just finishing the work when the
rival dealer came in and began to look around.

Although Frank did not know it, Andrew Benning had, late the evening
before, met John Peterson, and the rivals had talked over the matter of
buying Mr. Hardy out, and reached an agreement by which neither was to
outbid the other. If either got the place he was to divide the goods
with the other and also the fixtures, and both were to settle jointly
for the good will—and then each was to catch what customers he could as
in the past.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, and you can tell your father,” said Andrew
Benning. “I’ll give him sixty per cent. of the value of his stock at
wholesale and fifty dollars for his fixtures and good will.”

“Thank you, but my father can get more than that,” answered Frank,
coldly.

“All right then, he had better do it,” was Andrew Benning’s retort, and
he stalked out without another word.

But our hero had not reckoned on the plot the rivals had hatched out. On
going to dinner he learned that his father had just received a note from
John Peterson, which ran as follows:


    “MR. THOMAS HARDY,

    “_Dear Sir_: I have thought over the matter of buying your store out
    and have come to the conclusion that the best I can offer you is
    sixty per cent. of the regular wholesale value of the stock, and
    fifty dollars for all the fixtures. As the place is run down I do
    not consider that the good will is worth figuring in the
    transaction. This offer is open for one week. Yours ob’t’ly,

                   “JOHN PETERSON.”


“He has dropped to the very figures that Andrew Benning offered,” said
Frank, in dismay.

“I believe they are in league with each other,” sighed Mr. Hardy. “They
know they have me down and that I cannot help myself.”

“Perhaps we can sell the goods elsewhere, father.”

“Possibly, but it will cost money to transport the goods, and few people
want to buy goods that they consider are second-hand.”

“Supposing I try to sell the goods to Mr. Fardale, of Porthaven?”

“You might try it. But Mr. Fardale is as close as Benning, if not
closer.”

“If he would only give ten per cent. more it would be something.”

“That is true. Well, you can see him the day after the Fourth of July.”

“I will,” answered Frank. “I can go up on the stage,” he added, for
Porthaven was six miles from Claster.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII

                      A FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION


THE people of Claster had arranged for a Fourth of July celebration, and
early in the morning folks began to pour in from the surrounding farms
until the place took on the liveliness of a fair-sized city.

Knowing that some folks would take the opportunity to order or buy
supplies, Frank kept the store open until noon and did quite a fair
business. When he closed up he had twenty-six dollars on hand, which he
took home for safe keeping.

There was a short parade in the afternoon and all of the young folks
went to see this. Little Georgie was particularly enthusiastic and
wanted to follow the brass band all over the line of march.

“I’d like Fourth of July to come every day,” he told his brother and
sister.

“I fancy you’d get tired of it soon enough,” said Ruth.

“I’d never get tired of it,” answered the little fellow, positively.
“When I grow up I want to be a drummer in the band.”


[Illustration: “THE SMOKE WAS SO THICK HE COULD NOT SEE WHERE HE WAS
GOING.”–P. 54.]


“Do you think you want to carry around the bass-drum, Georgie?”
questioned Frank, with a smile.

“No, I want the little drum—the one that rattles and has two little
sticks,” returned Georgie.

The town people had collected almost a hundred dollars which a committee
had expended in fireworks. These were to be set off at the public
square, only a short distance from Mr. Hardy’s store. At the appointed
time the square was crowded, and the display of fireworks was begun amid
great enthusiasm.

“I love those rockets and Roman candles,” said Ruth, enthusiastically.

“And I like the big pin-wheels,” answered Frank.

With Georgie they had taken a place in front of the store. But they
could not see extra well, on account of a wagon being in the way, and so
moved on to another part of the square.

A flight of rockets was followed by some  fire and a very
handsome set piece. Then came triangles and flower pots, and another set
piece, and then some of the largest rockets the committee had purchased.
The latter went up with a rush and a roar that made Ruth shrink back in
momentary alarm.

“I don’t like that—it looks dangerous,” said she.

“It is not as dangerous as it is for those boys to be running around
with blazing brushwood,” answered her brother. “The constable ought to
stop them. They may set something or somebody on fire.”

“Wouldn’t one of those rockets set something on fire if it came down
while it was still burning, Frank?”

“To be sure. We haven’t had rain in so long all the roofs around here
are pretty dry.”

For the end of the celebration there was a set piece of the President of
the United States, and as this lit up there was a wild cheering and
hurrahing, which was changed to a sudden cry of alarm as a man yelled
“Fire!” at the top of his lungs.

“Fire? Where is the fire?” asked several.

“He means the fireworks,” said one onlooker, and several laughed at the
joke.

“Fire! fire!” continued the other man. “The feed store is on fire!”

“The feed store?” repeated Frank, with a start. “Can he mean our place?”

“He does!” shrieked Ruth. “See, the smoke is coming out of the upper
window!”

“It is our place, true enough!” groaned Frank. “Here, Ruth, take care of
Georgie. Don’t you come over to the fire.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, Frank? Don’t go into the place, please!
You’ll be burnt up!”

“I’ll take care of myself. Now, keep back as I told you.”

Thus speaking Frank darted into the crowd and made his way to the front
of the store, which was located in a small two-story frame structure,
having a flat roof. The upper floor was filled with feed and grain, and
through the front window the flames could readily be seen. As Frank drew
closer there was a crash of glass, and then the flames shot out of the
window, and began to lap the roof.

“Don’t go in there, Frank!” cried several. “The place is a goner. You
can’t save anything.”

“I’m going to save the papers,” answered our hero, determinedly. “Why
don’t you call out the fire department?”

“Bill Wilson did that already.”

Unlocking the front door, Frank made his way inside. All was dark and
filled with smoke. He felt his way to his father’s safe and desk. Soon
he had some papers from the desk in his pocket, and then he knelt down
to open the safe.

The strong box had a combination lock, and as yet Frank was hardly
accustomed to it. In his excitement it was not easy to remember the
proper numbers, and the first time he tried the knob the safe refused to
come open. Then he tried to work the combination again.

By this time the entire lower floor of the building was thick with
smoke, and the flames were already beginning to show themselves in the
vicinity of the back stairway. Frank’s eyes were swimming in tears, and
it was all he could do to get his breath.

“I certainly can’t stand this any longer,” he thought, and gave the knob
of the safe a final turn. Then the door came open and he pulled out the
account books and some private papers in all haste. He had heard his
father say that the safe was worn out, and in no condition to stand the
test of a hot fire.

Scarcely able to stand, Frank felt his way toward the front door. The
entire back and upper part of the building were now ablaze and he could
plainly hear the crackling of the flames above him.

“Frank Hardy, where are you?” called a voice through the smoke.

Frank did not answer, but staggered toward the sound, for the smoke was
so thick he could not see where he was going. Then, just as he felt he
must drop, he received a dash of water in the face, thrown by a member
of the local bucket brigade, for as yet the town boasted of nothing
better than one engine and a company of men, who possessed sixty leather
fire buckets.

The water did much toward reviving our hero and in a second more he
almost fell through the front door and out on the stoop of the store. As
he came into view a shout went up.

“There he is!”

“He has had a narrow escape!”

“Did he get burnt?”

“No, he is all right.”

Assisted by willing hands, Frank made his way to a bench in the public
square. Close at hand was a town pump, where men and boys were filling
the leather buckets. Down the square was the hand engine, drawing water
from a nearby cistern. As weak as he was our hero had brought his books
and papers with him, and these he now placed at his side.

“Oh, Frank, are you hurt?” It was Ruth who asked the question, as she
came up with little Georgie.

“No, I’m all right,” Frank answered. “But I guess I’m pretty well
smoked,” he added, coughing and wiping his eyes.

“You should not have gone in such a place.”

“I wanted to save father’s books and papers. The desk will be burnt, I
know, and the old safe isn’t of any account.”

“Do you think they’ll put the fire out?”

“It doesn’t look like it now.”

“It must have been set on fire by the fireworks,” went on Ruth.

“More than likely.”

The firemen were working with a will, and before long Frank started in
to aid them, telling Ruth and Georgie to take the books and papers home.

“Tell mother not to worry about me—that I’ll keep out of danger,” said
our hero.

He had scarcely spoken when Mrs. Hardy rushed up, all out of breath and
with her face full of fear.

“They told me you had gone into the store,” she gasped. “Are you
unharmed?”

“Yes, I’m all right, mother.”

“Thank Heaven for that!”

“Here are father’s papers and account books. I’m afraid the whole place
is doomed.”

“Yes, it looks like it—and the next place, too,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

She remained at the fire for only a few minutes and then returned home,
to tell her husband that Frank was safe. Georgie went with her, but Ruth
stayed to see the end of the conflagration.

It was a full hour before the fire was under control. By that time not
only the feed store was gone, but also the butcher shop next door, and a
barn in the rear. Yet many felt that the firemen had done well to save
the surrounding property, considering how dry everything was and what a
breeze was blowing.

“That’s the end of the feed business,” thought Frank. “I hope father is
insured. If he isn’t, the loss will be a heavy one for him—especially
after this Garrison disaster.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VIII

                          FRANK LOOKS FOR WORK


WHEN Frank arrived home he found that his father had been given all the
particulars of the conflagration by the other members of the family and
by several neighbors who had dropped in to tell him the news and
sympathize with him.

The exact origin of the fire was a mystery, but it was generally
accepted as being due to the Fourth of July celebration.

“I hope you are insured, father,” said Frank, after the last of the
neighbors had departed.

“I am insured, Frank, but I have forgotten the exact amount,” was the
reply. “I want you to look over the papers for me.”

“The papers call for twenty-five hundred dollars on stock and two
hundred dollars on fixtures,” said our hero, after a careful reading of
the insurance papers, three in number.

“Then I am fully covered. The stock on hand did not amount to over
eighteen hundred dollars.”

“Then for stock and fixtures you ought to get two thousand dollars.”

“Yes—if I can make the insurance companies toe the mark.”

“That is more than you would have gotten from Mr. Benning or Mr.
Peterson.”

“Yes, Frank; I doubt if they would have given me over twelve hundred
dollars—perhaps not over a thousand.”

“In that case—if you can make the insurance companies pay up—the fire
won’t have been such a bad happening after all.”

“No, it will be quite a good thing for us.”

Early on the following morning two insurance men put in an appearance,
and surveyed the ruins carefully. Nothing had been saved of Mr. Hardy’s
belongings, even the safe being rendered absolutely worthless by the
intense heat. After looking around, the insurance men called upon the
sufferer at his home.

“Well, Mr. Hardy, you seem to be suffering in more ways than one,” said
one of the men.

“That is true, Mr. Lane. The town celebrated yesterday at my expense.”

“I should say at our expense,” put in the second insurance man, with a
grim smile. “We are the ones to foot the bill.”

“Well, I am glad, Mr. Watson, that the loss does not fall on me, for it
would ruin me utterly.”

“What do you figure your loss at?”

“I have been looking over the accounts with my son, Frank, who has been
running the store lately, and we figure the stock at eighteen hundred
and forty dollars, and the fixtures at the figure in the papers.”

“Then you claim two thousand and forty dollars?”

“Isn’t that fair?”

“Will you let us go over the stock sheet with you?”

“Certainly.”

This was done, and at the end of an hour the insurance men said they
would recommend that the company pay Mr. Hardy nineteen hundred dollars
in full for his claims. As this was not such a big cut as he had feared,
Frank’s father said he would accept the amount if the sum was
forthcoming inside of thirty days.

“I am sure I have made a good bargain with the insurance people,” said
Mr. Hardy to his wife, when they were alone. “I have done much better
than if I had sold out to any of my rivals.”

“Yes, and the best of it is, you are now under no obligations to your
rivals,” returned Mrs. Hardy.

“I did not get exactly what I think the stock was worth, but one cannot
expect to get that when one is burnt out.”

“What will you do, Thomas, when they pay the money?”

“Settle the Garrison matter first of all, and then put the balance of
the money in the bank.”

“And after that?”

“I’ll have to get well before I make up my mind. I can do nothing so
long as I am tied down to the house.”

With the store burnt out, Frank scarcely knew what to do with himself.
When the débris was cleared away by the owner of the property, he went
around to hunt for anything of value, but nothing was forthcoming.

Frank was very thoughtful when he came home the following Saturday. He
chopped a big pile of wood, and cleaned up the garden and the cellar.

“I’m going to find something to do next week,” he told his mother. “With
father laid up and the store gone, it won’t do for me to remain idle.”

“I am afraid you’ll not find it easy to get a position in Claster,”
answered Mrs. Hardy, as she placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

“I was thinking of looking for a place in Philadelphia, mother.”

“What, away from home!”

“I’ve got to strike out for myself some day.”

“But I hadn’t thought of your leaving home yet, Frank,” his mother went
on, in dismay.

“Well, I’ll look around in Claster first.”

“I wish you would, and in Porthaven, too.”

Frank was enthusiastic about doing something, and that very Saturday
night he asked half a dozen persons he knew for a situation.

But as his mother had intimated, it was next to impossible to find an
opening. Only at one store was anything offered, and the pay there was
but two dollars a week.

“I cannot afford to work for such an amount, Mr. Grimes,” said Frank.

“Well, that’s all I am willing to pay,” returned the storekeeper.
“Plenty of boys would jump at the chance. I thought I’d give you a trial
on your father’s account.”

“Thank you, but I’ll look further.”

Early Monday morning Frank went to Porthaven. As he did not want to pay
the stage fare, which was twenty cents each way, he determined to walk
the distance. But he was scarcely out of town when a boy in a grocery
wagon came up behind him.

“Hullo, Frank!” called out the boy. “If you are going my way, jump in.”

“I am bound for Porthaven, Joe.”

“So am I. Glad I met you,” replied Joe Franklin, who worked for a local
grocer. “I hate to travel such a distance all alone. Where are you
going?”

“I am going to look for work,” answered Frank, as he took a seat beside
the grocer’s boy.

“Can’t you get anything to do in Claster?”

“Yes, one job. Mr. Grimes wants me to work for him for two dollars a
week.”

“Don’t you work for him, Frank.”

“I don’t intend to. I must earn more.”

“Old Grimes is the hardest man in town to get along with. All of his
clerks are in hot water with him every day.”

“Mr. Wilkins must pay you more than two dollars, Joe?”

“He pays me three and a half, and I am to have four after New Year’s.”

“That is something like. But I want to earn even more—if I can.”

“I suppose you’ve got to do it, now your dad is out of work and laid
up.”

“Yes.”

“Somebody told my dad you folks had lost a lot of money on some rascal
in Philadelphia.”

“It is true, and that’s all the more reason I want to earn something.”

“Can’t your father get anything out of the railroad company for the
accident?”

“I trust so. But it is pretty hard to fight a big railroad company.”

“Will your father start in the feed business again?”

“I don’t think so. Still, he doesn’t know what he will do. He wants to
get well first.”

So the talk ran until the outskirts of Porthaven were reached. Then
Frank left the wagon and thanked his comrade for the ride.

“When are you going back?” asked Joe.

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’m going back in half an hour. You can ride with me if you will.”

“Thank you, Joe, but I guess I’ll have to stay a little longer,”
answered Frank; and then the two boys separated.

Porthaven was a town considerably larger than Claster and consequently
Frank had a great many more stores and offices to visit. But his quest
for employment here was even less encouraging than at home. Not a single
opening of any kind presented itself.

“This is certainly hard luck,” he thought, as he found himself at the
end of the main street. “I did think there would be at least one
opening.”

He had brought a lunch with him, and now walked down to the edge of the
small river which ran through Porthaven.

At a beautiful spot bordering the river somebody had placed a bench, and
here he sat down to enjoy the sandwiches and piece of pie his mother had
thoughtfully provided for him.

Frank’s appetite, like that of most growing boys, was good, and it did
not take him long to dispose of his meal.

“Wish I had another sandwich,” he thought, after it was gone. “Tramping
around gives one a very hungry feeling, especially if he doesn’t get any
work.”

Not knowing what to do next, Frank remained where he was, and presently
a young man, carrying a small, square hand-bag of black leather, came
strolling towards him.

“Can you tell me how much further it is to Porthaven?” the young man
asked, as he came to a halt, and rested his bag on the end of the bench.

“You are on the outskirts of the town, now,” was our hero’s reply.

“Good! I was afraid I had still a mile or so to go. I missed the stage
from River Bend, and I did not want to waste the time, so I walked over.
It’s pretty hot, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” And now Frank made room so the stranger could sit down, which he
did.

“Are you acquainted in Porthaven?”

“Pretty well.”

“Then perhaps you won’t mind telling me where some of these folks live,”
and the young man brought out a notebook from his pocket.

“I’ll tell you what I know willingly.”

“Live around here, I suppose?”

“No, sir; I come from Claster. I’m looking for work.”

“Oh!” The young man gazed at Frank curiously. “Hard job, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Struck anything yet?”

“Nothing.”

“I can sympathize with you. I was out looking for work, myself, last
summer, and I couldn’t get a single thing that was worth anything.”

“But you are working now?”

“Well, yes; but I haven’t got anything steady. I’m a book agent, and I
get paid for what orders I get, that’s all.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER IX

                        FRANK MEETS A BOOK AGENT


“SO you are a book agent?” said Frank, and now looked at the young man
with increased interest. “May I ask what books you sell?”

“I am taking orders for three works—a new and beautifully illustrated
set of Cooper’s works, an Illustrated History of the United States, and
a new cook-book. Here are some samples,” and the young man brought them
forth from his bag.

“They certainly look very fine,” answered Frank, after inspecting the
volumes.

“Perhaps I can sell you a set of the Cooper.”

“Thank you; I can’t afford them.”

“Or a cook-book for your wife,” and the book agent laughed. “Get her a
cook-book and she won’t kill you off when she cooks for you.”

“I’ll have to get the wife first—and means to support her,” and now
Frank laughed, too. “May I ask if there is much money in selling books?
If I can’t get a steady job I might take it up,” he went on, seriously.

“Selling books is a great speculation, my friend. You might make fifty
dollars a week at it, and you might not make a dollar. It all depends on
what you have to sell, what territory you cover, and what your abilities
as a salesman are.”

“Yes, that must be true. But, somehow, I think I could sell books, if I
had the right kind.”

“Many think they can do the same, but out of a hundred who try, not a
dozen succeed. It’s very discouraging at the start. To make a success
you’ve got to have lots of ‘stick-to-it’ in you.”

“May I ask what firm you represent? Or, perhaps you don’t care to tell?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to tell you, and if you want to try your luck
with them go ahead. My name is Oscar Klemner, and I represent the Barry
Marden Publishing Company, of Philadelphia—one of the largest publishing
houses in the subscription book business. Here is their card,” and Oscar
Klemner handed it over.

“Thank you. My name is Frank Hardy, and I come from Claster.”

“Glad to know you, Hardy, and if you take up books I hope you make a big
success of it.”

“Will you tell me how they pay for the work?”

“Certainly. An agent gets twenty per cent. for getting an order, and
twenty per cent. more if he delivers and collects.”

“Do you do both?”

“Sometimes; but at other times I merely take orders, and when I can’t
get orders I take to delivering the orders some fellow more lucky than
myself has obtained.”

“You wanted me to tell you about some folks here.”

“Yes. Here is a list of names. I want to visit the people in regular
order, according to where they live, if I can. I don’t want to waste my
time skipping from one end of the town to the other and back.”

Frank looked over the list carefully.

“I know all these people, and if you wish it, I’ll go around with you.”

“Won’t it be too much trouble?”

“No. And besides, it will give me a little insight into the business.”

“All right, then. Come ahead, Hardy. I’ll give you a practical lesson in
both the art of delivering books and in taking new orders. You see, some
of these people have merely asked about the books, not ordered them.”

Having rested himself, Oscar Klemner said he was ready to start, and
Frank offered to carry the leather hand-bag for him.

“Never mind; I’ll carry it myself. I’m so used to it, I’d feel lost
without it.”

They were soon at the first house, where the book agent delivered a
cook-book and collected three dollars for it. The transaction was
quickly over, and they passed on to the next place.

“That was certainly a quick way to make sixty cents,” thought our hero.

“We don’t always have it so easy,” said the agent, as if reading what
was in Frank’s mind. “Sometimes folks won’t take the books they have
ordered.”

“What do you do then?”

“It depends. If it’s a written order, we show it, and demand that it be
honored.”

The next place to stop at was one where a minister had written that he
wished to look at the illustrated history. The book agent showed the
history and dilated eloquently on its worth and cheapness, but the man
of the church refused to order just then, although he said he might do
so later.

“That was a disappointment,” said Frank, as they hurried off, after half
an hour had been wasted in the effort.

“Oh, you’ll get used to them, if you ever get into this business,”
answered Oscar Klemner, cheerfully.

Frank remained with the agent until dark, visiting twelve homes and
three places of business. He took note of the fact that Oscar Klemner
collected eight dollars, and took orders for twenty-eight dollars’ worth
of books. This made thirty-six dollars in all, upon which the agent’s
commission, at twenty per cent., was $7.20.

“That is certainly a good day’s wages,” thought our hero. “I’d like to
do half as well.”

“How do you like it?” asked the book agent, when the work was over.

“I like it first-rate,” answered Frank. “I’m going to try it, if they’ll
let me.”

“If you do, I wish you luck. But I wouldn’t work around here. Our men
have been through this territory pretty thoroughly.”

On parting with Frank, Oscar Klemner offered our hero a fifty-cent
piece.

“You’ve earned it,” he said.

“I don’t want the money. I am glad I got the experience,” said Frank,
and refused to accept the coin. Soon they parted; and it was many a day
before our hero saw Oscar Klemner again.

Frank did not relish the walk back to Claster, after his tramp all over
Porthaven. But there seemed no help for it, and he struck out as swiftly
as his tired limbs would permit.

“If I’m going to be a book agent, I may as well get used to walking
first as last,” he told himself. Yet, when a lumber wagon bound for
Claster came along, he was glad enough to hop up beside the driver and
ride the last half of the journey. Even then, it was nearly ten o’clock
when he got to his home.

“So you’ve had no luck, Frank?” said Mrs. Hardy. “I am sorry for you.
Have you had any supper?”

“No, mother. But don’t worry; I’ll find a couple of slices of bread or
so.”

“There is some tea on the stove, and some beans and rice pudding in the
pantry, and some cake and berries. You must be very hungry.”

“I’ve got a plan,” said Frank, when he was eating. “I’ll tell you about
it in the morning. It’s too late now.” And as soon as he had satisfied
his hunger he went to bed.

When our hero told his father and his mother of his plan, on the
following morning, both were much surprised.

“A book agent!” cried Mr. Hardy. “I don’t think they earn their salt.”

“Father, you are mistaken,” Frank answered, and then told of his
experience of the day previous. Both of his parents listened with keen
interest.

“That agent must be a remarkable man to earn so much,” said Mrs. Hardy.
“I knew a man here who tried it once, old Randolph Winter. He earned
only a few dollars a week.”

“I guess he wasn’t cut out for an agent,” answered Frank, who knew the
man mentioned to be very lazy and shiftless.

“And so you think you are cut out for an agent, Frank?” demanded his
father.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But I thought it might be worth trying—more
especially as I can’t get anything else to do.”

“Oh, it won’t do any harm to try. But don’t fill your head with any
false hopes, for you may be sadly disappointed.”

“If I try it, I’ll make up my mind to do my level best, and then take
what comes. But I’d like to go to Philadelphia and see those book
publishers first.”

“Very well; I’ll give you the necessary money.”

While Frank was talking the matter over with his parents, Ruth came in
with several letters, and a big package from the post office.

“Here are some books for Frank!” she called out. “And a letter, too.”

“The package is from Mr. Philip Vincent, the gentleman whose spectacles
I picked up at the wreck,” said Frank. “And one of the letters is from
him, too.”

“What does he say, Frank?”

“I’ll read his letter out loud, mother,” answered our hero, and
proceeded to do so.


    “MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND [so ran the communication]: I must ask you to
    pardon me for the delay in sending you the story book I promised.
    The fact of the matter is, I had a sudden call to Chicago on
    business, and just arrived in New York again yesterday.

    “By this same mail I send you two illustrated story books, which I
    trust will please you in every way. Later on I shall send you a new
    book I am about to issue, called the Illustrated Lives of Our
    Presidents, which should prove an inspiration to all young Americans
    like yourself.

    “If you ever come to New York, I shall be glad to see you.

                   “Yours very truly,

                        “PHILIP VINCENT”.


“What beautiful books!” cried Ruth, as she and Frank looked them over.
“I’m sure they’ll be interesting.”

“Hullo! I’ve made a discovery!” ejaculated Frank, who was reading the
printed matter at the head of the letter sheet. “Mr. Vincent is in the
subscription book business besides running a book store.”

“If that is so, you had better apply to him for a position,” put in his
father.

“I don’t know but what I will, father. But it might look forward.”

“Not if you explained matters. Tell him how you met that young fellow,
and how you were on the point of applying to that Philadelphia house for
an opening when his books and the letter came.”

“All right; I’ll do it, and at once.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X

                         FRANK GOES TO NEW YORK


WITHOUT delay Frank sat down and wrote a long letter to Philip Vincent,
telling that gentleman of all that had occurred, and thanking him for
the beautiful books he had forwarded. He added that he wished very much
to try his luck at selling books, and asked if Mr. Vincent could make an
opening for him. This communication he mailed before going to bed.

The next day Frank was busy helping his mother and Ruth around the
house. The servant had been allowed to leave, for Mrs. Hardy did not
wish to pay her wages any longer. As there was no school, Ruth could now
help her mother a great deal, and did so willingly, and Georgie
promised, if Frank went away, to keep the garden in order.

Nothing more had been heard of Jabez Garrison, and Mr. Hardy received
word that he would ere long be called upon to make good the amount for
which he had stood security.

“It’s hard to part with so much money,” said he to his wife. “But there
seems no help for it.”

The crushed foot was mending slowly, but it was evident that it would be
many days before the sufferer would be able to walk upon it once more.

“You will have to give it time,” said the physician. “If you do not you
may be a <DW36> for life.” And a specialist who was called in gave the
same advice.

Two days after mailing his letter, Frank received a reply from Philip
Vincent. It was short and to the point. In it the book publisher said:


    “I am perfectly willing to give you all the chance possible if you
    wish to make the trial. But let me remind you that you can only win
    out by doing your very best and sticking at it. It is bound to be
    more or less discouraging at the start. If you wish to take hold,
    come to New York soon, for I leave for Boston before long.”


“I like that letter,” was Mr. Hardy’s comment. “There is no nonsense
about it. Some publishers would make an agent believe that all he had to
do was to go out and coin money.”

“Can I go to New York to-morrow, father?” asked Frank, anxiously.

“If you wish.”

“Yes, I want to get at work just as soon as I can.”

“Very well. I will give you the necessary money.”

“It won’t be necessary, father,” answered Frank, with just a little
pride. He had a few dollars of his own, which he had been a good while
in saving.

“You will need money, Frank.”

“I have fourteen dollars.”

“You have? Where did you get so much?”

“I’ve been saving all I could for two or three years.”

“It is very creditable to you, Frank. I am proud of you. If you need
more let me know. You may have to leave a deposit for the books you take
out.”

“That is true, although I fancy Mr. Vincent will trust me.”

Frank’s preparations for leaving home were very simple. He did what he
could around the house, and the next day he dressed himself in his best,
and put his money in his pocket. There was a train for New York at eight
o’clock, and he was at the station at least fifteen minutes before that
time. He bought his ticket, and was the first to board the train when it
arrived.

The ride was something of a novelty, for our hero had not been to the
metropolis before. But he had studied a map of New York diligently, and
he had little difficulty in finding Mr. Vincent’s place of business,
which was located on Nassau Street.

“What can I do for you?” asked one of the clerks as he came forward.

“I would like to see Mr. Vincent,” replied Frank.

“He is busy just now.”

“Then I will wait.”

“Can’t I attend to the business?”

“I think not. I wrote to him, and he sent word for me to come and see
him.”

“What name, please?”

“Frank Hardy.”

The clerk walked to an office in the rear and presently came back.

“Mr. Vincent will see you now,” he said, and showed Frank the way.

“Well, my young friend, I am glad to see you again,” said Philip
Vincent, as he arose from in front of a large roller-top desk and shook
hands. “Take a seat, and I’ll be at liberty in a few minutes.” And then
he turned to his desk again and began to sign some letters.

During the wait Frank glanced around the office curiously. It was
handsomely furnished, with drawings and engravings on the walls. In one
corner, at a typewriter, a private secretary was at work.

“Now, then, I’m at liberty,” said Mr. Vincent, after five minutes had
passed. “How have you been, and how is your father?”

“I’ve been well,” answered Frank, “and my father is doing as well as can
be expected, so far as his foot is concerned. But he has had great
misfortunes otherwise,” and our hero mentioned the Jabez Garrison loss
and the fire.

“That certainly is hard luck,” said Philip Vincent, sympathetically. “He
must be greatly worried.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is why you want to try your luck at selling books?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve tried to get something else to do—I mean a regular
situation—but I can’t find anything that will pay.”

“I see. Yes, regular positions on a stipulated salary are scarce.”

“I think I can sell books—anyway, I would like to try. I suppose you
don’t object to employing boys.”

“Oh, no. A book sold by a boy will yield us as much profit as one sold
by a man. But it requires talking, and I am afraid a boy could hardly
set forth the merits of the works we offer to induce subscriptions.”

“I can talk pretty well,” said Frank, smiling.

“Yes; but can you talk to the point?” asked Mr. Vincent, shrewdly.

“After I have had a chance to examine the books and understand their
strong points.”

“Yes; it is absolutely necessary to become acquainted with the works one
wants to sell. I have a clerk who knows our books thoroughly. If you
take hold, I’ll have him give you a regular lesson, and also give you a
pamphlet I issue, called: _Aids to Successful Book Selling_.”

“I suppose you issue a great number of books for agents?”

“I have issued a great many during the past fourteen years. But at
present I have only four books which I would advise you to try to
handle. The first question is, do you want to work in the big cities or
in small towns and country places?”

“What is the difference?”

“In the big cities you can take orders for very fine books at high
prices. In country towns and villages you can sell good-looking books
that are cheaper.”

“What would you advise me to do, Mr. Vincent?”

“I think you’ll make more of a success of it selling in small places
first. After you have some experience you can try your luck in one of
the big cities.”

This advice seemed sensible, and our hero determined to follow it.

“If I try my luck in smaller places what would you advise me to try to
sell?”

“I have three works which usually appeal strongly to people in small
places and in farming communities. One is a Guide to Health, a sort of
family doctor book; another is a book on the diseases of all kinds of
cattle and poultry, and the third is a set of thirty world-famous
novels. The first two books sell at three dollars each, and are well
worth it, for they are finely illustrated and contain much valuable
information. The set of famous novels, which represent the best book of
each of thirty famous novelists, sells for twenty dollars, four dollars
when books are delivered, and two dollars per month until the entire
amount is paid.”

“And what commission do you allow agents?”

“On the health book and the cattle book, twenty-five per cent., and on
the famous novels, five dollars for each order which we accept and on
which we obtain at least ten dollars.”

“Then you make an agent wait for his commission on the novels?”

“He has to wait for part of it. He can have two dollars of the
commission as soon as we deliver the books and get our first payment.”

“Does an agent deliver the single books himself and collect?”

“Yes; we collect only on sets.”

“Do you think the center of New Jersey and eastern part of Pennsylvania
good ground to work?”

“Very good, and you might try the interior of New York as well—if you
stick at it long enough.”

“How many books would you advise my taking along?”

“Take one each of the health and cattle books, and one of the famous
novels, with a list of the rest. When you take orders, get the folks to
sign a regular order blank, stipulating when the books are to be
delivered and paid for. Set the delivery so you can deliver books in a
bunch. We can send them to you by express whenever and wherever you
wish.”

“I understand.”

“We have some neat carrying cases for our agents, and I will lend you
one of them, and also furnish you with the necessary pamphlets,
describing the books, and also order blanks.”

“I will pay you for what books I take out, Mr. Vincent.”

“I don’t want you to do that. You can consider the books as samples and
return them to me if you give up the work later. Usually I make an agent
leave a deposit for the books and the case, but I feel I can trust you.”

“Thank you very much. I’ll take good care of the books and the case
too.”

“Usually agents are also required to pay for books they order while on
the road. I shall instruct my clerk to give you credit up to fifty
dollars’ worth of goods, so you need not pay for books until after you
deliver them and get your money. Of course, if you buy books and then
cannot make folks take them you can return them to me at full value.”

“You are very kind, sir. I’ll do my best to sell books, Mr. Vincent, not
only for my own sake, but also for yours.”

“I sincerely trust you succeed. But it is hard work, my young friend;
remember that. When I first went to work I received more hard knocks
than dollars.”

“Were you an agent?” questioned Frank, in amazement.

“Yes. I started twenty-six years ago, selling dictionaries and atlases,
and wall maps. My whole capital was exactly seven dollars and a half.”

“You must have been what they call a hustler.”

“I was.” Philip Vincent smiled. “I worked about sixteen hours out of
twenty-four, and I never lost a chance to sell a book or a map if I
could help it. If I stopped at a hotel I did my best to sell the
proprietor a map for his office, and if I was in a small town I would
try to stop overnight at the home of a teacher or minister and sell him
a dictionary or atlas.”

“And did you work from that to this great business?”

“I did. I earned almost every dollar myself. I was alone in the world,
outside of an old aunt, who, when she died, left me exactly a hundred
and ten dollars, and some old furniture that I sold for fifteen
dollars.”

“You ought to be proud of your success.”

“I am proud, in a way. But you can do as well if you will only hustle. I
can see that you are naturally bright, and have a winning way with you.
A winning way counts for a great deal when selling books.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XI

                           FRANK AS AN AGENT


FRANK remained with Mr. Philip Vincent the best part of half an hour,
and then excused himself, for he realized that the book publisher’s time
was valuable. After the interview he was introduced to a clerk, who gave
him his samples with the case, and also the pamphlet on selling, order
blanks, and circulars advertising the books. The clerk also went over
the volumes with our hero, pointing out the good points and the best
illustrations.

“Don’t be discouraged if you don’t get an order the first day you are
out,” said the clerk, on parting. “One of our best agents was out two
days before he received an order.”

“I’ll give it a week’s trial and stick to it like a bulldog to a man’s
leg,” answered Frank, and this raised a laugh, in which he joined.

Now he was in New York, Frank could not resist the temptation to look
around a little. Saying he would call for his sample case later, he left
Mr. Vincent’s store and strolled up Nassau Street until he reached City
Hall Park, and crossing the Park back of the post office, came out on
Broadway.

“New York is certainly a busy place,” was his mental comment, as he
gazed at the crowds of people, and the broad highway filled with trucks
and surface cars. “It’s a regular bee-hive for business.”

Having ample time to spare, he determined to ride uptown as far as
Forty-second Street and take a look at the shops and the Grand Central
Depot.

He was soon on the car, and took a seat near the front door. Scarcely
had he got settled when the door opened and a tall, slab-sided
individual, on whose calculating features “Yankee” was plainly written,
stepped into the car.

“Extry fine day this is,” he remarked to Frank.

“It certainly is,” was our hero’s polite reply.

“Been a fine summer right along.”

“That is true.”

At that moment the conductor came up and Frank handed him a nickel,
which was promptly rung up on the register.

“Fare, please?” said the conductor to the down-east countryman.

“How much’ll it be?” asked the individual addressed, as he pulled out
his wallet.

“Five cents.”

“Five cents! Why, that’s what you charge fer going the hull trip, don’t
you?”

“Yes.”

“And you carry a feller five miles fer five cents?”

“We do,” and now the conductor, a bright young man, began to smile.

“That’s just a cent a mile. Well, now, I ain’t going but a mile—little
short if anything. Thet’ll be just a cent. Here’s the copper.”

So speaking, the countryman drew out a dingy copper cent which had
evidently been stored away for some years. He tried to pass it over, but
the conductor shook his head, while several began to laugh.

“What’s the matter, mister?” asked the individual from down east.

“Can’t take that, Mr. Smith. Our charge is five cents without regard to
distance.”

“Gee shoo! Say, my name ain’t Smith. It’s Perkins—Joel Perkins.”

“All right, Mr. Perkins. We charge five cents no matter how far you go.”

“And do you count that fair?” demanded Joel Perkins. “I’d like to argy
the p’int a little with you. Just supposin’ you was a trader an’ kept
flour to sell, and I and another man came to buy flour. Now, if I took
one barrel and tudder man took five would you think it fair to charge me
jest as much as the other man; come now, answer me fair and square?”

“I can’t stop to argue,” answered the conductor, who was in a hurry to
collect other fares. “Just you pay your five cents, or I’ll call the
police.”

“Gee shoo! I don’t want no police, nohow!” cried Joel Perkins, in alarm.

“Then pay up, and do it right away.”

“Here’s your money,” groaned the countryman, and passed over five cents.
“But it’s a swindle just the same,” he added defiantly.

Frank had been much amused, and it was all he could do to keep from
laughing outright. “I’m glad I’m not so jolly green as all that,” he
thought.

“Bound to get your money away from you somehow,” remarked the countryman
to him, after a pause.

“I know how you can get square,” answered our hero.

“How’s thet?”

“Ride your five miles, and more.”

“By gosh! Thet’s an idee.”

“You can ride more than five miles if you wish.”

“Yes, but if I go too far, I’ll have to pay another five cents to git
back, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Then I ain’t goin’ to do it,” answered Joel Perkins. “Where be you
a-going?” he asked, after another pause.

“I’m going up to the Grand Central Depot.”

“Thet’s where I cum in yesterday. I’m from Stoneville, Vermont. Ever
been up that way?”

“No, sir.”

“’Tain’t much of a place. Squire Rasperwick owns almost the hull of it.
His daughter is engaged to marry my nephew, Joe Swallowtail.”

“Is that so?”

“I come down to the city to buy my nephew something nice fer the
wedding. But they ask a pile fer nice things down here. I priced a rug
an’ they wanted twenty-eight dollars fer it. ‘Say, mister,’ sez I, ‘I
don’t want the hull dozen, I only want one.’ And then he told me to git
out o’ the shop.”

“Perhaps you’ll find a cheaper rug somewhere else?”

“Sumbuddy told me to go to the Bowery, but I ain’t going. I know a
feller that went there onct, an’ he got drugged an’ robbed o’ nine
dollars and thirty-four cents. They ain’t going to rob me, not much they
ain’t.”

“I hope not.”

“Do you belong in New York?”

“No; I come from New Jersey.”

“Gosh! Ain’t you afraid to travel around here alone?”

“No.”

“Maybe you work here?”

“No.”

“Where do you work?”

“I am going to start out to-morrow as a book agent.”

“Gee shoo! A book agent. I thought most o’ them fellers was swindlers.”

“Do I look like a swindler?”

“Can’t say as you do, but a feller has to be careful. Wot books do you
sell?”

As well as he was able, Frank described the various volumes to Joel
Perkins. The countryman grew very much interested.

“I’d like to see thet family doctor book, an’ the cattle book,” he
remarked. “Perhaps they would make good wedding presents.”

“You certainly ought to have those books on the farm,” returned Frank,
quickly, and then, seized with a sudden idea, he went on: “Why not come
back with me and let me show you the books? It won’t cost you a cent.”

“But we’ve got to ride back, ain’t we?”

“Yes, but I’ll pay your fare. I know you’ll think the books a bargain
when you see them. Every family ought to have a good doctor’s book, and
every farmer ought to have a good cattle book.”

“Has thet doctor’s book got in it about rheumatism and liver trouble?”

“To be sure it has.”

“And does the cattle book tell about sheep and sech?”

“Yes, sir; and both books have hundreds of pictures, too.”

“Then I’ll look at ’em, an’ if they are good fer anything, I’ll buy
’em,” concluded Joel Perkins.

Frank at once stopped the car and he and the countryman alighted. Then a
car going in the other direction was hailed, and both got on board, and
Frank paid the fare as he had agreed.

“You must be rich?” remarked the countryman.

“No, Mr. Perkins; if I was I wouldn’t be selling books for a living.”

“I suppose thet’s so. You look like a smart, clever boy.”

“Thank you.”

“I like to see a feller strikin’ out fer himself. It shows he’s got
backbone in him. Now, I had to strike out fer myself when I was twelve
years old.”

“Is it possible?”

“Worked on old Jed Scudder’s farm fer a dollar a month an’ found—and Jed
didn’t find me none too good nuther. Sometimes I didn’t git half enough
to eat. But I watched my chances an’ saved every cent, an’ now I got a
farm o’ my own.”

“I am sure you deserve it.”

“I do. I work hard yet—gitting up at five every morning, winter an’
summer, and milkin’ twelve to sixteen keows.”

So the talk ran on until the post office was reached, when both left the
car.

“Now, if you will wait here a minute, I’ll get my case of books,” said
Frank. “I left them in a store a short distance away.”

“Wot place is this?”

“This is the New York post office.”

“Thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure. It’s about the biggest post
office I ever see. Wonder if there’s a letter fer me?”

“You can easily find out, Mr. Perkins. Wait till I find the proper
window for you.”

“Can’t a feller go to any winder?”

“No.”

“To hum, there ain’t but one winder. The post office is in Si Hopper’s
grocery store,” and Joel Perkins chuckled.

Frank found the proper window of the General Delivery, and leaving the
countryman to ask for letters, he ran off down Nassau Street to get his
case of sample goods.

When he got back he found Joel Perkins reading a letter he had received
from one of his daughters. He was greatly pleased over the
communication, and doubly pleased to think it had reached him through
such a big establishment as the New York post office.

“It beats all how they kin keep track o’ a feller,” he remarked. “I
didn’t no more than ask fer a letter than the fellow inside handed it
over. He seemed to be a-waiting fer me to call.”

Having finished his letter, Joel Perkins looked at the two books which
Frank had brought forth for his inspection. Frank showed him the most
important illustrations, and pointed out the chapters on rheumatism in
one volume, and the chapters on sheep and their diseases in the other.

“Wot about liver complaints?” questioned the countryman. “I allow as how
there’s some o’ thet in our family.”

“Here is a whole chapter on liver troubles, with eight pictures of the
liver,” answered our hero.

“Putty good books, ain’t they?”

“Yes, sir. If you buy them you’ll never regret it.”

“And how much did you say they were?”

“Six dollars for the two. They ought to bring five dollars each, but the
publishers want to make them popular, so they put the price at three
dollars per volume.”

“All right, I’ll take ’em.”

“Thank you, Mr. Perkins. If you’ll come with me I’ll get you two copies
that have never been handled.”

“Yes, I want brand-new ones—in case I give ’em to my nephew. But maybe
I’ll keep ’em,” concluded the countryman.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XII

                           A BRIGHT BEGINNING


WHEN Frank entered Mr. Vincent’s store and said he wanted a new copy of
each of the three-dollar books, the clerk who filled the order was very
much surprised.

“Didn’t you get your case?” he asked.

“Yes. The two books are sold, and I want to deliver them.”

“Good for you. You haven’t wasted any time, I see.”

Joel Perkins looked the two books over and then Frank had them wrapped
up. With something like a sigh the countryman paid over the six dollars.

“It’s a mountain o’ money fer jest two books,” he said. “But I like you,
an’ I guess it’s all right.”

Frank saw him to the corner of the street, and directed him to the
Brooklyn Bridge, and so they parted. Then the young book agent hurried
back to Philip Vincent’s store.

“Let me congratulate you on your first sale,” said Mr. Vincent, who had
heard of the occurrence through the clerk. “I see you have lost no time.
I think you’ll make a success of it.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Frank. “And, Mr. Vincent, I want to take along
four copies of the health book and four copies of the cattle book. They
won’t weigh much and I may be able to sell them on the spot, as they
say, where folks won’t wait several days or a week for delivery.”

“That is a good plan. Some folks get out of the notion of buying books
if you keep them waiting too long for the volumes.”

“I’ll pay you for the books I’ve sold and also for those I wish to take
along,” added Frank.

“You can pay for what you’ve sold, Frank; the balance I’ll trust you
for,” said the book publisher, and so it was settled.

Having made his first sale, the young book agent was anxious to
continue, and so he concluded to take the first train he could get for
Bardon, a village on the railroad, three miles from Claster. With his
case in one hand and his extra books in the other, he hurried to the
ferry, and was soon on the train.

“I certainly can’t complain of the start I’ve made,” he told himself.
“My commission on the two books is a dollar and a half. If I sell four
books a day I’ll be making three dollars, and three dollars a day is
eighteen dollars a week. That is more than many a man earns. But perhaps
I won’t be able to sell so many books. Yet I’m going to try my best.”

It was a ride of nearly two hours to Bardon, and the young book agent
spent the time in studying the books he wanted to sell, and also in
reading over the hints to agents and the other pamphlets furnished him.
He was naturally quick to grasp anything new, and by the time he had
finished he felt himself able to talk intelligently about all of his
wares.

Having sat in one position for over an hour he felt somewhat cramped,
and so moved from one car to the next, just for the exercise.

He was passing through the second car when he came face to face with a
gentleman who had once lived in Claster, but who had moved to Newark.

“How do you do, Frank?” said the gentleman, whose name was Robert
Begoin. He was a lawyer and had once done a little legal business for
Mr. Hardy.

“How are you, Mr. Begoin?” answered our hero, and paused. Then the
lawyer held out his hand and they shook hands.

“Sit down. Going home, I suppose?”

“I am going to Bardon first.”

“Is that so? So am I. How are your folks these days, Frank?”

“Father is getting along as well as can be expected, sir.”

“Why, has he been sick?”

“No, sir, but he met with an accident,” and our hero related some of the
particulars.

“That is too bad. Well, your father can make the railroad foot the
bill.”

“So they say.”

“To be sure he can. Has he had legal advice yet?”

“I think not.”

“Then tell him, for me, that he had better do nothing with the company
until he gets advice from a lawyer.”

“I’ll tell him. But why is that best, if I may ask?”

“If he is not careful they will pay him some small amount, and then get
him to sign papers releasing them from further obligations. I know a
woman whose husband was killed on the railroad. She accepted five
hundred dollars, and released the railroad. If she had brought suit she
might have got ten or fifteen thousand dollars.”

“I see. Will you be in Claster one of these days?”

“I am going there day after to-morrow.”

“Then I wish you’d call on father. I know he’d like to see you, and
perhaps he will want to retain you as his lawyer.”

“Certainly I’ll call on him. But I don’t want to force my services on
him,” answered Robert Begoin.

“I know that, sir. I’ll tell him I met you and that I asked you to
call.”

“What are you doing for a living? I see you have a case of goods with
you.”

“I am selling books.”

“Indeed? What sort of books?”

“I’ll show you,” answered Frank, and lost no time in bringing out the
various volumes. The lawyer was not particularly interested in the
health book or the cattle book, but took pleasure in looking over the
set of novels by famous authors.

“I have always thought I’d like something like this,” he said. “I do not
care to have all the works of each author, even if that person happens
to be famous. I want the cream of their writings.”

“Well, you get the cream, and nothing but the cream in this set,” said
Frank. “It is certainly a set of books that ought to be in every
library. The print is large, the paper first-class, and you can see that
the binding is very handsome and durable. The illustrations are by the
best artists.”

“And what is such a set worth?”

“Twenty dollars, in this binding, and if you want the half-calf
binding—the very best—the price is thirty dollars.”

“That is certainly a fair value for the money. Can you deliver the books
to my residence in Newark?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I will take a set in half-calf. When will I get them?”

“I’ll send in the order to-night. The books ought to come by the day
after to-morrow.”

“All right. And how do you want your pay?”

“You can pay when you get the books, Mr. Begoin,” answered Frank. He
knew the lawyer would not wish to pay in installments, and so said
nothing on that point.

“Very well, I’ll make note of it,” said Robert Begoin, and put it down
in a little vest-pocket blank book he carried.

“I am very much obliged to you for the order,” went on Frank, as he
packed up his books once more, and took the lawyer’s home address.
“Those are the kind of orders I like to get.”

“I hope selling books pays you, Frank.”

“I don’t know how much it will pay me yet. This is my first day at it.”

“Is that so! Why, you talked as if you were an old hand at the
business.”

“Did I? I am glad to hear it. I was afraid folks would take me for a
greeny.”

“I didn’t take you for one, and I think I can read people pretty well.
You evidently like the work.”

“I do, Mr. Begoin.”

“That is half the battle—to be in love with one’s occupation. A man
can’t be a lawyer unless he likes it, and is cut out for it—and the same
with a book agent. Is this your first sale?”

“No, sir,” and Frank related how he had fallen in with Joel Perkins and
sold him the two volumes. The lawyer from Newark laughed heartily.

“You certainly took time by the forelock,” he said.

“I made a dollar and a half on that sale.”

“Good! And I presume you will make a little more on the books you have
sold me.”

“The publisher allows me five dollars on each order in ordinary binding
and seven dollars for an order in half-calf.”

“Then your sales to-day will bring you in eight dollars and a half.
You’ll soon get rich at that rate.”

“I don’t expect such success every day.”

“No, it would be looking for too much. You may have days when you won’t
sell a volume.”

“Perhaps—but I am going to try my best to sell at least one book every
day.”

The train was now approaching Bardon, and in a few minutes the two
alighted and Frank bid the lawyer good-by.

“I’ll tell father you’ll call,” said he.

“Very well,” answered Robert Begoin.

Bardon contained only a handful of stores and not over twoscore of
houses. Anxious to sell all the books he could, Frank visited the first
store next to the depot. It was a grocery, and the proprietor was busy
over his books.

“What can I do for you, young man?” he asked, abruptly.

“If you have a few minutes to spare, I’d like to show you some books,”
answered Frank.

“Don’t want any books,” was the curt reply.

“I have a very fine family doctor book that——”

“Don’t want any books.”

“It won’t cost anything to look at them.”

“Yes, it will—it will cost my time. I don’t want to be bothered,”
grumbled the storekeeper, and seeing he could do nothing with the man
our hero left the place.

“Failure Number One,” he murmured, grimly. “Well, I am not going to let
it discourage me.”

The next place was a butcher shop, and Frank found the proprietor
chopping meat on his block.

“Vot vill you haf?” demanded the butcher, who was a round-faced, jolly
fellow.

“I’d like to show you some books.”

“Ach, yah, I vos vaiting for you. Vait till I got dis meat chobbed. Den
I buy me a pook,” said the butcher.

Frank waited for a moment, wondering if the butcher really meant to buy
a book, or if he was only fooling.

“I have a family doctor book and one on cattle and poultry, and their
diseases,” he went on, opening his case.

“Vot is dot?” The butcher stopped chopping meat and stared at him.

Frank repeated what he had said, and showed the books. The fat butcher
commenced to laugh.

“I ton’t want me dose pooks,” he said. “I ton’t read English; I read
Cherman. I dink me you got some plank pooks to sell. I vant a plank book
to write down orders in. See, like dis,” and he held up a counter book.

He was so good-natured that Frank had to laugh with him. “I see,” he
said and packed up his books again. “When I am selling blank books I’ll
come around and see you.” He walked to the door, and then came back.
“What do you pay for such a book as that?”

“Dwenty cents.”

“Could you use half a dozen of them if I got them for you?”

“Yah, I dake a dozen, den I got pooks enough for a long dimes.”

“All right, I’ll get you a dozen next week,” and Frank put the order on
a blank sheet of paper he carried. At a wholesale stationer’s place in
New York he had seen such books in the window at a dollar and a quarter
a dozen. He knew he could send the money for them and have them shipped
to him by freight at a cost of not more than twenty or thirty cents.

From the butcher shop Frank went to the remaining stores, and then to
the first of the private dwellings. At the latter place he met a shrewd
middle-aged man, who looked his cattle and poultry book over with keen
interest.

“That’s a pretty good book,” he said. “How much?”

“Three dollars.”

“It isn’t worth it. I’ll give you a dollar and a half.”

“No, sir, the price is three dollars, and I think you’ll find it worth
every cent of it.”

“I’ll give you two dollars.”

“Sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“Then make it two and a half.”

“I would if I could, but I am not allowed to cut the price.”

At this the man sighed.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to pay what you ask. Have you a nice, clean
copy with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, hand it over.”

“I can get it for you in about fifteen minutes.”

“Then do it.”

Leaving his case with the man, Frank ran back to the depot, where he had
left his package with the ticket seller. He had been cautioned not to
sell books right out of hand, for in many places to do that would
require a peddler’s license. Soon he came back with the volume.

“It didn’t take you long,” said the would-be purchaser.

“No, sir, I ran all the way.”

“Humph! So you won’t take less than three dollars?”

“I can’t. But I tell you what I’ll do. I see you have some chickens for
sale.”

“Yes, all you want.”

“What will you charge for a nice chicken, cleaned and dressed? My father
is home sick and I’d like to take one to him.”

“I’ll let you have your pick for sixty cents.”

“Then I’ll take one,” answered Frank.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIII

                           FRANK ON THE ROAD


HALF an hour later found Frank on his way home by way of the stage which
ran between Bardon, Claster, and half a dozen other points. He had his
books in one hand and a fine, fat chicken, cleaned and dressed, in the
other.

“I’ve certainly had a splendid start,” said he to himself. “I’ve sold
thirty-nine dollars’ worth of books and made nine dollars and a quarter.
If I do as well every day I’ll soon be rich.”

It was dark when he reached home, and it must be confessed that he was
very tired, and his arms ached not a little from carrying the books. Yet
he could not help but whistle as he entered the house, so light was his
heart. Frisky greeted him with short, sharp barks of delight.

“Glad to see me, aren’t you?” cried Frank, and putting his books on the
hall rack, he patted the dog.

“You must feel happy, Frank,” cried Ruth, who came into the hall to
greet him.

“I do feel happy.”

“Then you got an agency for those books?”

“I did more, Ruth—I’ve sold some of the books.”

“Good for you!”

The family had already eaten supper, but a generous portion had been
saved for our hero.

“Here’s a chicken I brought from Bardon,” said Frank. “I bought it from
a man because he bought a book from me,” he explained.

“It is a nice fowl,” answered his mother, after an examination. “So you
got your books and have begun to sell them? You were fortunate.”

“Let’s go up to father’s room, and I’ll tell you all about it, mother.”

The whole family gathered in the patient’s room to hear what Frank might
have to say. Mr. Hardy was now able to move around the room a little
bit, but could not go downstairs.

It was a long story, but all listened with deep interest to all our hero
had to say.

“And you have really sold thirty-nine dollars worth of books, Frank!”
ejaculated his father, in amazement. “It is wonderful. I did not think
any agent could do so well.”

“And to think his commission is over nine dollars!” put in Ruth. “Oh,
Frank, you’ll be a millionaire!”

“Hardly,” he answered, with a short laugh.

“You must remember that Mr. Begoin’s order alone amounted to thirty
dollars. If it had not been for that my commission would have been only
two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“But even that is very good,” put in Mrs. Hardy.

“I am glad you spoke to the lawyer,” came from Mr. Hardy. “I shall be
glad to see him. I want to know how I stand in this matter of damages
from the railroad, and also how I stand in this Garrison case. I am not
up in legal matters, and need somebody to straighten out the tangle for
me.”

“I’ve got to send in that order for the set of books to-night,”
continued Frank. “And I want to get those blank books too.” And he wrote
out the necessary orders without delay. For the blank books he obtained
a post-office money order, and sent off the letters before retiring.

It must be admitted that Frank slept but little that night. His head was
filled with schemes for selling books. He felt that, if he had not
struck a bonanza, he had at least struck something that promised very
well, and he was resolved to work it “for all it was worth,” as he
expressed it.

Like many another person taking up an agency, Frank had a feeling
against working close around home, and so resolved to cover a number of
towns and country places to the west of Claster. This would keep him
from home perhaps a few nights at a time, and he had his mother put some
things in a valise for his personal use.

“You’ll be loaded down, with your books and your valise,” said Mrs.
Hardy.

“Never mind, mother, I’ll get used to carrying them,” he answered,
bravely.

Frank left home at nine o’clock the following morning. He took the stage
for Fairport, which was fifteen miles away. Fairport was a center for
villages and farms several miles around, and the young book agent felt
he could find enough to do in that vicinity for at least a week, if not
longer.

He already knew of a cheap but respectable hotel at Fairport, and
arriving at the town made his way thither.

“How much will you charge me for a room, with breakfast and supper, for
a few days or a week?” he asked of the proprietor.

“Don’t want dinner?”

“No, sir! I’ll be away during the day.”

“A dollar a day as long as you stay.”

“All right, sir. Here is my valise, and I’ll start from supper
to-night.”

“Very well. You can register, and your room will be Number 21.”

Frank placed his name in the hotel book and then, after brushing up a
bit, set out with his case of books in his hand, to see what he could
do. The extra volumes he had brought along he left at the hotel.

He had an idea that he could do better just outside of the town than in
it, and so took to a road which led to another settlement two miles
away.

He soon came to a neat-looking farmhouse, and going up to the front
door, rang the bell. A tall, thin woman, with a hard face, came to
answer his summons.

“Good-morning, madam,” began Frank politely.

“What do you want, young man?” the woman demanded, briefly.

“If you have a few minutes to spare I’d like to call your attention to
several books I am selling.”

“Books! You get right out of this doorway, or I’ll set our dog on you!”
she cried, shrilly. “What impudence! To take me from my baking like
this!” And she slammed the door in Frank’s face.

It was certainly a cold reception, and the young book agent’s face grew
red with mortification. He was on the point of making an angry retort,
but checked himself, and, instead, left the yard whistling merrily.

“That was a flat failure,” he reasoned. “But as I am bound to have them
I must make the best of them.”

He visited three farmhouses in succession, but nobody cared to buy
books. Some said they had too many books already, and others said they
had no money to spare.

It was now noon, and Frank’s face grew sober as he realized that half
the day was gone and he had not sold a single volume. Was his bright
prospect of the day previous to vanish after all?

“I’ve got to sell something, that’s certain,” he muttered, as he set his
teeth hard. “Now, the very next call must mean a book sold.”

The next farmhouse soon came to view. As he walked up to the door he saw
that the woman of the place and two men, evidently a father and son,
were eating their dinner.

“Excuse me, madam,” said he, struck by a sudden thought. “But would you
care to sell me a dinner? I don’t care to go away back to the hotel at
Fairport.”

The farmer’s wife looked him over carefully.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Frank Hardy. I’m selling books for a living.”

“What does he want, Martha?” asked the husband.

“Wants to buy his dinner. He’s selling books.”

“Well, sell him a dinner if he wants it.”

“All right, you can come in, Mr. Hardy.”

“How much will it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know—about twenty cents, I guess.”

“Thank you, that’s cheap enough.”

Frank was soon in the house, and having washed his hands at the kitchen
sink, sat down to the table. A really liberal meal for twenty cents was
set before him.

“Like to look at some of my books?” he asked of the farmer, who had
about finished his repast.

“I dunno.”

“It won’t cost you anything. Here you are. Look them over all you
please,” and Frank passed over the health book and the cattle and
poultry work. Then, without saying more he continued to eat what was set
before him.

“This here cattle book is quite something,” said the farmer, after a
spell of silence. “I think Bill Judkins has one of ’em.”

“This is the latest and best—just issued last fall,” returned Frank. “It
is thoroughly up-to-date, and tells of the latest methods of treating
cattle and poultry for all sorts of diseases.”

“Samuel, you ought to have such a book,” put in the farmer’s wife.
“Don’t you think so, Hiram?”

“Might be a good idee,” responded the son, who was about twenty years of
age and six feet two inches in height. “Might be we wouldn’t hev lost
thet cow last month if we’d known what was the matter of her.”

“Here is a chapter on cows,” said Frank, turning to it. “Here are the
diseases, and here are the remedies.”

“By gum! That’s what was the matter o’ our cow!” exclaimed Hiram,
looking into the book. “Here’s the medicine to give fer it, too. It’s
too bad, pop, we didn’t have such a book when she tuk sick.”

“How much is a book like thet?” questioned the farmer, cautiously. “I
can’t afford no fancy figure.”

“There is the price right on the front page,” answered Frank. “Three
dollars, no more and no less, and the same price to all.”

The way he said this made the farmer’s son laugh.

“Reckon you’re a book agent right enough,” he observed. “Bet you kin
talk like one of them patent medicine men as travels around, can’t you?”

“I can talk about these books, because I understand them.” He turned to
the farmer’s wife. “It’s just like this pie. You know how to make it,
and that’s why it’s good.”

She smiled broadly.

“Do you want another piece?”

“Don’t know that I am entitled to it, ma’am—but it’s mighty good.”

“Yes, you can have it,” she answered, and got another piece from a side
table. Then she turned again to her husband. “You might better take the
book, Samuel.”

“Guess as how I will.” And the farmer went upstairs to get the money.

“You can pay me to-morrow, when I bring the book,” said Frank. “This is
only my sample. I’ll bring you a nice, clean copy.”

“Good for you.”

“What do you think of the other book?” went on the young book agent. “If
you have one book with which to doctor your cattle and poultry, you
ought to have another with which to doctor yourself.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Hiram. “Thet’s a good joke.”

“Betty Daws has a family doctor book,” said the farmer’s wife. “She says
it saves her many a spell of sickness.”

“Do you ever have much sickness?” asked Frank.

“Sometimes. Father, he had chills and fever, and Hiram had an earache.”

“Here is an article on chills and fever, and here is another on earache
and how to cure it.”

“Gosh, if it tells how to cure earache I want the book,” put in Hiram.
“Tell you what I’ll do, ma. It’s your birthday next Tuesday. I’ll buy
you a book for a present.”

“Thank you, Hiram, it will be very nice,” answered his mother.

Frank remained at the farmhouse a short while longer, and then started
to pay for the dinner he had had.

“Never mind that,” said the farmer’s wife. “Take it out of the price of
the books when you bring them,” and so it was settled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV

                             A BOY RUNAWAY


WHEN Frank left the farmhouse he felt in high spirits once more.
Stopping there for dinner had helped him to take orders for two books,
on which his profit would be a dollar and a half.

“I’d like to stop for dinner every day, on such terms,” he told himself.
“In fact, I think I’d try to eat two dinners a day.”

The next place was quite a distance away, and the walk was a hot and
dusty one. Yet he did not mind it, and went along whistling as
cheerfully as ever.

Presently he came to a bend in the road where there was a big elm tree,
and in the shade he paused for a while to rest.

He was about to move on when he saw a lad of twelve or thirteen with a
bundle, tied in a blue cloth, approaching. At first he took the stranger
to be a peddler, but soon saw that he was a farmer lad. He had evidently
traveled far and was tired out and covered with dust.

“Hullo,” said Frank. “How far is it to the next house?”

“Hullo,” returned the boy, wearily. “The next house is just beyond
yonder trees.” He paused and threw down his bundle in the shade. “Say,
it’s hot, ain’t it?”

“Pretty warm,” answered our hero. “You look as if you had done some
traveling to-day.”

“Tramped ever since six o’clock this morning.”

“Is that so! Then you’ve covered a good many miles.”

“I haven’t covered as many as I thought I would. I was going to get to
Fairport by dinner time. What time is it now?”

Frank consulted a silver watch he carried.

“Nearly two o’clock.”

“I thought so—by the feeling in my stomach.”

“Then you haven’t had any dinner?”

“Haven’t had any breakfast yet, excepting one doughnut.”

“Why—er—what’s the matter?”

“You won’t tell, will you?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I suppose it won’t make much difference if I do tell you. I’m running
away from home.”

“Running away? What for?”

“Dad wants me to work all the time. He won’t give me no time to play.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’m going to the city to make my fortune.”

“That’s uphill work.”

“Maybe it is. But I read in a book how a boy went to the city and helped
a Wall Street man, and got to be worth three million dollars. I’m going
to help a Wall Street man if I can find one.”

“I’m afraid you’ll never find that kind. What kind of a book did you
read that story in?”

“A book they called a five-cent library. It had a  picture on the
cover. The story was called ‘Clever Carl; or, From Office Boy to
Millionaire.’ Say, but Carl was a wonder!”

“He must have been—in the book. Don’t you know all such stories are
fiction pure and simple.”

“Fiction? What do you mean?”

“They are not true. If Carl went to the city it’s more than likely he’d
have to work as hard as anybody to make a living. Of course, he might,
in the end, become a millionaire, but the chances are a million to one
against it.”

At this announcement the boy’s face fell, and he wiped his perspiring
and dusty face with a handkerchief.

“Don’t you think I can make my fortune in the city?”

“You mean in New York?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t—at least, not for many years. You’ll be lucky if you strike
any kind of a job. Thousands of boys are looking for work every day
without finding it.”

“Can’t I get in Wall Street?”

“Not any quicker than in any other street. Somebody might hire you to
clean the office and run errands, for two or three dollars a week.”

“I shouldn’t care to do that.”

“What would you want to do?”

“I should want to be a cashier. That’s what Carl was.”

“My advice to you is, to turn around and go home,” said Frank, severely.
“If you get to New York more than likely, unless you have money, you’ll
starve to death.”

“I’ve got eighty-seven cents.”

“That won’t keep you more than a day or two. Don’t you go to school?”

“Of course, when it’s open.”

“How much work do you have to do?”

“More than I want to do. Yesterday I wanted to go fishing, but dad made
me stay home and chop wood.”

“How much wood?”

“Six basketfuls.”

“That isn’t so much. One day last week I chopped wood enough to fill a
dozen baskets.”

“Do you chop wood?”

“Certainly—whenever it is needed.”

“Where do you belong?”

“Over to Claster.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I sell books for a living.”

“Story books?”

“I sell a set of famous novels, but the other books are not story
books.”

“And do you have to tramp around from house to house?”

“Yes.”

“It must be hard work.”

“It is.”

The boy heaved a long sigh. Evidently walking such a long distance had
taken away some of the romance of leaving home.

“What will your mother say to your running away?” went on Frank, kindly.

“I—I don’t know.”

“She’ll be awfully worried. More than likely she won’t sleep a wink
to-night, thinking about you.”

At this the boy grew very sober.

“What is your name?”

“Bobby Frost.”

“Then, Bobby, take my advice, and go straight home. It’s the very best
thing you can do.”

“Dad’ll lick me for running away.”

“Maybe not, if you promise to behave in the future.”

“I’d go back if I was sure he wouldn’t lick me.”

“Go back by all means.”

“I’m awfully hungry and thirsty,” said Bobby, after a long pause.

“Maybe they’ll let you have a dinner at the next farmhouse, if you’ll
pay for it.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Then come on with me. And maybe you can get a ride part of the way
back.”

Frank arose and so did the boy. Soon they were tramping the road side by
side, and kept on until the next farmhouse was reached. A tidy-looking
young woman came to greet them.

“Good-afternoon,” said our hero, politely. “I know it is rather late,
but this boy is very hungry and I would like to know if you cannot fix
him up some sort of dinner. He’ll pay you for it, or else I will.”

“I’ll pay for it,” put in Bobby, promptly, and pulled out a handful of
cents and nickels.

“Everything is put away,” said the young woman, but bent a kindly glance
at the dusty and tired youngster. “Didn’t I see you pass here a while
ago?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll get you what I have. Have you had your dinner?” she asked of
Frank.

“Yes, ma’am—I got it at the place below here.”

The lady of the house passed into the kitchen and Frank followed her and
motioned her to the back door, out of hearing of the boy.

“I picked him up on the road,” he whispered. “I talked to him and found
he was running away from home. He hasn’t had any breakfast or dinner. I
talked to him, and he has promised to go back.”

“For the land sakes! Did you ever!” murmured the woman, in amazement.
“Do you know, when he passed, I thought he might be a runaway. How
foolish! And I suppose he left a good home too!”

“More than likely.”

“Did he tell his name?”

“Bobby Frost.”

“From Oakwood?”

“I don’t know. He said he had been walking since six o’clock this
morning.”

“Then he must belong to the Frosts of Oakwood. I’ll ask him.”

“Are they nice people?”

“They are good farming folks. Mr. Frost is rather strict, but he is a
good man, and they have a lovely home.”

Bobby had seated himself on the doorstep, and was waiting as patiently
as possible for the dinner to appear.

“Aren’t you from Oakwood?” questioned the woman.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I know your folks. Your father is Wilson Frost.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll give you your dinner for nothing.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Can’t you get a stage to Oakwood?” put in Frank.

“He can get a mail stage from Barrettsville,” said the woman. “That’s a
mile west of here,” and she pointed out the direction. “My son is going
to drive to Barrettsville in about an hour.”

“Then you had better go with him, Bobby,” said Frank.

“I will—if he’ll take me,” returned the boy, who did not relish the long
tramp home. Soon he was eating the meal the woman set before him. While
doing so he told his story over again, and the woman gave him some good
advice.

“It was nice of you to advise him to go back,” she said to our hero.

“I thought it no more than right to do so,” answered Frank.

He spoke to her about books, but she did not wish to buy, and he did not
press the matter. Soon her son drove up, and Bobby climbed into the
carriage with him.

“Thank you both,” he cried.

“You’re welcome,” said the woman.

“Good-by,” came from Frank. “Don’t ever try to run away again.”

“I guess I won’t,” answered the boy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XV

                           CAUGHT IN A STORM


THE remainder of the afternoon proved uneventful. Frank visited nine
farmhouses, and succeeded in selling one more cattle and poultry book.
He returned to the hotel at Fairport utterly tired out with his day’s
tramping.

“Only three sales to-day,” was his mental comment. “That is not so good.
My commissions amount to two dollars and a quarter, and my expenses will
be a dollar and forty-five cents. That leaves a profit of just eighty
cents. Well, that is better than nothing. I might have sold more if the
houses weren’t so far apart.”

He found that the hotel keeper had assigned him to a small, but clean
and comfortable room. Supper was plain, but substantial, and Frank ate
all that was set before him.

“Traveling salesman, I suppose?” remarked the hotel man, when Frank
joined him on the hotel stoop, where there were a row of armchairs for
guests.

“I sell books,” answered the young agent. “Maybe I can sell you some.”

“No, I’ve got about all the books I want. Had any success?”

“I sold three books at three dollars each.”

“That’s pretty good.”

“I might sell more if I could cover more ground.”

“Why not hire a horse and buggy? I’ll let you have one for two dollars a
day.”

“Thank you, but my business won’t warrant the outlay. But I tell you
what I wish I did have,” continued Frank, suddenly.

“What is that?”

“A bicycle. The roads around here are pretty fair for wheeling.”

“My boy has a wheel. Perhaps he’ll rent you that.”

“Where is he?”

“Down around the barn, I think.”

Frank walked to the barn, and soon found Tom Grandon, the hotel keeper’s
son. He also saw the wheel, which was in the carriage shed.

“So you’d like to hire my wheel, eh?” said Tom. “I’m willing, if you’ll
promise to take good care of it.”

“I’ll do that. I have a wheel at home, but I didn’t think to bring it.”

“What will you give me for its use?”

“Twenty-five cents a day.”

“Make it fifty cents and I’ll take you up.”

“Let us split the price and make it a dollar for three days,” went on
Frank; and to this Tom Grandon agreed, and the bicycle was turned over
to the young book agent. As tired as he was Frank tried the machine, to
see that it was in running order, and to adjust the seat and the handle
bars to suit him.

“Now I’ll be able to visit twice as many places,” he told himself.

The following day Frank started away early, with his case of books
strapped over his shoulder. In the hotel office he had found a map of
the county and had studied the roads carefully, and he had also asked
about their condition.

It was a perfect day, and as he was a good wheelman he made rapid
progress, so that he reached the first place at which he wished to stop
by eight o’clock. He found the lady of the house in the garden cutting a
bouquet.

“Books?” she said, in answer to his question. “Oh, dear, no, we have all
the books we want. Why, there is a box of books in the garret which we
wish to sell.”

“What kind of books?” questioned the young agent, for he had heard that
some old volumes were rare and valuable.

“Oh, all kinds. Do you buy?”

“I might—or I might make a list of what you have, and get you a price on
them.”

“Well, you can look at them,” said the lady.

The garret was dark and dusty, but taking off his coat and collar, Frank
went to work and sorted out the books, about a hundred in number. Many,
he could readily see, were of small value, but others looked as if they
might be worth considerable money. He made a list of the latter in a
blank book he carried.

“What will you take for the lot?” he asked.

“Five dollars,” was the reply.

“Will you hold them for one week for me?”

“Yes.”

He took down her name and address. “If I don’t want them I’ll drop you a
postal card,” he added.

“Very well.”

Jumping on the bicycle he pedaled to the next house. Had he walked the
distance it would have taken him ten minutes or more. As it was, it took
hardly any time at all. Here he met an old man, and after a good deal of
talking took an order for one of the health books.

“One order anyway,” he thought, grimly. “I won’t be whitewashed to-day.”
He dreaded to put in a day without an order.

He obtained his dinner at another farmhouse. It was a scant meal and
cost him twenty-five cents. The folks did not want to talk books, and
were so disagreeable that he was glad to leave.

Up to four o’clock he visited sixteen additional places. Although he
talked his best he could sell nothing. It was now beginning to cloud up
and he knew a storm could not be far off.

“I suppose I ought to be getting back to the hotel,” he said to himself.
But he hated to think of going back with just one order.

Some distance ahead was the entrance to a very fine grounds. In the
midst, between some beautiful trees, a new mansion had been erected. He
wondered if he could sell any books there.

“Nothing like trying,” he said, half aloud, and wheeled into the grounds
with all speed. He left his bicycle under a carriage shed and then
walked up the piazza steps and rang the bell.

Nobody answered his summons, and after waiting a few minutes, he rang
again, this time as hard as he could. Still nobody came to the door.

“Perhaps they saw me coming and don’t want to let me in,” he mused.

While he was waiting a sudden gust of wind came up, followed by some big
drops of rain. Then came more wind, and a sudden downpour that would
have soaked him to the skin had he been out in it.

“Well, I am under cover anyway,” he reasoned, and then he rang the bell
once more. Still not a soul appeared.

Close at hand were several windows, and all of them were wide open. The
wind blew the lace curtains furiously, and soon the rain began to beat
into two rooms, which Frank could see were handsomely furnished.

“I believe the folks must be out,” he said, at last. “And they certainly
won’t want those windows open in such a storm as this.” And then he
began to close the openings from the outside. It was rather hard work,
and he grew quite wet doing it. All told there were eight windows on the
lower floor which were open and three upstairs, but the latter he could
not, of course, reach.

Frank had all but two windows on the lower floor shut up when a carriage
drove into the grounds at a furious rate. It contained a  driver,
a lady, a maid, and four children.

“Hi, dar, wot you doin’?” demanded the  coachman.

“I’m closing the windows,” answered Frank. “It’s raining in.”

The carriage came up to the piazza, and the lady and the children leaped
out, followed by the maid. All stared at the young book agent
inquiringly.

“Excuse me, madam,” said Frank, touching his cap. “But I got here just
as the storm started. I saw all the lower windows of your house open and
thought nobody could be home.”

“Where is Sarah?” demanded the lady.

“I have seen nobody. I rang the bell several times.”

The lady went up and rang the bell just as our hero had done.

“She must have gone out or else she is asleep. Marie, run around and try
the back door,” this to the maid.

“Ze back door ees locked,” said the maid, on returning. “Sarah, she must
be at ze next house, madam.”

“I told her not to go away while we were on our little picnic. Have you
a key, Marie?”

“I haf not, madam.”

“I’ll climb in a window, mamma,” said one of the children, a boy of
about seven.

“You can’t unlock the door, Freddie.”

“Shall I go in and unlock the door for you?” asked Frank, politely.

The lady of the mansion gave him a close look, and was evidently
reassured by his gentlemanly appearance.

“If you will be so kind.”

Without waiting further, Frank opened the nearest window again and
stepped into the house. Then he hurried around to the front door, and
threw it open. A fierce gust of wind tore through the mansion, and all
who were on the piazza hurried inside.

“Excuse me while I look after the windows,” said the lady. “Come, Marie,
run to the top of the house, and close everything. The storm is growing
very severe.”

Frank took a seat in the hallway, and one of the little boys came up to
him.

“We were on a picnic in the woods with mamma,” said he. “We were just
having a beautiful time when it began to rain, and John had to drive us
home.”

“You were lucky to get home so soon,” answered Frank, pleasantly. “See
how it is pouring.”

“And, oh, how the wind is blowing!” put in one of the little girls. “I’m
sure it will blow a tree down if it keeps up like that.”

Frank heard a number of windows being shut, and then the lady of the
place rejoined him, and invited him into the parlor.

“I left the house in charge of one of my servants,” she explained. “I
told her not to go away, but she has disobeyed me. She has a cousin
living half a mile from here.”

“She took a big risk to leave the house wide open,” was the young book
agent’s comment.

“You are right. A thief might have looted the place from end to end.
Even as it is, the rain has done quite some damage. I am very thankful
to you that you shut down the windows as you did.”

“You are welcome.”

“Did you come here to see me, or just to get out of the storm?”

“I came to see you—or somebody living here. I am selling books.”

“Oh! What sort of books?”

“I will show you,” answered Frank.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVI

                           AN IMPORTANT SALE


FRANK found Mrs. Carsdale a very nice lady with whom to deal. She was
well educated and rich, and she took him to her library to show him the
many volumes she possessed.

“You can see I already have the majority of authors represented in your
famous set,” said she. “If it were not so, I believe I would give you an
order.”

“You certainly have a nice collection of books here,” was our hero’s
comment. “That set of Scott must have cost a good bit of money.”

“A hundred and twenty dollars.”

“I see you have some books here that are quite rare.”

“Yes, I like some old books better than the new ones.”

“I have a few old books to sell,” went on Frank, thinking of the list he
had made out earlier in the day.

“Indeed? What books are they?”

The young book agent got out the list, and read off the names of the
volumes, with the authors, bindings, and dates of publication.

“What will you take for that volume of Dante you just mentioned?” asked
Mrs. Carsdale.

“I haven’t set a price on it. I’d like you to make an offer.”

“Is it in good condition?”

“Quite fair. It is a bit dingy, and the back cover has some water
spots,” added our hero, who could recall the volume very well. “It looks
about like this book,” he went on, picking up one before him.

“If it is in as good condition as that book I’ll give you twenty dollars
for the volume.”

At this answer Frank’s heart gave a bound. Twenty dollars, and the other
woman had offered him all the books in the garret for five dollars! Here
was a chance for business truly.

“Is that the best you could do,” he said, cautiously. “The book is quite
rare, you know.”

“Well, I might give you twenty-five dollars.”

“I’ll let you have it for that,” answered the young book agent.

He remained at the mansion for an hour longer, during which the storm
cleared away as rapidly as it had come.

“Thank you for giving me shelter,” he said, on leaving. “I’ll bring that
book to-morrow or the day after.”

“There is no especial hurry,” answered Mrs. Carsdale. “And it is I must
thank you for closing the windows.”

As Frank wheeled down the muddy wagonway he met a woman who looked like
a cook, coming towards the house. She was out of breath from rapid
walking.

“Is Mrs. Carsdale home?” she demanded.

“Yes, long ago,” was our hero’s answer.

“Oh, pshaw!” came from the cook, and on she went towards the house.

“I guess she’ll catch it,” thought Frank, and he was right.

“Sarah, why did you go away?” demanded Mrs. Carsdale, as soon as the
servant appeared.

“Please, ma’am, I had a—a toothache and I had to get some medicine for
it from my cousin.”

“This is the second time you have left the house without my permission.”

“It shan’t happen again, Mrs. Carsdale.”

“You left all the windows open. If it hadn’t been for an utter stranger
who came up and shut them, many things in the house would have been
ruined.”

“Please, ma’am, the toothache was that dreadful I didn’t know what I was
doing,” pleaded the cook.

“You have been drinking too,” continued the lady of the mansion, as she
caught a whiff of the cook’s breath.

“It’s the toothache cure, ma’am.”

“I warned you before about leaving, and about drinking, Sarah. Your
month will be up next Wednesday. I think I’ll get another cook.”

“Oh, ma’am, don’t say that! Give me just another chance.”

“And if I do, will you promise to obey me after this?”

“I will that.”

“Very well then. But if you disobey me once again it will be for the
last time,” answered Mrs. Carsdale.

Frank had expected to go direct to the hotel, but as it cleared off so
nicely he decided to wheel down a side road and purchase the books the
lady had offered him early in the day. The highway was rather heavy in
spots, and twice he had to dismount to avoid large mud puddles, but with
it all he considered traveling on the wheel much better than walking the
distance.

“Back already,” said the lady. “Have you decided to take those books?”

“Is five dollars the lowest price you will accept?” asked Frank, whose
bump of business caution was developing rapidly.

“Yes, I told my husband about them and he said not to sell for a penny
less than five dollars.”

“Then I’ll take them on one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That your husband will deliver them for me to the hotel at Fairport. I
can’t carry them, and I haven’t any horse and wagon.”

“Very well; he can deliver them to-morrow, when he goes to town for
feed. He’ll go in the morning.”

“That will be satisfactory. I will write out a bill of sale, and you can
sign it.”

For the purpose of having book orders signed in ink, Frank carried a
stylographic pen with him, and soon he had the bill of sale written out
in due form. In it he mentioned the most important volumes, and added,
“and eighty-four others.”

“Now, please sign this and I’ll pay you,” he said, and handed over the
money. The receipt was signed, and he placed it away carefully in his
pocket. Then he said he would take three or four of the books with him.

“And your husband can leave the rest with the hotel keeper,” he added.

When he returned to the hotel he had the precious volume of Dante and
two other rare books in his possession. He placed them in his traveling
bag and went to bed with a good deal of satisfaction.

“It seems to me I’m getting along famously,” was his thought. “Even if I
can’t sell any more of that lot of books I’ll clear twenty dollars by
the transaction.”

The next morning was as bright and clear as ever, and, much to the
satisfaction of the hotel keeper’s son, the young book agent spent half
an hour in cleaning and oiling the bicycle.

“You’re the kind to rent a wheel to,” said Tom Grandon.

“I like to have a bicycle look nice,” answered our hero. “Besides, it
runs easier if it’s clean and well oiled.”

“How are you making out?”

“Pretty fair.”

“I don’t think I’d care to sell books.”

“And I shouldn’t care to run a hotel,” returned Frank. “It’s a good
thing everybody doesn’t want to do the same thing.”

By the middle of the forenoon Frank was at Mrs. Carsdale’s residence
once more. He carried the volume of Dante and also two others he thought
she might wish to look over.

“This Dante is certainly just what you said it was,” said the lady. “And
I will pay you twenty-five dollars, as I promised.”

“Here are two other books that may interest you,” said Frank, and passed
them over.

Mrs. Carsdale gave each a thorough examination.

“I do not think I can use them,” she said, “but I know a friend of mine
in Trenton who may buy both from you at a fair price. He collects just
such books.”

“Please give me his address.”

“I will.”

When Frank left the residence he was just twenty-five dollars richer
than he had been. His high spirits made him put on an extra spurt, and
his bicycle flashed over the road like a meteor.

“That is what I call doing business,” he said to himself. “It beats the
old feed store all to pieces. Won’t the folks at home stare when they
learn how I am getting along!”

The young book agent had his case of samples with him, and also some
volumes to be delivered, and put in a full day delivering and
collecting, and in trying to get new orders. But new business was slow,
and by nightfall he found he had but one extra order for the cattle and
poultry work to his credit.

“Never mind; I’ve got to take matters as they come,” he said to himself.
“The best of marksmen can’t hit the bull’s-eye every shot.”

He found that the books he had bought had been delivered, and placed in
a corner of the bedroom he occupied.

“Buying, as well as selling, eh?” said the hotel keeper.

“I buy sometimes,” answered our hero, cautiously.

“If you want any more old books, I’ve got a lot in the back office you
can have cheap.”

“Let me look at them to-morrow,” answered Frank. “I’m too tired to do it
to-night.”

In the morning the hotel man took him into the office, and pointed to a
row of volumes on a top shelf. All were covered with dust and cobwebs.

“Before I look at them I want to know what you want for them,” said
Frank.

“Make an offer.”

“No; I prefer to have you set your own price.”

“Then make it ten dollars.”

“Why, I only paid five for all those other books.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes; and here is the receipt.”

“Hum! Then I’ll let you have this lot for the same price.”

“Make it three dollars and I’ll see if I can use them.”

The hotel keeper consented after some talking, and Frank dusted off the
books, and began to examine them. The majority were of small value, but
he saw several he fancied might bring in some money.

“I’ll risk taking them,” he said, at last. “I’ll pay you now, and take
them away when I take the others.”

“All right, Hardy. But you can’t leave them here too long, or I’ll make
you pay storage,” returned the hotel keeper.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVII

                          A CURIOUS HAPPENING


THE following week was a busy one for the young book agent. He spent one
day in collecting all the old books he had bought, and sent them to his
home, where they were stored in a vacant bedroom, which was thus turned
into what the family called “Frank’s bookery.” He also ordered the new
books he wished.

“You are certainly doing remarkably well,” was Mr. Hardy’s comment, when
Frank had told the story of his week’s work. “I never dreamed you would
do half as well.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll do so well right along,” answered the son. “But
I’m going to do my best.”

Mr. Hardy also had news to tell. Mr. Begoin, the lawyer, had called upon
him, and a letter had been sent to the officials of the railroad
company, notifying them that damages for the accident would be demanded.
As a consequence, a lawyer in the employ of the railroad company had
appeared.

“He was a very slick fellow,” said Mr. Hardy. “He tried his best to get
me to accept two hundred dollars in full for my claim. When he saw that
I wouldn’t take two hundred, he advanced to three hundred, and then to
four hundred. He said I was very foolish not to accept four hundred.”

“And what did you tell him, father?” questioned Frank.

“I told him, after he had talked for half an hour, that I meant to leave
the matter entirely with my lawyer, Mr. Begoin.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He was much disturbed, and before he went wanted to know if I’d sign
off my claim for five hundred dollars. He said if I sued the company
they would fight to the bitter end.”

“Do you think they will fight?”

“Perhaps; but Mr. Begoin says I have a perfectly clear case and need not
be afraid of them.”

“How much does he think you ought to have?”

“He says he will sue them for five thousand dollars. I don’t think,
though, that I’ll get more than half that. But if I get only a thousand
it will be better than accepting five hundred now.”

“You are right, father. I’d let Mr. Begoin go ahead. He must know just
what he is doing. What did he say about the Jabez Garrison affair?”

“He cannot help me much in that matter. Our only hope is to find
Garrison, and make him give up whatever money he still possesses.”

“Do you imagine he took much cash with him?”

“It’s more than likely he took some. But you must remember he owes some
large amounts. Those would have to be squared up before I could get back
the amount of my bond.”

“But wouldn’t the claim of the benevolent order be a prior claim to
ordinary business claims?”

“I think so, since that was actual cash entrusted to him.”

“When do you expect to hear from Mr. Begoin again?”

“Not until he hears from the railroad company, or from Philadelphia.”

Mr. Hardy could now hobble around the house with the aid of a cane, but
it was thought best not to let him go beyond the porch and the back
garden.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said to Frank. “I’ll make out several
lists of the books you have.”

“Just make out one nice list, father, and that will be enough,” returned
our hero. “I am going to New York again before long and see some dealers
in second-hand books. Perhaps I’ll do as well buying up old books as in
selling new books.”

“Perhaps you can make more sales, Frank, if you’ll agree to take old
books in part payment.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

It rained for two days so hard that to attempt to go out and sell books
was out of the question. Frank spent the time around the house, doing
whatever came to hand. He also put his bicycle in prime condition, for
in the future he intended to ride the wheel as much as possible, and
thus save railroad and stage fares.

He received a very complimentary letter from Mr. Vincent, in which the
publisher congratulated him on his success.


    “You are undoubtedly cut out for this business,” wrote Mr. Vincent.
    “Keep at it by all means, and some day you may become a publisher
    yourself—provided you don’t come to the conclusion that you can make
    more money by selling alone.”


As soon as it cleared off, Frank set out with a large package of books
which were to be delivered. He also carried his order case, and a small
valise, for he expected this time to remain away from home for some
time.

“You are pretty well loaded down,” said Mrs. Hardy, who was at the gate
to see him off.

“He is a peddler with a pack,” said Ruth. “But don’t you mind that,
Frank, so long as you are making money.”

“I don’t mind it a bit,” he answered, cheerfully, and then, with a wave
of his hand, he started for Camperville, twenty-two miles distant.

He had three calls to make on the road, and at the last of the three he
stopped for dinner. As he was entering the yard, he encountered a
small-built, sallow-faced man coming away, valise in hand. The stranger
had an air about him that was far from reassuring.

“I am so glad he has gone, ma,” Frank heard a girl in the kitchen say.

“So am I glad, Emma. I wonder where the money went to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. We didn’t take it, goodness knows.”

“He was awfully angry.”

So the talk ran on, and Frank soon gathered that the stranger had lost
ten dollars while stopping at the house overnight.

“He almost accused us of stealing it,” said Mrs. Farley, the lady of the
place. “He said he had placed two five-dollar bills on the mantelshelf
in his room, and now they were gone. We hunted everywhere, but couldn’t
find the money.”

“What is he going to do about it?”

“Nothing—now. First, he asked where the constable lived, but at last he
said if we wouldn’t charge him anything for stopping here he wouldn’t
make any complaint. We didn’t want the notoriety, so we let him go.”

“Perhaps it was only a game to cheat you out of what was coming to you,”
suggested the young book agent.

“Oh, ma, maybe that’s so,” put in Emma.

“It might be,” answered Mrs. Farley, doubtfully. “But I shouldn’t want
to be dragged into court over the matter.”

“He looked like a sharper to me,” said Frank. “Still it is possible that
he lost the money. Maybe it blew out of the window.”

“We looked under the window and all over the dooryard.”

All during the meal the strange affair was discussed, but without
reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Frank had a health book to deliver,
and after collecting for this, and settling for his meal, he went on his
way.

About a mile down the road he came across the stranger once more. The
fellow was seated on a bridge that crossed a small stream, and was
munching an apple.

“You certainly don’t look like an honest man to me,” was our hero’s
mental comment. “I believe you’ve swindled Mrs. Farley out of her board
money.”

“Hullo there!” called out the man.

“Hullo!” returned Frank, briefly.

“How far is it to Camperville?”

“About two miles, I think,” and now Frank came to a stop.

“What are you doing? Peddling?” went on the man in a hard, unpleasant
voice.

“Hardly. I’m a book agent.”

“Oh! Hard work, isn’t it?”

“Rather hard; yes.”

“I tried it once, but there wasn’t enough money in it to suit me.”

“What do you do?” asked our hero curiously.

“Me? Oh, I’m in half a dozen things. What’s your name?”

“Frank Hardy. What’s yours?”

“Gabe Flecker. I’m buying up butter on commission just now.”

“For a New York house?”

“Yes—the Gasson & Flecker Company. Flecker is my uncle. Do you know
anybody who has butter to sell?”

“No.”

“We’ll pay the best price,” went on Gabe Flecker, handing out a card.
“Tell your friends around here to write to us, and send us their butter
on commission.”

Frank slipped the card into his pocket and mounted his wheel again.

“Guess I’ll have to get a wheel,” said Gabe Flecker. “It’s better than
walking.”

“You are right there,” answered the young book agent, and in a moment
more he was out of hearing.

Frank was more convinced than ever that the fellow was a sharper. His
eyes had a look in them that could not be trusted.

“I’d not trust him with a single tub of butter,” he told himself. “I
don’t believe he’d ever send a cent back for it. That company may be
nothing but a fake concern.” And in that latter surmise the young book
agent hit the nail on the head. He was destined to meet Gabe Flecker
again, and in a most unexpected manner.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                           THE WOULD-BE ACTOR


THE remainder of the day proved uneventful. Frank collected for all of
the books sold, and took two orders. He also left his card with a
druggist who was very much interested in the set of famous novels, and
who promised to write to the young book agent later on the subject.

Business proved to be far from encouraging in Camperville, and after one
day spent in the village, the young book agent took again to the farms
lying for a distance of five miles on all sides. Here in the first day
he sold four books, and once more his spirits arose.

“It’s a sort of see-saw game—first up and then down,” he thought. “But
as long as I can make ten dollars or more a week at it I’ll stick to
it.”

On Wednesday afternoon our hero had a rather amusing experience. As he
was passing a brook he discovered a boy who was fishing and talking
loudly to himself.

“I’d not do it for all the gold in the world! Stand back, I tell you,
stand back!” came from the youth, who was seated on a rock.

“Hullo! that fellow must be crazy,” murmured Frank.

“Stand back, I say!” went on the youth, “or with my trusty blade I will
slay you!”

“Crazy as a loon,” thought Frank, when of a sudden the boy looked up at
him and turned red in the face.

“What yer want?” asked the boy, surlily.

“Nothing,” answered our hero. He knew that crazy folks were ofttimes
dangerous.

“Was you listening to my talk?”

“I was.”

“Thought it funny, didn’t you?”

“Well, rather,” and now Frank began to smile, for he saw that the youth
was not crazy at all.

“That’s in a book I’m studyin’,” went on the lad. “It’s a play.”

“Then you are studying to be an actor?”

“That’s it.”

“What is the play?”

“It’s a three-act melodrama called ‘The Lost Pot of Diamonds; or, Adrift
on the Streets of London.’ I’m studying the part of Jack Merridale, the
hero. It’s a corker.”

“What are you going to do when you know the part?”

“Oh, I’m going to study up a whole lot of parts from different plays,
and then I’m going to New York to be an actor.”

“How much do you know of the play?”

“About half. It’s putty hard to learn, but I’ll have it in another
week.”

“Better give up acting and take to minding the cows,” said Frank, and
started to ride off.

“Ah, you go on!” growled the boy, and made as if to throw a stone after
the young book agent. But Frank was too quick for him and was soon out
of sight.

“He’s worse off for notions than Bobby Frost was,” thought Frank, as he
wheeled along. “One wanted to make a fortune in Wall Street, and the
other wants to become a famous actor. What notions some boys do get!”

Frank worked on a country road that was rather winding, and the next
morning found him not over half a mile from where he had met the boy. A
good-sized farmhouse was in sight and he rode up to this to see if the
folks there would purchase any of his wares.

He was just talking to the lady of the place when a small boy came
rushing up, his face full of terror.

“Mother, Jack’s crazy!” he screamed.

“Crazy?” queried the lady.

“Yes, crazy. He’s out in the barn, throwing around the pitchfork and
screaming like thunder!”

Alarmed by this statement, the lady of the house ran out to the barn,
with Frank at her heels, and the little lad following.

“Villain, beware of my wrath!” came from the barn, which declaration was
accompanied by a violent thrust of the pitchfork into a neighboring pile
of hay.

“Oh!” whispered the mother. “Yes, he is certainly crazy!”

“I shall kill you, base rascal that you are!” went on the boy in the
barn, and again he thrust out wildly with the pitchfork.

“Oh, Jack! that I should see you crazy!” went on the lady.

“He isn’t crazy,” put in Frank. “He is stage-struck; that’s all.”

“The pot of gold is mine!” went on the stage-struck Jack. “It is mine, I
tell you, all mine! And Lady Leonora shall be my bride!” And throwing
down the pitchfork, he stooped and caught up a bushel basket filled with
blocks of wood and hugged it to his breast.

“Jack, what _is_ the matter!” cried his mother, and caught him from
behind.

“Wha—what’s up?” stammered the would-be actor, and he dropped the bushel
basket like a hot potato. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’, ma!”

“What do you mean by carrying on so?” she asked, severely.

“Ain’t carryin’ on. I’m speakin’ a piece.”

“A what?”

“A piece.”

“It didn’t sound much like a piece to me. What reader did you get it
from?”

“Didn’t git it from no reader.”

“Then you made it up.”

“Didn’t nuther. I bought the book from Tom Johnson for ten cents. It’s a
great theater piece.”

“Let me see the book.”

It was lying on a feed box, and before the luckless Jack could get it,
his mother snatched it up and began to peruse it.

“What worthless trash!” she cried, and tore it into a dozen pieces.

“Oh, ma! Don’t tear it up.”

“Don’t you talk to me,” said the lady, severely. “I don’t want any more
such goings-on around here. You march yourself to the corn patch, and be
quick about it. If I hear of any more theater pieces, I’ll send you to
bed without your supper.”

“It didn’t do no hurt to learn the piece,” whined Jack, with a dark look
at Frank.

“Yes, it did. If you want to learn anything, you learn your history and
geography and spelling,” answered the lady of the house.

Jack procured a hoe and walked off to a distant cornfield. But when his
mother and his little brother were not looking he shook his fist at
Frank.

The young book agent had been amused by the scene. Now, however, he grew
serious.

“That boy thinks I am responsible for this,” he thought. “And he will
get square if he can.”

“Such tomfoolery I never saw in my life,” said the lady to Frank.
“Stage-struck indeed! I’ll have to watch him.”

She was so out of patience that she scarcely paid attention to what the
young book agent had to say.

“No, I don’t want any books,” she said. “We have more now than we can
read.”

“Have you any to sell?” asked Frank.

“Do you buy old books?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll sell you these,” she went on, and after a few minutes’ search
brought out half a dozen cheap cloth-covered novels.

“I don’t buy that kind of books,” said Frank.

“I’ll let you have the lot for a dollar.”

“They would not be worth twenty-five cents to me, madam.”

“Oh, you book agents want to make all you can,” she sniffed, and shut
the door in his face.

“What a family to deal with,” thought Frank, as he rode away. “I
declare, I’m almost glad I didn’t sell her a book.”

Close at hand was a small side road where were located two other
farmhouses. To these places, our hero next made his way. One place was
closed up, but at the other he met a young couple who treated him
cordially.

“I’d like to have both of those books,” said the young husband,
referring to the health and the cattle and poultry works. “But to tell
the truth I can’t afford them. Just now, six dollars is a heap of money
to me.”

“I can deliver the books whenever you say,” returned Frank. “Perhaps
you’ll be able to take them next week.”

“No; I don’t want to give an order for them unless I am sure I can pay.
‘Pay as you go’ is my motto.”

“And a good motto it is,” said Frank. Then he continued: “Perhaps you
have some old books you’d like to exchange for these new ones.”

“I’ve got a box full of old books that were left to my wife by her Uncle
Alexander. Millie, do you want to make a trade?”

“I might,” answered the wife.

“Let me see the books,” said the young book agent.

He spent a few minutes in looking the volumes over. They were not of
great value, to his manner of thinking, yet he thought they might bring
him six dollars or more.

“If you wish it, I’ll give you the two new books for those old ones,” he
said. “I am not particular about it, but I’d like to do a little to-day
before stopping work.”

“Don’t you think the books are worth more?” asked the young wife.

“Honestly, I do not.”

“Then take them and give us the new books.”

“It’s hard luck, Millie,” said the young husband. “You didn’t get much
out of your Uncle Alexander after all.”

“No, Samuel,” and the young wife heaved a deep sigh.

“You see, it was this way,” explained Samuel Windham. “My wife nursed
her uncle for over two years. He promised to leave her a thousand
dollars or more when he died. But when he did die he didn’t leave
anything but some old furniture and these books and just enough to pay
for his funeral.”

“That was hard luck,” said Frank.

“I didn’t nurse him for the money,” said Mrs. Windham. “I nursed him
because I thought it was my duty.”

“All the same you should have had something,” answered her husband.

“Did he leave anything to anybody else?”

“No, he left what he had to me. But we thought it might be more than it
was.”

“It was certainly hard.” Frank paused after a moment. “I’ll leave the
two new books now and make a package of the old ones and take them to
the Camperville hotel with me.”

“Are you stopping there?”

“I’m going to stop.”

The old books were done up in some newspapers and Frank put a strap
around them. Then he passed over the two new volumes, and bid the young
couple good-by. Soon he was wheeling up the side road into the main road
once more.

He had passed less than half a mile when he came to a bend. Here the
highway was narrow, and on either side were masses of trees and bushes.

“Here he comes now!” he heard a voice shout, and a moment later he found
himself confronted by three farmer boys, all armed with clubs. They
compelled him to halt and then surrounded him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIX

                          GIVING AN AUTOGRAPH


THE farmer lads had cloths tied over the lower parts of their faces, and
had their hats pulled far down over their foreheads, so as to conceal
their features as much as possible. One, the smaller of the trio, had
his jacket turned inside out.

“What do you want?” demanded Frank, as he leaped to the ground.

“We want to speak to you,” said one of the big boys, in a rough voice.

“What about?”

“You’ll soon see.”

“Make him a prisoner, fellers,” cried the lad who had his coat turned
inside out.

The voice appeared familiar to Frank, but he could not, for the moment,
place it.

“You can’t make me a prisoner,” said the young book agent, and tried to
back out with his bicycle.


[Illustration: “THEY OVERTURNED BOTH FRANK AND HIS WHEEL.”–P. 163.]


“Can’t we, though?” came from the lad who had not yet spoken. “Don’t you
try to run. If you do, you’ll get a taste of this.” And he brandished
his club.

“We’re goin’ to give you a good lickin’!” came from the boy with the
turned jacket.

“Oh, so it’s you!” ejaculated Frank, for he now placed the speaker as
the stage-struck farm boy.

“You don’t know me,” said the boy in quick alarm.

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re the boy that wanted to become an actor.”

“It ain’t so. I’m Joe Small.”

“Your name is Jack, and you live in the yellow house over yonder hill.”

“Don’t talk to him,” put in the biggest of the trio, who had been
offered five cents to help “polish off” the young book agent. “Give him
what he deserves and let him go.”

“He’ll tell on me,” whispered Jack.

“No, he won’t. Just help make him a prisoner and leave the rest to Ollie
and me.”

Watching their chance, the three boys crowded in on Frank, and
overturned both him and his wheel. Then, despite the fact that he hit
out vigorously, they sat down on him. Jack tried to kick him, but our
hero pulled him down by the leg, and gave him a severe blow in the nose
that drew blood.

“Oh! oh! my nose!” roared the would-be actor, and clapped a hand to that
organ.

Frank had been hit several times, but at last he managed to throw off
his assailants, and then he struck out in a lively fashion. Yet, with
their clubs, they were at an advantage, and he was speedily getting the
worst of the encounter when a man appeared in the distance, carrying a
basket of eggs in his hand. It was Samuel Windham.

“Hi! hi! What does this mean?” cried the young farmer, in amazement.

“Help me, please!” gasped Frank, who was almost out of wind from his
exertions.

“Highway robbers, eh?” cried the young farmer, and setting down his
basket he leaped forward, and threw one of the masked youths headlong.

“Don’t!” screamed the other. “We ain’t no robbers. We’re only havin’ a
bit of fun.”

“Pretty rough fun,” came from Samuel Windham, and he made after the lad,
who took to his heels, and disappeared behind the trees. Seeing this the
others also ran off at top speed, leaving the field to Frank and his
friend.

“Thank you; you came in the nick of time,” said our hero, as he brushed
off his clothing.

“Hurt much?”

“Not very much. I got a nasty crack in the shoulder and one on the left
hand, but I’ll soon get over them.”

“What made ’em attack you, I wonder.”

“It was on account of the smallest boy,” said Frank, and then told of
the lad’s stage tendencies. Samuel Windham laughed uproariously at the
story.

“Just like him,” he said. “That boy always was a queer stick. His folks
had better take him in hand. Will you make a complaint?”

“I guess not. I don’t expect to visit this neighborhood again in a
hurry. They got about as good as they gave.”

“Wonder who the other boys were?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

As he was in no hurry, Frank pushed his wheel along, and walked into
Camperville with Samuel Windham.

“I shall not forget you,” said our hero, on parting with the young
farmer. “If you hadn’t come up I don’t know what I should have done.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” And then they shook hands, and Samuel Windham
walked on to a grocery store, where he traded his eggs for table
commodities.

Reaching his room at the hotel, Frank placed the books he had purchased
in the closet. He had expected to look them over before retiring, but
felt too tired to do so. He procured his supper, and after a glance at a
local weekly paper, returned to his apartment and went to bed.

Business around Camperville continued rather poor, and by the end of the
week, Frank moved on to the next town, six miles westward. He crossed
the Delaware River, and now found himself in Pennsylvania. Here business
was a little better, and he took up his quarters at a hotel called the
Grandmore House, which was partly filled with summer boarders.

At the hotel Frank fell in with rather a pleasant man by the name of
Sinclair Basswood, who had at one time been the mayor of a New Jersey
town. Mr. Basswood had a great idea of his own importance, and never
grew tired of speaking of his rise in life.

“Stick to your work, my lad,” said Sinclair Basswood to Frank,
graciously, “and some day you may become a mayor, as I did.”

“I don’t know as I want to become a mayor,” answered our hero. “I’d
rather become a book publisher. Not but what it’s a great thing to be a
mayor,” he added hastily.

“A very responsible position, I assure you,” responded the ex-mayor.

“A mayor must have his hands full?”

“Quite true, my lad; the duties are arduous enough. But I felt that I
owed something to the town in which I was born and raised, so I
consented to run on the ticket when they asked me, and I was elected by
two hundred and six majority,” responded Sinclair Basswood.

One day the ex-mayor was sitting on a side veranda, smoking a cigar,
when a small-built, shrewd-looking individual approached him.

“Excuse me, but is this Mr. Sinclair Basswood,” said the newcomer,
politely, after making certain that the ex-mayor was alone.

“I am that individual.”

“I mean the ex-mayor.”

“The same.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Basswood; very glad indeed.” The newcomer
shook hands warmly. “Excuse me, but do you know I have desired to know
you for a long time.”

“Really you flatter me,” said the gratified Mr. Basswood.

“Not in the least, my dear sir—not in the least. And now let me tell you
what motive has prompted me—a stranger—to intrude myself upon you.”

“Oh, no intrusion, sir.”

“Thank you—thank you a thousand times for saying so. But in a word, I
wish to obtain your autograph.”

“I fear,” replied the ex-mayor, “that it is scarcely worth the giving.”

“Let me judge of that, Mr. Basswood. I have already secured the
autographs of some of the most distinguished men of our country,
including the President and his Cabinet. I wish to place your autograph
in that collection of celebrities.”

“Well, you are welcome,” said the ex-mayor, secretly tickled to be
thought of such importance.

“Please write your name here,” went on the stranger, and produced a
stylographic pen and a small sheet of paper, and, without hesitation,
Sinclair Basswood complied with the request. In finishing up with a
flourish he made a small blot on the edge of the sheet.

“That’s too bad,” he said, in a disappointed tone.

“Oh, I can easily remove that, sir,” said the stranger. “Very much
obliged, sir, for your kindness. I shall prize the autograph
exceedingly.” And then, before Sinclair Basswood could question him
regarding his name, he bowed and withdrew.

The man who had obtained the autograph was just passing through the
hotel when he met Frank.

“Hullo, are you stopping here?” exclaimed our hero, as he recognized the
slick features of Gabe Flecker.

“No, I am not,” was the quick reply, and then the dapper young man lost
no time in leaving the hotel and disappearing.

“Do you know that young man?” demanded Sinclair Basswood, who had seen
Frank address the dapper individual.

“Not very well. I met him once on the road.”

“He asked me for my autograph.”

“Is that so? What did he want to do with it?”

“Said he wished to put it in a collection he owns. He has that of our
President, his Cabinet, and other celebrities.”

“He told me he was buying butter from the farmers,” said Frank, bluntly.
“But, even so, he may be an autograph collector.”

“Well, the autograph didn’t cost me anything,” responded Sinclair
Basswood, loftily. “He supplied the pen, and the paper too.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t an order you signed?”

“An order?”

“Yes. I once heard of a good-for-nothing book agent who used to collect
autographs. After that he would write out an order for books over each
signature.”

“Good heavens! Perhaps that chap is a swindler!” ejaculated the
ex-mayor, turning pale. “Where is he?”

“He has left the grounds.”

A search was made, but Gabe Flecker had disappeared and could not be
traced.

“I’d give five dollars to have that autograph back,” groaned Sinclair
Basswood. “How foolish to give it to an utter stranger.”

“Let us hope that it is all right,” replied Frank. “Remember, there are
many honest autograph hunters in this world, and Mr. Flecker may be one
of them. But I must admit I do not like his looks.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER XX

                        FRANK’S REMARKABLE FIND


TWO days later, while out after orders, Frank met Samuel Windham. The
young farmer had an exceedingly sober look on his face.

“My wife is quite sick,” said he. “Had the doctor twice and have got to
have him again, I reckon.”

“I hope she recovers soon,” said our hero, sympathetically.

“Oh, I think she’ll be all right by next week. But it’s a big expense to
me. And in that heavy wind the other night my chimney blew down, and
that has got to be fixed, which means more money out of my pocket.”

“Does the farm pay?”

“I could make it pay if I had money to buy more cows and an extra horse.
But I haven’t the money, and folks around here don’t care to trust a
fellow.”

“I’m going to look over those books again to-night,” went on Frank. “If
I can make anything out of them, I’ll give you half.”

“Why, I ain’t entitled to nothing more. A bargain is a bargain,” said
the young farmer, in surprise.

“Never mind—I’ve not forgotten how you assisted me on the road.”

“That puts me in mind. Those boys are in trouble for keeps now. They
robbed an orchard of some extra fine pears, and the owner gave each of
’em a tremendous walloping.”

“Well, they deserved it,” answered Frank.

Having eaten his supper, Frank went directly to his room, and got out
the bundle of books he had procured from Samuel Windham. He piled the
volumes on the table and began to look them over. There were four
histories, an atlas, and several volumes of poetry.

“The histories won’t bring much—they are too much worn,” thought the
young book agent.

“But this book of Longfellow’s poems may——Goodness gracious me!”

Frank fairly gasped the last words, and his eyes bulged out of his head.
For from between the leaves of the book had dropped a hundred-dollar
bill.

“A hundred dollars!” he cried, and then checked himself. Arising, he
locked the door of the room, and pulled down the window shade.

With nervous fingers he thumbed over the volume. Before long he came
across another bill, and then another.

“Three hundred dollars—no, four hundred!” he murmured, and then shook
out two more. “Why, this is a regular gold mine!”

At last he had gone over the book carefully, and now he had before him
ten one-hundred-dollar bills—exactly a thousand dollars! The book
contained nothing more. He cast it aside and took up the remaining
volumes.

At last the examination was complete, and before him lay a total of
fourteen hundred dollars. Each of the bank bills was crisp and new, and
as he gazed at them his heart almost stopped beating. Fourteen hundred
dollars! It was a little fortune. With so much money he could open a
bank account of his own, or go into a store business.

But swiftly on the heels of this thought came another. This money was
not his. It was true he had purchased the books, but the original owner
had not known that this money lay hidden in the volumes.

“This is the fortune Mrs. Windham’s uncle, Alexander, promised to leave
her,” he told himself. “I must give it to her and at once.”

Fearful that the money might get away from him, Frank placed the crisp
bills in an envelope, and pinned this fast in an inner pocket of his
vest. Then he went below again, got out his bicycle, and lit the
lantern.

“You are going to take quite a late ride,” said Mr. Basswood, who was on
the hotel veranda, smoking.

“Yes, I have a little business to attend to,” answered Frank.

He was soon wheeling off in the direction of the Windham cottage. There
was no moon, but the stars shone brightly, and his lamp was a good one,
so he had little difficulty in keeping out of danger. In about an hour
he reached Samuel Windham’s place, and dismounting, walked to the door
and knocked.

“Why, hullo, is it you?” came from Samuel Windham, as he opened the
door, and looked at Frank in astonishment. “I didn’t expect a visitor so
late.”

“I’m sure you’ll forgive me when you know what I’ve come for,” returned
the young book agent. “How is your wife?”

“She’s pretty fair to-night.”

“Who is that, Samuel?” came from a side room of the cottage.

“It’s that young agent, Mr. Hardy,” answered the husband.

“Oh!”

“Mr. Windham, I believe you told me once that your wife had an uncle
named Alexander,” said Frank.

“Exactly; Alexander Price.”

“May I speak to your wife about Mr. Price?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you wish to know?” asked Mrs. Windham. “You may come in here if
it is anything in particular.”

“Thank you, I will,” said our hero, and he followed Samuel Windham into
the apartment. The wife of the young farmer was in bed, looking pale and
worried.

“I am sorry to see you sick, Mrs. Windham,” began Frank.

“Yes; I’ve had a bad spell, but I am a little better now.”

“As I said before, I came to ask you about your uncle, Alexander Price.”

“What of him?”

“He was a bit eccentric, was he not?”

“Very eccentric indeed. He imagined that many folks were trying to get
the best of him.”

“He promised to leave you some money when he died, didn’t he?”

“Why do you ask that question?”

“Never mind just now. Please answer my question.”

“Yes, he said that when he died I was to have everything he left, and he
said something about a thousand dollars or more. But I never got the
money.”

“Did he say where he had placed the money?”

“No. We thought he had it in a savings bank, but we could never find any
bank book. Oh, tell me, have you found a bank book among those books we
let you have?”

“No, I haven’t found any bank book, I have found something better yet,”
and Frank smiled broadly.

“Something—better—yet?” said the woman, and raised herself from her
pillow. “Oh, Mr. Hardy, what have you found? Tell me, quick!”

“When I was looking over one of the books I found a hundred-dollar
bill.”

“Oh!”

“A hundred dollars!” cried Samuel Windham. “Of course you ain’t going to
try to keep it, Mr. Hardy?” he added, hastily.

“No, I think it belongs to your wife.”

“Oh, thank Heaven for that money!” burst out Mrs. Windham. “We need it
so much.”

“I got interested and began to look the book over more carefully,”
continued Frank. “Pretty soon, out dropped another hundred-dollar bill!”

“What!”

“Oh, Samuel!”

“Then I looked the book over from cover to cover, and got several more
one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“Mr. Hardy, do you mean it?” screamed Mrs. Windham.

“I certainly do.”

“And I am not dreaming? Oh, Samuel, this is too good to be true.”

“Where is the money?” asked the husband.

“I have it here,” said Frank, bringing out the envelope. “From one book
I went to the next, until I was certain that no more bills were hidden
away.”

“And how much did you find, all told?” asked Samuel Windham.

“How much do you think?”

“Did you really get the thousand dollars?” came faintly from the young
farmer’s wife.

“I got fourteen hundred dollars, ma’am, and here are the bills,” said
our hero, and brought them forth.

He spread them out on the bed cover, and Samuel Windham brought the lamp
closer, that he and his wife might gaze at the money.

“Oh, Samuel, it’s a fortune!” murmured the wife. “Just think of it! We
can have the house repaired, and you can buy that extra horse, and some
cows, and a new mower and reaper.”

“And to think we never looked into them books for this money,” answered
the husband. “Supposing the books had been burnt up.”

“Or we might have sold them to some dishonest man who would have kept
the bank bills, Samuel.” Mrs. Windham turned to Frank. “You are very
honest, Mr. Hardy.”

“By George, that’s true!” ejaculated Samuel Windham, and caught our hero
by the hand. “It ain’t one fellow out of a hundred would be as square.”

“I knew the money belonged to you folks, and that was all there was to
it,” said Frank, modestly.

“It’s a great blessing,” murmured Mrs. Windham. “Fourteen hundred
dollars! Why, I never saw so much cash before! Samuel, we must reward
Mr. Hardy for this.”

“I’m willing, Millie; but the money is yours, not mine.”

“No, Samuel, it is yours as much as mine.”

“I don’t know as I want a reward,” came from Frank. “I only hope the
money does you a whole lot of good.”

“You’ve got to take something,” insisted Samuel Windham. “I’ll talk it
over with my wife later.”

After that Frank had to tell all the particulars of just how the money
had been found, and then the Windhams told him how Alexander Price had
lived and died, and how queer he was in more ways than one. Mrs. Windham
had been his only living relative, so there could be no doubt but that
the bank bills were meant for her.

It was nearly midnight before Frank returned to the hotel. He felt very
light-hearted, for he had done his duty, and made two of his fellow
beings very happy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXI

                      GABE FLECKER SHOWS HIS HAND


ON the afternoon of the following day Frank was riding toward the hotel
when he heard a loud call from a side road, and looking in that
direction he saw Samuel Windham waving a hand to him. He leaped from his
bicycle, and waited for the young farmer to come up.

“I was going up to the hotel to see you,” said Windham.

“Anything wrong about that money?” questioned Frank, quickly.

“No, only if you don’t mind, I’d like to look through those books with
you.”

“Not at all. Come on,” was our hero’s reply.

He rode along slowly, and the young farmer walked by his side. When the
hotel was reached our hero led the way to his room and brought out the
package of books.

“I know you must have looked over ’em pretty carefully,” said Samuel
Windham. “But Millie wanted me to make certain that all of the bills had
been found.”

“I’d like to see you find half a dozen more, Mr. Windham.”

“Thank you; but I’d think I was lucky to find just one.”

Half an hour was spent over the books, but no more bank bills were
brought to light.

“I reckon we have all of them, Mr. Hardy.”

“I think so myself. Still, there was no harm in another look.”

“My wife and I talked this matter over this morning,” went on Samuel
Windham.

“How is she?”

“Much better. Such good news acts better on her than medicine. As I was
saying, we talked this matter over this morning. We want you to
understand that we appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

“It ain’t many book agents would be so honest.”

“I think book agents are about as honest as other folks.”

“Oh, yes, so do I—but I mean most men wouldn’t be so honest when they
had such a good chance to pocket fourteen hundred dollars. We want to
reward you, Mr. Hardy.”

“I told you before, I wasn’t looking for a reward.”

“I know that, but my wife and I would feel better if you’d accept what
we want to give you. Here it is.”

As Samuel Windham spoke he brought forth a large wallet, and drew out
one of the hundred-dollar bills.

“What, do you want me to accept a hundred dollars!” cried Frank.

“That’s it. Take it with our best wishes.”

“It’s altogether too much, Mr. Windham.”

“No, it ain’t. We want you to take it. My wife says to me, ‘Don’t you
dare to bring it back, Samuel. You just tell him he’s got to take it
from me,’ so there you are.”

Frank hesitated, but he saw that the young farmer was in earnest.

“Very well,” he said, at last. “I’ll take the money. But on one
condition, that you let me send you a complimentary set of those famous
novels I mentioned to you, along with a bookshelf to keep them on.”

“Well, I shan’t stop you from sending us a present, Mr. Hardy. But you
haven’t got to do it if you don’t want to,” answered Samuel Windham, and
a little later he took his departure, after our hero had thanked him
warmly for the reward.

It must be confessed that the young book agent felt highly elated when
he stowed the hundred-dollar bill away in his pocketbook.

“Old books seem to be bringing me in more money than new books,” he
thought. “But I can’t expect to have such luck as this all the time.”

He lost no time in sending for the set of novels, stating he would pay
cash for them, and also requested Mr. Vincent’s head clerk to send a
nice bookshelf with the books. It may be added here that when the books
and the shelf came, the Windhams were very proud of the gift.

The next few days were quiet ones for the young book agent. Try his best
he could obtain but few orders, and by the end of the week he resolved
to try a new locality on the following Monday.

Frank attended a neighboring church on Sunday morning, and in the
afternoon went out for a short walk along the river.

He was on his way back when he passed a man who was driving furiously
along in a buggy. The person was Mr. Sinclair Basswood.

“Hi! hi! stop!” called out the ex-mayor, as he caught sight of Frank.

“What is it, Mr. Basswood?” questioned Frank, as he walked to the side
of the buggy.

“You were right, young man, and I was a fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember about that autograph?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I was taken in nicely.”

“Did the fellow swindle you?”

“He did. I have just been over to Riverview and there I met the banker
with whom I have occasionally done business. I am out just sixty-five
dollars.”

“What did the rascal do?”

“Turned my autograph into the signature on a check, and what is more, he
got the banker to cash the check.”

“Can’t you prove it was a swindle?”

“It will do me no good. The signature is mine, and I’ve got to stand the
loss,” fumed the ex-mayor from New Jersey.

“Can’t you catch Gabe Flecker—if that’s his real name?”

“I wish I could, but he seems to have disappeared.”

“It isn’t likely he’d stay around these parts after such a swindle as
that,” continued Frank. “He may be hundreds of miles away by this time.”

“I have notified the police. Perhaps they will catch him for me. I’d
give fifty dollars just to lay my hands on the rascal.”

“Why not offer a reward?”

“I’ll do it,” answered Sinclair Basswood, promptly.

He was as good as his word, and early on Monday morning Frank saw a
notice in the post office offering a reward of fifty dollars for the
capture of “One Gabe Flecker, a fugitive from justice.”

By Monday night the young book agent had moved on to a town I shall call
Brentwood. This was quite a trading center, with a population of six
hundred souls and a good surrounding territory of farms.

Strange as it may seem, our hero found the hotel full and so had to
apply to a private boarding-house for accommodations.

“I think I can let you have a room,” said Miss Littell, to whom he was
directed. “It is a small room, but comfortably furnished.”

“Can I see it?” asked Frank.

“Oh, yes.”

The room proved to be acceptable, and after some little conversation our
hero engaged it for the week, the terms being five dollars in advance,
for a room, with breakfast, and dinner in the evening.

“May I ask what your business it?” questioned Miss Littell, after Frank
had settled with her.

“I sell books for a living.”

“Indeed!” The landlady appeared much surprised. “How strange!”

“Strange that I sell books?”

“Oh, no, not that. But that two of you should come to me in the same
week.”

“Do you mean that you have another book agent here?” questioned Frank,
with interest.

“Yes, a Mr. Grant Deems, from Pittsburgh.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Saturday night. He is going to stay until next Sunday.”

“That is odd,” said Frank. “Do you know what he is selling?” he went on,
wondering if the stranger could be a rival.

“No, he didn’t show me his books.”

“Perhaps the place is big enough for two agents at a time. But I’d
rather have the field to myself.”

“I trust that you have no trouble with Mr. Deems, Mr. Hardy.”

“I’m sure I’m not looking for trouble,” returned Frank.

That evening Frank met Grant Deems at the supper table. He proved to be
a tall, lank individual of thirty or more years of age. He had a hard
voice and very insistent manner.

“What, are you a book agent?” he said, looking Frank over. “Why, you are
nothing but a boy!”

“Nevertheless I sell books,” answered our hero. He did not like the
manner in which he was addressed.

“What books are you trying to sell?”

“Those issued by Mr. Philip Vincent, of New York.”

“Pooh! And do you think they are of much account?” sniffed Grant Deems.

“I do.”

“Then you have never seen the line I carry, Mr. Hardy.”

“What house do you represent?”

“The Landon-Bolling Publishing Company, of Washington.”

Now, our hero had heard of the publishing house mentioned, and knew
their books were far inferior to those issued by Mr. Vincent. The
copyrights were old, the paper and binding poor, and the covers far from
lasting.

“I prefer Mr. Vincent’s books,” said Frank, quietly.

“Naturally—since you work for him.”

“No, because I think they are the best books on the market for the
price.”

“They can’t hold a candle to our publications. We have you beat to death
on our whole line,” went on Grant Deems, insistently.

“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Frank.

“Oh, pshaw!”

Frank was about to make a further reply, but thought better of it, and
changed the subject by asking Miss Littell about her little dog that was
running around the room. The landlady was grateful for the change, and
gave him a look of thanks. After that Grant Deems said nothing more, but
finished his meal and went out of the dining room.

“Evidently he is not very friendly,” said the landlady to our hero,
after the rival book agent had gone.

“It would seem so,” answered Frank. “But I don’t care. If he lets me
alone, I’ll let him alone.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXII

                          THE RIVAL BOOK AGENT


AS ill luck would have it the firm Grant Deems represented published a
health book, a cattle and poultry book and a set of famous novels,
similar, in many respects, to those issued by Mr. Vincent. As said
before, the works were inferior in every way to those put out by the New
York publisher, yet a hasty glance would give one the opinion that one
line of works was about as good as the other.

On Tuesday Frank did not see or hear much of the rival book agent, but
on Wednesday morning he heard that Grant Deems had visited several
houses and said the Vincent publications were far inferior to those he
was selling. Many believed him and as a consequence our hero took but
few orders.

“Mr. Deems, I hear you have been talking strongly against my books,”
said Frank, when he met the rival agent that evening.

“Business is business,” was the cold reply, and Grant Deems puffed away
calmly at a cigar he was smoking.

“But you have been telling people things about my books that are not
true.”

“I don’t see it.”

“You know that our books are better than yours in every way.”

“Rot! It is just the other way around, Hardy. And I am getting the
orders, too,” and Grant Deems chuckled.

“It is not a fair way of doing business, Mr. Deems, and if you keep on
you’ll be sorry for it.”

“Sorry? How?”

“Never mind how. I will not allow anybody to run down the books I am
selling.”

“Oh, go on and jump in the river!” growled Grant Deems, and walked away.

His manner angered Frank exceedingly, and when, a little later, he
visited a store and learned that the rival agent had stated that the
Vincent books were “old plugs and no good at all,” his temper arose to a
point where he felt like pitching into Grant Deems in earnest.

“Is there a printer in town?” he asked of the storekeeper.

“Oh, yes, Barry Leeds does all sorts of small jobs,” returned the
storekeeper.

“Where is his office?”

“Back of his house, the fourth up this street.”

“Thank you.”

Our hero lost no time in seeking out the printer, who was a young
fellow, and willing to jump at any job which presented itself.

“I want two hundred small circulars printed,” said Frank. “Can you get
them out at once?”

“Yes.”

“How much will they be?”

“That depends on what you want printed on them.”

“I want this,” returned our hero, and taking a sheet of paper, he wrote
the following:


                A CARD TO THE PUBLIC.

    It has come to my knowledge that a certain rival book agent is
    visiting the people of this vicinity and representing that the books
    I sell are not the best of their class on the market. Kindly hold
    your orders until you see my books and I will prove to you that the
    firm I represent, the Philip Vincent Company, publish the best books
    of their class in the world.

                        FRANK HARDY.


“I’ll get you out two hundred of those for a dollar and a half, or three
hundred for two dollars,” said Barry Leeds.

“Very well, I’ll take the three hundred,” answered our hero. “Perhaps
I’ll be called on to use some of them somewhere else.”

“I reckon I saw that rival book agent,” went on the printer. “He was
here with his books, but I didn’t buy from him. Do you want these
distributed around town?”

“I do, and to the houses for a mile around.”

“My little brother will be glad to get the job.”

“When can you put them out?”

“By eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“How much for the distribution?”

“Oh, he’ll do it for fifty cents.”

“Very well, go ahead, and here is the money. Mind and put them into
every house and every store.”

“I’ll do the work properly, Mr. Hardy. When you go around you just look
for the circulars. I’d like to see you get the best of that other chap.
I didn’t like the way he talked at all.”

Frank took care to avoid Grant Deems on the following morning. This was
easy, since the rival book agent did not come down to breakfast until
nearly nine o’clock. By that hour our hero was already out looking for
orders.

It was not long before Frank came across a person who had purchased a
health, and a cattle and poultry book from Grant Deems.

“I wish I had seen your books first,” said this person. “They are
assuredly superior.”

“Will you rent me these books for two or three days?” asked our hero.

“What do you want to do with them?”

“I want to show folks the difference between the two lines of books.”

“In that case I’ll let you take the books around for nothing.”

“Thank you very much,” said Frank, and placed the rival’s volumes in a
paper.

This was a wise move on our hero’s part, for before long he ran across
some folks who wanted to know just what the difference between the two
sets of books was.

“I will show you,” said he, and brought out the other volumes. “In the
first place, if you will look at the copyright notices, you will see
that these books are much older than ours. In the second place, you will
see that the printing is poorer and that the paper is of inferior
quality. In the third place, our books contain many more illustrations,
and in the fourth place, our covers are much more durable.”

“What you say is true,” said the man, who was listening, and he at once
gave Frank an order for the health book, and sent him to a brother who
wanted a book about cattle and poultry.

All day long our hero worked to get orders, and in nearly every case he
had to show up the rival’s books alongside of his own. He was highly
successful, and by night had orders for nine volumes, and one party had
asked him to call again about the famous set of novels.

“The circulars have done a whole lot of good,” he thought, as he walked
toward his boarding house. “This is the best day’s business in some
time. I wonder how Grant Deems likes the move I made?”

He was still some distance from Miss Littell’s house when he came face
to face with Grant Deems, who was standing behind a big tree.

“See here, what are you up to?” demanded the rival book agent, sourly.

“What do you mean, Deems?” asked Frank, quietly.

“You know well enough what I mean. A nice circular you got up about my
books!”

“Do you think that circular applies to your books?”

“Of course you meant me! I’ve a good mind to thrash you as you deserve.”

“You had better not try it.”

“Why?”

“You might get the worst of it.”

“Stuff and nonsense!”

“You started this thing, Deems.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You told a number of folks here that my books were no good.”

“Well, I told the truth.”

“Folks don’t think so.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Simply this: that I have shown them your books as well as my own, and I
have done a very large day’s business selling my books.”

“You’ve been showing my books?”

“Yes. Here are two of them in this package—two that you delivered
yesterday.”

“It’s a fine way to treat a fellow agent.”

“If you had left me alone, I should have let you alone.”

“I’ve a good mind to punch your head!”

“As I said before, you had better not try it.”

“You talk mighty big for a boy!” growled Grant Deems, but he made no
move to attack Frank.

“I can take care of myself.”

“How many books have you sold to-day?”

“That is my business.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t take an order.”

“I’m not betting. Just the same I am well satisfied with what I have
sold.”

Grant Deems continued to grumble and to threaten our hero, and at last
moved away in a very bad humor. Frank entered the boarding house and got
supper. The rival agent did not appear.

The next day Frank went out bright and early. He was “on his mettle,” as
the saying is, and bound to take all the orders possible. He worked with
vigor, and by three o’clock in the afternoon had six orders to his
credit. Then he called on the party who had wanted to consider the set
of famous novels.

“I’ll take the set of works,” said the person. “I wanted to look at the
set that rival agent has. But I like yours much better.”

“When was he here, if I may ask?” questioned our hero.

“This morning. He was very anxious to take the order and wanted to throw
off ten per cent. But I told him I was going to take your books.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He went off as mad as a hornet.”

Frank took the order and then went back to his boarding house, to write
letters to New York, and to his folks at home.

Hardly had he seated himself in his room when the door burst open and
Grant Deems rushed in.

“See here, I’m going to settle matters with you!” cried the rival book
agent. And banging the door shut, he placed his back against it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                             NEWS FROM HOME


FRANK could readily see that Grant Deems was more angry than ever, and
ready to do something rash. Realizing that the fellow might attack him
without further words, he leaped behind the table and picked up one of
his books, which happened to be lying handy.

“Deems, this is my private room and I want you to get out of it,” said
he, as calmly as possible.

“I tell you I’m going to settle matters with you!” yelled Grant Deems,
who was almost beside himself with rage.

“This is a private boarding house,” went on our hero. “If you raise a
disturbance Miss Littell will most likely have you put out.”

“I don’t care if she does have me put out!”

“Don’t you? Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. She is a nice
lady and it’s ill-mannered of you to make her any trouble.”

“Oh, I know her! She sides with you!” sneered the rival book agent.

“If she does, it is because she knows I am in the right.”

“Stuff and nonsense! You stole one of my customers away from me this
afternoon. I stopped at the house just after you left.”

“You mean, Mr. Risley, who bought my set of famous novels?”

“Yes. I had his order. You stole it away from me,” fumed Grant Deems.

“Mr. Risley has a right to buy what books he pleases. If you have his
order why don’t you fill it?”

“He doesn’t want two sets of books.”

“That is none of my affair.”

“You stole that order from me, and I’m going to take it out of your
hide!” cried Grant Deems, and started toward Frank.

“Keep back!” ordered our hero, and made a move as if to throw the book
at his rival’s head.

Seeing this movement, Grant Deems picked up a chair and threw it at
Frank. Our hero dodged and was about to throw the book at the fellow
when the door opened and a man-of-all-work, hired by the boarding house
keeper, rushed in and caught Grant Deems by the collar. The man was
followed by Miss Littell.

“Ain’t going to be no rumpus in this house,” said the man-of-all-work.
“Let up, quick!”

“Make him leave the house, Michael,” said Miss Littell.

“Miss Littell, this is not my fault,” put in Frank. “I am sorry it
occurred.”

“I know it is not your fault, Mr. Hardy. I was passing through the hall
and heard all that was said. Mr. Deems, you must leave my house at once.
If you don’t go, I’ll call an officer.”

“What, will you have me arrested?” gasped Grant Deems, and turned
slightly pale.

“I certainly shall, unless you pay what you owe and leave at once.”

“All right, I’ll leave, and glad to go,” growled the rival book agent.
“I don’t want to stay in a house with such a fellow as Hardy.”

“And I’ll be glad to get rid of your company,” rejoined Frank, warmly.

Grant Deems wanted to grow abusive, but the ugly look in Michael’s eye
made him think better of it, and he left the apartment without another
word. An hour later he packed his valise, settled with Miss Littell, and
left not only the boarding house but also the town. It was the last our
hero saw of him.

“I don’t want to meet such a rival again,” said our hero, in talking the
matter over with Miss Littell. “I do not mind fair and square
competition, but Mr. Deems was not fair.”

“I am sorry I let him have a room,” was the boarding house mistress’
reply. “I must confess he did not impress me favorably when first he
made his appearance.”

“I presume you want the room occupied, Miss Littell.”

“That’s just it; I need the money, for I have a mortgage coming due and
it must be paid.”

“I see. Well, perhaps somebody else will soon come to take the room,”
answered Frank. He was right in this surmise; a gentleman came the next
day, who took the apartment Grant Deems had occupied, and paid a dollar
per week more for board. So in the end Miss Littell was better off than
before.

Frank remained in the vicinity of Brentwood nearly two weeks. Business
was very good with him, and he not only sold his new books but also
bought up several rare volumes which, later on, brought him in a profit
of twenty-two dollars. He considered that he was on the highroad to
success, and was correspondingly happy.

From Brentwood he went to Colton and then to a large city which I shall
call Coalville, for several important coal mines were not far distant.
Here business was not quite so good, and much bad weather made him spend
some days indoors, but all told, he did enough to keep from complaining.

“It can’t be good all the time,” he reasoned. “If it was I’d be a rich
man in no time. I’ve got to take my share of hard knocks.”

While Frank was at Coalville he received a long letter from his father,
part of which ran as follows:


    “We are all more than pleased to hear of your wonderful success. You
    are evidently cut out for the book business, just as Mr. Vincent
    said.

    “Yesterday I received another visit from a lawyer representing the
    railroad company. The company now wish to pay me seven hundred
    dollars for my injuries. I have referred them again to Mr. Begoin,
    and he advises me to take two thousand dollars and not a cent less.

    “He says he feels sure I can expect that much. If I get it, it will
    be a big lift to us.

    “So far we have heard nothing further from Jabez Garrison. More than
    likely he has fled from the country.

    “We have just received a letter from your brother Mark. He mailed it
    at Santiago, Cuba. His ship was then about to sail for Charleston,
    so it won’t be long before he is again at a United States port. He
    does not know how soon he will reach Philadelphia and receive his
    discharge.”


“Mark is a sailor, sure,” thought Frank, after reading the
communication. “But I hope when he gets home he will be content to
settle down.”

Our hero was sorry to learn that nothing more had been heard of Jabez
Garrison. Perhaps the man had disappeared for all time.

Frank had never visited a coal mine, and on a Sunday afternoon he took a
walk to where there was an abandoned mine. He was accompanied by a boy
named Darry Field, who lived at the hotel at which the young book agent
was stopping.

Darry was a nice lad, and Frank had taken to him from the start.

“I know that old mine from end to end,” said Darry. “I can show you
every nook and corner of it.”

“How can we get down the shaft?” questioned Frank. “There isn’t any car
running, is there?”

“We won’t have to go down by way of the shaft. There was once a cave-in,
along the mountain side, and we can get into the mine that way.”

“Is it safe? I have heard that some old mines are filled with gas and
foul air.”

“This is perfectly safe—I’ve been into it a dozen times,” answered
Darry, confidently.

After a walk of an hour, Frank and his companion reached the side of the
mountain where the cave-in had occurred, and Darry showed how the mine
could be entered.

“You are certain of the way—we don’t want to get lost, you know.”

“Are you afraid?” asked Darry, with a light laugh.

“No, but I want to be sure of what I am doing.”

“I know just what I am doing.”

“Then lead the way,” said Frank.

His companion had brought with him a regular miner’s lamp and this they
lit, and walked into the mine.

The sight to be seen was certainly a novel one, and they went in deeper
and deeper, while Darry explained how the mine had been worked.

“Now, I’ll show you where the mules’ stable was located,” said Darry,
presently. “You know, of course, that some mules in coal mines never see
the light of day, but live underground all their lives.”

“I have heard of that,” answered our hero. “It is a horrible existence!”

“Yes, I shouldn’t want to be a mine mule,” said Darry.

After the stable was visited, Darry led the way to a spot where three
miners had once lost their lives through an explosion.

“You must be careful how you walk here,” he said. “There are a number of
dangerous pitfalls.”

“Yes, and here is one right ahead of us,” came from Frank. He pointed to
a hole several feet in diameter and of uncertain depth.

In a few minutes more they reached the spot where the explosion had
occurred. Here the wood-work of the mine was horribly wrecked and
splintered, showing that the explosion had been a terrific one.

“I shouldn’t want to have been in such an explosion,” said Frank. “Did
any of them escape alive?”

“Yes, one, but he died in the hospital the next day.”

Just beyond the place where the explosion had occurred was another large
and dark opening, and into this both boys peered but could see nothing.

“I guess it’s a hundred and more feet deep—” began Darry, when of a
sudden the lamp slipped from his hand and fell down into the opening,
leaving them in total darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                          LOST IN A COAL MINE


“THE lamp, Darry!” gasped Frank.

“I—I—it slipped from my hand!” returned the frightened boy. “Oh, what
shall we do now?”

Frank leaned over the opening and looked down. The lamp had disappeared
into a pool of black water and could no longer be located. All was
pitch-dark around them.

“I should have kept it fastened to me,” wailed Darry Field. “Then it
couldn’t have dropped into this hole.”

“Have you a candle with you?” questioned Frank.

“I have not. I meant to bring one, too, but it slipped my mind.”

“And I did the same,” said our hero. “We are in a pickle truly. All I
have are half a dozen matches.”

“I’ve got four matches,” said Darry, feeling in his pocket. “But they
won’t last very long.”

“Don’t move around in the dark. You may go into one of the holes. I’ve
got a newspaper. I’ll make some tapers from it.”

Frank was as good as his word, and as soon as he had rolled a dozen long
tapers, he struck a match and lit one.

The light was feeble, yet it was a great deal better than nothing. By
its aid they retraced their steps for several rods.

“If we could only find a dry stick of wood we might use it for a torch,”
suggested our hero.

“I saw some sticks away back—let us hunt for them.”

This suggestion was carried out, and just as the last taper was used up
a stick that looked as if it might burn was located. Then Frank lit the
rest of the newspaper and coaxed the stick into burning. But the light
at the best was a feeble one, and he had to keep blowing the fire to
keep it from going out.

“You had better lead the way to daylight as quickly as you can, Darry.
This torch won’t last over ten minutes.”

“All right; come on,” answered Darry Field. He was greatly frightened
and set off at a dog-trot.

It was the fright of the lad which was their undoing. He made one false
turn and then another, and finally came to a halt before a solid wall of
stone and coal.

“This can’t be the way out,” came from Frank.

“I—I know it. I’ve made a mistake!”

“Then let us go back, and be quick about it. The torch is almost out!”

They turned back, and presently came to where there were four tunnels,
or cuts, each leading in a different direction.

“Now, which is the right one, Darry?”

The boy looked from one to another in bewilderment.

“I—I don’t know. Oh, Mr. Hardy, I guess we are lost!” he wailed.

“Lost!” echoed Frank, and his heart sank within him. He knew that many a
person had lost his life by being lost in a mine.

The torch was now reaching its end and in a moment more it flickered up
for the last time and went out. Again they were in total darkness, and
now Frank felt himself clutched tightly by his younger companion.

“Oh, Mr. Hardy, Frank! Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you, Darry. But can’t you think which is the right way
out?”

“I think this way straight in front of us, but I am not sure.”

“Have you any paper at all in your pocket?”

“Yes, the paper they gave me in Sunday-school to-day.”

“Let me have it.”

The boy did so, and again our hero made tapers and then lit one. He
looked around on all sides and espied three pieces of wood.

“I’ll split these up with my pocketknife,” he said. “They will then last
longer.”

He was as good as his word, and soon had one of the tiny torches ablaze.
Then they continued along one of the tunnels until they came to another
cross opening.

“I—I don’t think this is the way,” faltered Darry, looking around
blankly. “I don’t believe I was ever here before.”

“We are going upward,” answered Frank. “It seems to me that ought to be
a good sign. Sooner or later we are bound to come out on top of the
ground.”

“That’s true,” answered the smaller boy, and his face took on a more
hopeful look.

Once more they moved forward, until a small wall six feet high barred
their progress.

“See, here is an upper shaft,” said Frank. “And I think I can feel fresh
air.”

“Can we get up there?” asked Darry.

“To be sure we can.” Frank placed his torch in a safe place. “Let me
boost you up first, and then you can help me up.”

This was done, and they found a large chamber spread before them. From a
great distance, down another tunnel, they saw a faint streak of light.

“Hurrah! I see light ahead!” cried Frank. “Come on!”

“It must be an opening,” echoed his companion, and was quick to follow
in the footsteps of the young book agent.

Presently they reached a large, circular opening. The flooring was
smooth and the ceiling was a good twenty feet over their heads. Near the
center of the top was an opening three feet in diameter, through which
the light was pouring.

“There is the opening,” said our hero, as he came to a halt, and pointed
upward.

“Yes, but how are we to get out?” questioned Darry, in dismay. “I see no
way to reach that hole, do you?”

“We’ll have to find a way,” returned Frank, resolutely.

This was easier said than done. Nothing was at hand by which to climb up
to the opening. After a vain search around both boys came to a halt
again.

“We’re stumped,” faltered Darry. “We’ll have to find some other way out.
This is some hole on the mountain side that I never heard of.”

“Let us set up a shout,” suggested Frank. “Somebody may be passing this
way.”

He yelled at the top of his lungs and Darry did the same. Their voices
echoed and re-echoed through the abandoned coal mine, but no answer came
back.

“I guess very few people come this way,” said Darry. “It’s a lonely
neighborhood.”

“I’m going to try it again,” answered our hero, and shouted once more.

“Help! help!”

Again he waited, and fancied he now heard a cry in return. Then he
renewed his efforts.

Presently the hole was darkened and an aged man tried to peer down upon
those below.

“Hullo!” shouted Frank, quickly. “Help us to get out, will you?”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” muttered the old man. “How did you git in
there, anyway?”

“We walked in at the regular opening on the mountain side,” answered the
young book agent.

“An’ got lost?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess you don’t know the way back, eh?”

“We do not. Will you help us to get out?”


[Illustration: “‘HELP US TO GET OUT, WILL YOU?’”–P. 210.]


“Certainly I will. Just you wait a while till I go down to Ike Case’s
cottage for a rope.”

“Thank you; we’ll wait,” said Frank.

The old man disappeared and was gone fully half an hour, a time that to
both boys seemed an age.

“Perhaps he won’t come back at all,” said Darry, after he was tired of
waiting.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be back,” answered our hero, cheerfully, and just
then the head of the old man appeared once more at the opening. He had a
younger man with him.

“We brought the well rope with the bucket,” said the old man. “Just you
step into the bucket one at a time, and we’ll haul you up.”

“Is the rope strong enough?” asked Darry. “I don’t want it to break when
I’m almost out of the hole.”

“Oh, it’s strong enough,” answered the younger man. “We tested it before
we brought it along.”

The rope with the water bucket attached was lowered to the flooring of
the opening, and Darry was the first to step in. The men above hauled
him up with ease, and then our hero followed.

“I can tell you I am mighty glad to get out of that mine,” said Frank,
as he stepped into the open once more. “I never want to get lost in a
mine again.”

“How long have you been down there?”

Our hero consulted his watch.

“Just three hours.”

“But it seemed like three years,” put in Darry.

“You were foolish to go in without a guide,” said the old man.

“I thought I knew the way. But when I dropped the lamp down a hole, I
got scared and took a wrong tunnel, and then I got all mixed up.”

“Some men have gone crazy from being lost in a mine,” came from the
younger man.

“We owe you something for hauling us out,” said Frank.

“Well, you can pay us for what it’s worth,” said the old man. “I’m poor
and every little helps.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes, in a little cottage down the mountain side.”

“What do you think would be fair?” asked Frank. “I am not rich, but I
wish to do what is right in this matter.” He knew that Darry could not
afford to pay anything.

“How would a dollar for each of us strike you?” put in the younger man.

“Would you be satisfied with a dollar?” asked our hero.

“Yes, that would suit me,” answered the old man.

“Very well; I’ll pay you each a dollar,” and Frank handed the money over
on the spot.

Both men were very grateful. Each had been a coal miner in his time, but
old age had driven one and sickness the other to give up the labor.

It was growing dark when Frank and his boy friend reached town again.

“That was a real adventure, wasn’t it?” said Darry, when the hotel was
gained. “I’m afraid if I tell my mother about it, she will never let me
go into the mine again.”

“Do you want to visit the mine?” questioned Frank.

“I hardly think I do. Wasn’t it awful to get lost the way we did? I
don’t know what I should have done had we had to stay in the mine all
night.”

“Perhaps we should have gone crazy, like the miners that man mentioned,”
answered Frank. “I guess I’ve had all the coal mine I want.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXV

                       FRANK MEETS FLECKER AGAIN


TWO weeks later found Frank up in New York State, in the vicinity of
Middletown. Business had been fair with him, but in three towns he had
visited he had run across other book agents, and he learned that the
territory had been well canvassed six months before.

“I must strike out for some new place,” he told himself, and reached
Middletown on a Wednesday afternoon, and put up at a hotel on one of the
side streets.

Middletown is a place of about twenty thousand inhabitants, and the
young book agent soon took several orders which were very encouraging.

One evening he was at the depot, inquiring about trains to Goshen, when
a train from Port Jervis rolled in. A number of passengers alighted and
got on, and he watched the scene, which was an animated one.

Many of the windows of the cars were open, and as the train moved away
from the station he looked at the people sitting in the seats. In the
smoker was a man whom he recognized.

“Gabe Flecker!” he murmured, and looked again to make certain that he
was not mistaken. “It is that rascal, I am sure! I ought to stop him!”

Frank did not know what to do, and before he could make up his mind the
train was out of sight, on its way to New York. Our hero scratched his
head in perplexity.

“If it was really Gabe Flecker I ought to have him arrested. But if I
telegraph ahead and it is all a mistake what will I do then?” And as he
could not answer the latter question, he determined to do nothing.

In the meantime, totally unconscious of the fact that he had been
recognized, Gabe Flecker sat back in his seat enjoying an Havana cigar.
As the reader already knows he was one of that large class of men, who,
having no ostensible means of support, are compelled to live “by their
wits.”

Funds were growing low with Gabe Flecker. The money he had raised upon
Sinclair Basswood’s autograph was practically gone and so far no new
scheme for raising more had materialized.

He had spent all of the funds in “having a good time,” as he called it.
Board bills remained unpaid, and why will be told in the pages to
follow.

He was now stopping at a very fine private boarding house in Goshen,
kept by a Mrs. Larkspur. He had come there with two trunks, which he had
picked up at a bargain sale, and which contained only a few suits of old
clothing of little or no value.

“I wish the best room in the house,” he had said, on introducing
himself, and Mrs. Larkspur, impressed by his manner, had allowed him to
have the second floor front, with board, at ten dollars per week. Gabe
Flecker had now occupied the room for two weeks. As he had not yet given
the landlady a cent of money she was beginning to grow anxious.

He had had several things sent to the house, for which she had paid, so
he really owed her twenty-four dollars all told.

“I will present him with the bill to-night,” Mrs. Larkspur told herself,
and wrote out the bill in due form.

“Good-evening, Mrs. Larkspur, a beautiful evening,” said Gabe Flecker,
as he came into the house in the brisk fashion he could assume when
necessary.

“Yes, it is a fine evening, Mr. Flecker,” answered the landlady.

“Never saw a finer day in my life. I hope you haven’t kept the table
waiting for me?”

“Yes, all of the others have finished eating.”

“Too bad! Really, I’ll have to be more prompt in the future.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a little delay.”

“It isn’t fair on such a hard-working woman as yourself, Mrs. Larkspur.
But, to tell the truth, I could not help it. I had to close up a land
deal this afternoon, or else lose a commission amounting to three
hundred and twenty-five dollars.” Gabe Flecker now pretended to be a
real-estate agent, although he had never handled a foot of land in his
life.

Mrs. Larkspur was impressed, and as Gabe Flecker seemed to be tired out
she resolved to let the matter of his board bill rest until morning.

“I mustn’t let him know I am too anxious for my money,” she reasoned.
“If I do that, he may go elsewhere. Perhaps he’ll pay up of his own
accord when he gets that commission he mentioned.”

Bright and early on the following morning Frank went to Goshen to see if
he could take orders for any books in that thriving town. He visited
several stores and then came to the corner upon which Mrs. Larkspur’s
boarding house was located.

“Perhaps I can sell a set of famous novels in there,” he thought, and
ascending the stone steps, rang the bell.

“What is it?” asked a new servant girl, who came to the door.

“Is Mrs. Larkspur in?” he asked, having seen the name on the door plate.

“Yes, sir. Please step in the reception room and I’ll call her,”
answered the girl.

Frank entered the room indicated and sat down. In the meantime the girl,
thinking Mrs. Larkspur had gone to the kitchen, hurried off in that
direction.

Now, as it happened, the landlady had caught Gabe Flecker in the hallway
a moment before, on his way out. She had presented her bill and
intimated pretty strongly that she would like to have it paid without
delay.

“Very well, I’ll pay it, madam,” said the swindler. “I will go upstairs
and get the money. Wait a moment till I bring it down, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Larkspur, much pleased with her boarder’s
readiness, and she waited in the parlor for him to come down again.

A few minutes later Gabe Flecker came rushing down into the parlor with
an excited manner and a flushed face.

“Goodness, Mr. Gibson, what is the matter?” questioned the alarmed
landlady. To her he had introduced himself as Ralph Gibson, from
Rochester.

“Matter? Matter enough, madam! I had laid aside fifty dollars in one of
my trunks only yesterday, and to-day it is gone—every dollar of it is
gone!”

“Is it possible!” ejaculated Mrs. Larkspur, in dismay.

“Yes, madam, and what makes matters worse, there can be no doubt but
what the money was stolen!”

“Stolen—in my house! Oh, Mr. Gibson, don’t say that!”

“But I do say it!” came loftily from Gabe Flecker. “Would you like to
know what proof I have?”

“Yes,” was the apprehensive answer.

“Here, madam, here. Do you see that?”

Gabe Flecker exhibited a small key attached to a piece of black tape.

“That, madam, I found on the carpet, just in front of my trunk. It is
undoubtedly the instrument with which the thief unlocked my trunk. In
his, or her, haste to retire with the spoils, it was, I presume,
accidentally dropped.”

“I hope, Mr. Gibson, you don’t—don’t suspect that anybody living in my
house is a—a—thief?”

“Madam,” was the emphatic reply, “I do. Why not? The money has been
stolen. Here is this key. It is very plain, to me.”

Mrs. Larkspur wrung her hands.

“This is dreadful, Mr. Gibson! I cannot believe it!”

“Why, don’t you believe that I lost the money?” demanded the sharper.

“I don’t mean that. I mean I cannot believe that anybody in my house
would be a thief.”

“Humph!”

“If this—this gets out in public it will ruin me!” moaned the landlady,
who had never had anything go wrong before.

“That is not my affair, Mrs. Larkspur. Still,” Gabe Flecker’s voice took
on a softer tone. “I do not wish to make trouble for you, madam.” He
paused as if deliberating. “Receipt my bill and give me ten dollars, and
I’ll say nothing about it.”

“But I shall say a good deal about it, Mr. Flecker,” came a voice from
the doorway, and Frank stepped into the room. From the reception room he
had overheard every word that had been said.

“What, you!” stammered the swindler, as he found himself confronted by
the young book agent.

“Yes. And you are caught in the act this time, Mr. Flecker.”

“Wha—what does this mean?” faltered Mrs. Larkspur.

“It means that this man is a swindler, madam,” answered Frank.

“A swindler!”

“It is false!” cried Gabe Flecker. “I am an honest man, and my name is
Ralph Gibson. This fellow, whoever he may be, is entirely mistaken.”

“Where did you come from?” asked Mrs. Larkspur of Frank.

“I came here to try to sell some books, and the girl told me to wait in
the reception room. While waiting, I heard what passed between you and
this rascal. I’ve met this man before, and I know all about him. He is a
swindler and I can prove it.”

“Then you—you don’t think he lost that money he mentioned?”

“Not a dollar of it.”

“It is true,” howled Gabe Flecker, but at the same time he looked for
some means of escaping from the room.

“The first time I met him, he swindled a lady named Mrs. Farley out of a
night’s lodging. He told her he had lost ten dollars which he had placed
on the mantelpiece.”

“It’s false,” stormed Gabe Flecker, but looked much disconcerted.

“The next time I ran across him he had obtained the autograph of an
ex-mayor named Sinclair Basswood. He told Mr. Basswood he wanted the
autograph to place in a valuable collection, but instead he turned the
autograph into the signature on a check for sixty-five dollars. Mr.
Basswood offered fifty dollars reward for the capture of the rascal. I’m
going to win that reward if I can.”

“Are you?” sneered Gabe Flecker. “Not much!” And leaping at Frank he
hurled him aside and ran for the front door.

For the moment, our hero was taken off his guard, while Mrs. Larkspur
let out a loud scream which brought all the servants in the house to the
scene.

But Frank was quick to recover, and picking up a sea shell which lay
handy, he hurled it at Gabe Flecker’s head. His aim was true, and the
swindler was caught in the ear, and let out a cry of pain. Before he
could unfasten the front door Frank had him by the arm.

“Stop, or it will be the worse for you, Gabe Flecker,” he said,
earnestly, and raised his fist to strike.

By this time a man who had come to the back door to sell vegetables
appeared, followed by two girls. The man caught Flecker by the other
arm.

“Let go of me!” cried the swindler. “I tell you it is all a mistake. If
you have me arrested I’ll prove that I am innocent, and have you locked
up for false imprisonment.”

“Mrs. Larkspur, have you a telephone in the house?” asked Frank.

“Yes.”

“Then kindly call up the police. I’ll have the man locked up on my own
responsibility.”

“You are perfectly sure of what you are doing?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I’ll send in the call,” said the landlady, and did so at once.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                               AN ESCAPE


“I’LL fix you for this,” cried Gabe Flecker, in Frank’s ear, while they
were awaiting the arrival of the police.

“You brought it on yourself, Flecker,” answered the young book agent,
briefly.

“He owes me for two weeks’ board,” said Mrs. Larkspur, timidly.

“You shall not get a cent of it, madam,” snapped the swindler.

“It’s more than likely he hasn’t a dollar with which to pay,” put in
Frank. He turned to Flecker: “I guess you’ll get free board for awhile,
from now on.”

“Just wait!” hissed the swindler, and grated his teeth.

Two policemen soon put in an appearance, and Frank explained matters,
and then Mrs. Larkspur told her story.

“I guess the young man is right, Mrs. Larkspur,” said one of the
officers. “I’ve heard of this fellow. There’s a reward out for him. He
is an old offender.”

Frank was asked to make a complaint, and Mrs. Larkspur said she would do
the same. Then the policemen marched Gabe Flecker away.

“I must thank you for doing what you did, young man,” said the boarding
house mistress to the young book agent. “Had you not been here, he would
have swindled me most cleverly.”

“I’m glad I was here,” returned our hero. “I’d like first rate to get
that reward.”

“Well, you certainly deserve it.”

Mrs. Larkspur did not wish any books, but told him of several parties
who might buy, so in the end he made sales through her which profited
him over five dollars.

The two policemen felt certain that Gabe Flecker could not get away from
them, so they merely made him walk between them, without taking the
trouble to handcuff him.

Now, Flecker did not intend to go to the station house if he could
possibly avoid it. He knew that his record was a black one, and once
before the bar of justice he would be sure to get a sentence of at least
several years.

Goshen boasts of a race track at which each year a number of important
horse races are run. The races were now on, and the town was filled with
folks who had come in by train and in carriages.

As the policemen and their prisoner were crossing one of the main
streets, a cry arose.

“Look out for the runaway!”

A horse attached to a buggy was tearing along the street at topmost
speed. The vehicle was empty, and was swaying from side to side as if
about to go over.

“Look out there!” yelled one of the policemen to some children who were
crossing the street near by. And then he ran out to go to their
assistance, and so did the other policeman, for the runaway horse was
now dangerously close.

This was an opportunity not to be missed by Gabe Flecker, and without an
instant’s hesitation he slipped around a corner and ran down the side
street towards the railroad. Here he watched his chance, and boarded a
freight train running towards New York.

“Just my luck,” he told himself, smilingly, when safe on the train.
“They don’t get Gabe Flecker in jail as easily as they think.”

The policemen soon had the children out of the way, and a moment later
the runaway horse was stopped without doing much damage. Then both
policemen looked for their prisoner.

“He’s gone!” cried one.

“Where to?” queried the other.

“Hang me if I know. Why didn’t you watch him?”

“Why didn’t you watch him yourself?”

“I left him with you.”

“No, you didn’t. I left him with you.”

“It ain’t so!”

“It is.”

So the talk ran on until a crowd began to collect, wanting to know the
cause of the dispute. But the policemen would not tell, and went off to
hunt for the missing prisoner. Of course they were unsuccessful, and had
to go the station house empty-handed.

When Frank and Mrs. Larkspur presented themselves they were told that
Gabe Flecker had escaped by the aid of two accomplices.

“Two accomplices?” queried Frank, in astonishment.

“Exactly,” said the officer in charge. “The two policemen who had the
prisoner were set upon by two rascals, and in the mêlée to follow the
prisoner got away.” This was the story told by the policemen, who had
been negligent in their duty, although, in a way, they had done well to
rescue the little children.

“It’s very strange,” said Frank to the boarding house mistress, as they
walked away. “I didn’t know he had any accomplices.”

“Well, I have heard that swindlers often work in pairs, or in a crowd of
three or four,” answered Mrs. Larkspur. “Perhaps the races attracted
them.”

“That must be it,” answered Frank. “I’m going to watch the crowd coming
from the races and see if I can learn anything.”

He did this, but his watching brought him no satisfaction. He spent the
night at Mrs. Larkspur’s house.

“The contents of the trunks left here are of no value,” said the lady.
“I doubt if he ever tries to claim his baggage.”

Frank had fairly good success in Goshen, and then returned to
Middletown. Here, money seemed to be plentiful, and by good luck he took
orders for three sets of famous authors in one day.

“That is what I call business,” he thought. “If I could keep up such a
record, I’d be making money hand over fist.”

While in Middletown, the young book agent had one experience which was
amusing in the extreme. He called on an old gentleman, who seemed to be
much pleased to see him.

“I would like to show you a set of famous novels,” said our hero, and
brought forth his sample book.

At this the old gentleman nodded and smiled.

“As you can see, these novels are well illustrated,” went on the young
book agent. “Each illustration is by a well-known artist, so the set of
books is quite valuable for the pictures alone.”

Again the old gentleman nodded and smiled quietly.

“I will tell you of the merits of each volume,” pursued Frank, and
launched forth in a description that lasted ten or fifteen minutes. The
old gentleman appeared to be very attentive, but made no reply to what
was said.

“Now, sir, don’t you think you want this set of books?” asked the young
agent at last.

Still the old gentleman made no reply. But he drew a pad from his
pocket, and with a pencil, wrote the following:


    “I am deaf and dumb. What did you show me the books for?”


“Well, I never!” murmured our hero to himself, and then, realizing the
humor of the situation, he burst into a merry laugh. “Here I’ve been
talking my prettiest, and this man hasn’t heard a single word.” And he
laughed again.

A moment later he took the pad and wrote down that he wanted to sell a
set of the books. But the old man shook his head, and wrote in reply:


    “I never buy books. I borrow them from my children.”


“In that case, I’ll bid you good-day,” said Frank, and gathering up his
books, he bowed himself out of the house. Ever after he had to laugh
when he thought of the deaf and dumb man, and he often told the joke as
a good one on himself.

From Middletown our hero went to Paterson, and then returned to the
vicinity of his home.

One day he went over to the village of Oakwood to see what he could
sell. Here, on the main street, he ran into Bobby Frost.

“Hullo!” cried the boy who had once run away from home. “What are you
doing here?”

“I am trying to sell books,” replied Frank. “How are you, Bobby?”

“First-rate. I’m going to school again.”

“I suppose you chop the wood, too,” went on our hero, with a faint
smile.

“You just bet I do,” ejaculated Bobby. “I’m glad to do most anything
now.”

“I hope you got home safe.”

“I did. But, say, dad did give me an everlasting thrashing for running
away,” added Bobby. “I’ll never forget it.”

“I think you’ll make more of a fortune around home than in the city,
Bobby.”

“Perhaps I will. Anyway, I’ve given up reading those trashy five- and
ten-cent libraries.”

“That’s a good job done.”

“Come on over to my house,” went on the younger boy. “I guess the folks
will be glad to see you. I told them all about you.”

“Where do you live?”

“In that white house over yonder.”

“All right; I’ll go,” answered our hero. “Maybe your folks will want to
buy some books,” he continued.

“Perhaps. Mother is a great reader—when she gets time. But she doesn’t
care for what they call sensational literature.”

“I’ve got a set of famous novels which may please her. They are not in
the least sensational,” answered Frank.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                           AT HOME ONCE MORE


FRANK found that Bobby Frost had a very nice home indeed, and he
wondered greatly why the boy had ever dreamed of leaving it to go to the
city on a wild-goose chase.

Mrs. Frost was a kindly-looking woman, while her husband was rather
silent and stern, although just and good.

“Yes, Bobby has confessed what you did for him,” said Mrs. Frost, after
the young book agent was introduced. “You were more than kind, and I
shall never forget you.”

“Perhaps a few days in the city would have done him no harm,” came from
her husband. “He would speedily have discovered that to make a fortune
is not so easy. How are you getting along with your book selling?”

“Very well,” answered our hero, and related a few particulars.

“Don’t you ever have folks set the dog on you?” asked Bobby. “I’ve read
about that being done.”

“No; I’ve never met a savage dog yet,” answered Frank. “But, then, you
must remember, I haven’t been at the business very long.”

“Let us hope you never meet a savage dog,” answered Mrs. Frost with a
shudder. “I had an experience once which I will never forget.”

“Why, ma, you never told me about it,” cried Bobby.

“It was when I was a schoolgirl. I was going to school across the fields
when a big hound belonging to Deacon Brown came after me. I ran as hard
as I could, and then got into an apple tree that was standing near.”

“Did the dog tree you?”

“He did, and kept me there nearly an hour. I called as loudly as I
could, and at last the deacon came to the place to learn what was the
matter. He called the dog off and chained him up, and then I came down
out of the tree. But I was so scared I did not get over it for several
days.”

It was nearly dinner time, and Frank was asked by both Mr. and Mrs.
Frost to remain to the meal.

“Oh, yes, you must stay,” put in Bobby. “And you must show my folks your
books. Ma, he says he has a set of famous novels that you might like,”
he went on, to his parent.

“Yes, I should like to look at your books,” answered Mrs. Frost.

In Frank’s honor the dinner was made quite an elaborate one, and it is
perhaps needless to state that our hero did ample justice to all that
was set before him. While eating, he related some of the adventures he
had had on the road while selling books, and even Mr. Frost was
interested in his narrative.

“There are lots of ups and downs in the business, just as in every
venture,” said he. “But so long as you make a good living you need not
complain.”

“On the contrary, I am very well satisfied,” answered Frank.

The meal over, our hero brought out his samples of books, and the whole
family looked them over. The cattle and poultry work particularly
interested Mr. Frost, and he said he would take a volume, especially as
it seemed so up-to-date.

“I have one book, but it is twenty years old,” said he. “I have wished
for a new one for some time.”

“This set of famous novels is really valuable,” came from Mrs. Frost.

“Would you like to have it?” questioned her husband.

“If you think we can afford it. It will give us plenty of good reading
during the long winter.”

“Then I’ll put my name down for a set,” said Mr. Frost, and did so on
the spot. He was bound to show Frank that he appreciated what the young
book agent had done for his son.

Our hero remained at the Frosts’ home for several hours and then left to
see what he could do in the village. Bobby went with him, and as he
begged to carry the case, Frank allowed him to do so.

“Do you expect to be a book agent all your life?” questioned the younger
boy.

“Hardly, Bobby.”

“What do you expect to do later?”

“If I ever get money enough, I’ll open a store and publish books
myself.”

“If you do that, I’ll write to you for a job.”

“All right, Bobby; perhaps I’ll be able to employ you,” said Frank.

After a hard day’s canvassing, our hero obtained two orders for the
health book, and then left by train for home. He reached Claster at nine
o’clock, and found his brother and sister on the point of retiring.

“So you thought you’d come home to-night,” said his mother, as she
kissed him. “I looked for you all afternoon.”

“I stopped to do some business at Oakwood, mother. How is father?”

“He is improving slowly.”

Just then Mr. Hardy came downstairs, and Frank went to meet him.

“Why, father, you walk almost as good as you ever did,” he cried.

“Yes, Frank; but I get tired very soon.”

“How do you feel otherwise?”

“Fairly well.”

“Have you heard anything more of Jabez Garrison or from the railroad
company?”

“Nothing from that rascal, Garrison. The railroad sent their lawyer to
see Mr. Begoin.”

“And what was the result?”

“He told them that I would accept two thousand dollars. Their lawyer
offered twelve hundred.”

“He didn’t accept it, did he?”

“No; he told the railroad man it must be two thousand, or we would bring
suit.”

“And Mr. Begoin thinks you will get it?”

“He does.”

“I hope you do, father.”

“Yes. As I have said in my letter to you, it will be a big lift.”

“Have you any idea what you will do when you get well?”

“Not exactly. It depends on how much money I can get together. I’ll have
a big doctor’s bill to pay, remember. And I don’t think my foot will
ever be as strong as it once was.”

Ruth and little Georgie wanted to see Frank, and he told them of what
luck he had had since he had been home before.

“Oh, isn’t it just splendid!” cried Ruth.

“I’m going to be a book agent when I’m as big as Frank,” came from our
hero’s little brother.

“And how are you getting along in school?” asked Frank.

“My card averaged ninety-four last month,” said Ruth.

“I’m next to the top of the class,” said little Georgie.

“That’s good. Get all the education you can, for that is what
counts—I’ve found that out.”

“Frank, you must find some way of going to high school this winter,”
said Mrs. Hardy.

“Oh, if I can’t go this winter I’ll go next,” he replied. “Wait till
father gets into business again.”

It was not until the next day that he told his folks how well he had
done by selling both new and old books, and of how he had obtained a
hundred dollars from the Windhams. They were both astonished and
gratified.

“Why, Frank, you are surely making a fortune!” cried his father. “I
never dreamed you would do half so well.”

“It beats tending the feed store, doesn’t it, father?”

“Indeed it does. No feed store in Claster could make as much money as
you’ve been making.”

“I’m going to put the money in the savings’ bank.”

“Yes; that’s an excellent idea, for then it will be drawing interest.”

“But I am going to give mother half of it,” went on our hero.

“Oh, Frank, I didn’t expect this,” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy.

“But I earned the money for you and father, mother,” he answered.

He insisted upon giving his mother the money, and she put it away, to be
used as occasion required.

The next morning Frank was busy sending out orders for books, and
writing Mr. Vincent a letter concerning some old books he had purchased.
When he went downtown to post the letters he stopped at a grocery store
for some coffee and sugar.

“They tell me you are trying to sell books, Frank,” said the shopkeeper,
as he weighed out the coffee.

“Yes, Mr. Glasby.”

“That’s rather a poor business to be in, ain’t it?” And Mr. Glasby eyed
Frank sharply through his spectacles.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d do better to stay home and help your folks, or get a steady job
in Claster.”

“What do you think a steady job would pay me?” asked Frank.

“Oh, maybe four or five dollars a week. And even if it was only three it
might help your mother a good bit.”

“I can make more money selling books.”

“More than four or five dollars a week!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not every week,” was the storekeeper’s comment.

“Yes, sir, every week—and more than twice five dollars, too,” went on
Frank, with just a bit of triumph in his tone.

“You don’t say so! Maybe you’re joking me?”

“No, sir; I am telling you the truth.”

“Do you mean to say you can make ten dollars a week steady selling
books?”

“I have made more than that since I started. Of course, some weeks I
fell behind a little, but the average is above that figure, and some
weeks I made big money.”

“How big?” asked Mr. Glasby, faintly.

“I cleared fifty-six dollars one week, and forty-eight dollars another
week.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it does beat all! I thought book selling was worse than fiddling
for a living.”

“It’s all in the way you go at it. Some fiddlers and some book agents
don’t make their salt, but others make money. I’ve heard of one
violinist in New York who gets five hundred dollars a night.”

“That’s a fairy tale, Frank.”

“I don’t think so. He is known as a very celebrated artist.”

“Humph! Well, do you expect to make five hundred dollars a day selling
books?”

“I do not. But I expect to make a good deal more than four or five
dollars per week at it, Mr. Glasby.”

“I’ve heard tell that some famous men were once book agents.”

“And it is true.”

“Well, I wish you success, Frank. But I never would have believed it,
never! Bring your books around here some day and maybe I’ll buy one from
you.”

“Thank you; I’ll bring the samples the next time I come,” answered our
hero, and walked from the store with his purchases.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXVIII

                       FRANK STARTS FOR THE SOUTH


WHEN Frank reached the post office, he found several letters for his
parents and himself. One was post-marked Charleston, and was in the
handwriting of his brother Mark.

“Hullo! Mark must have reached the United States at last,” he said to
himself. “Wonder when he will be home?”

He knew his parents would be anxious to read the communication, so
hastened home without delay.

“Here is a letter from Mark!” he called out, and this brought his mother
and his father to the dining room.

“Let me see the letter, Frank,” said his mother, and he cut it open for
her. “I’ll read it aloud,” she added, and walked to the window, to get
the benefit of the light.

The communication ran as follows:


    “DEAR FOLKS AT HOME: I suppose you will all be glad to know that I
    am back in the United States safe and sound once more. I trust this
    finds you all well.

    “We had a good trip from, Cuba, and are now unloading a portion of
    our cargo here. As soon as that is done, we shall take some new
    cargo aboard, and then sail for Philadelphia, where my trip will
    come to an end. I reckon I have had enough of the ocean for the
    present, and shall either go to school again or else get something
    to do ashore. A life on the ocean wave is all well enough in a story
    book, but when you’ve got to be on deck in all sorts of weather, and
    put up with any old kind of grub, it’s a different story. And they
    tell me the food on this brig is as good as the average vessel.

    “I have got a whole lot to tell when I get home, so I will not take
    the time to put it down on paper. But there is one thing I must
    write about. I may be making a mistake, but I don’t think so.

    “It’s about that Jabez Garrison, who ran away from Philadelphia with
    some funds belonging to a benevolent association. I read the
    newspaper clippings Frank sent me, carefully, and also read what
    father wrote about him. I also kept the picture one of the papers
    printed of the rascal.

    “Unless I am greatly mistaken, this Jabez Garrison is in Charleston.
    I was knocking around town yesterday, taking in the sights, when I
    stopped into a restaurant for a bite. Some men were there, and two
    at a table near me. Evidently they had just run across one another,
    and each seemed to be glad to see the other.

    “These men talked of going to California, to a place called San
    Margella, wherever that is. The little chap was called Flecker, and
    he addressed the other man once as Garrison, and then again as
    Jabez. Both spoke of being in Philadelphia some time ago. The fellow
    called Flecker, or Becker, said he had been to Goshen, to the horse
    races, and out in Pennsylvania. The other man, Garrison, said he had
    been to Boston and down the Maine coast. Both acted as if they knew
    each other well and had been in some shady transactions together.

    “I didn’t know what to do. If I had been sure this Garrison was the
    man you were after, I would have had him arrested, but both of the
    men went out, and in a crowd on the street I lost sight of them.

    “Before they went away, however, they arranged to meet at a place
    called the Planters’ House, a week from to-day. Flecker said he had
    business to attend to in New York, and Garrison said he would lay
    low until his pal got back.

    “If there is anything in this let me know. Shall I notify the police
    or what?”


“It must be Jabez Garrison!” cried Frank.

“I believe you are right, my son,” answered Mr. Hardy. “And if so, we
ought to notify the police without delay.”

“And the most wonderful part of it is, that other man must be Gabe
Flecker,” went on our hero.

“There may be some mistake,” put in Mrs. Hardy, timidly. “Thomas, you
must not have an innocent man arrested.”

“You are right there, Margy. If I did that, it might cost me a pretty
penny for damages. I wish I was well enough to go down to Charleston.
I’d take the first train.”

“Let me go, father!” cried Frank, quickly. “It’s just the thing! Why
didn’t I think of it before?”

“Are you sure you would know Jabez Garrison?”

“Positive, father. Haven’t I seen him a number of times, when he called
at the store?”

“It is a long trip to Charleston, South Carolina,” came from Mrs. Hardy.

“I shouldn’t mind it in the least, mother. Besides, remember Mark is
there. I can telegraph to him that I am coming on.”

“Yes, you might do that.”

“I’ll go down to the railroad station at once and see when I can get a
train,” went on the young book agent, enthusiastically. “And I’ll send
the telegram, too.”

The matter was talked over for a few minutes longer, and it was decided
that our hero should really take the trip south. Without loss of time
the telegram was prepared, and he hurried off to the station with it.

“Want to go to Charleston?” queried the ticket agent. “That’s rather a
long trip, Frank.”

“Yes. How soon can I go?”

“You can make a connection at Philadelphia in two hours and forty
minutes.”

“That will just suit me. Now let me know how much this telegram will
cost.”

The telegram ran as follows:


    “Am starting to-night for Charleston. Keep your eye on Garrison.

                   “FRANK.”


The telegram paid for and sent, our hero raced back to the house. His
mother had already brought forth a dress-suit case, and into this were
packed such articles as he thought that he might need. Then he placed
ample funds in his pocket, and kissed his mother and his sister good-by,
and shook hands with his father and little Georgie.

“Now, be sure and keep out of danger,” said Mr. Hardy, on parting. “I’d
rather have Garrison escape than that you should come to grief.”

“Yes, keep out of all danger,” pleaded his mother.

The train was coming into the station when Frank reached the ticket
office once more. He purchased a ticket for Philadelphia, and was the
last to get aboard. A moment more and Claster was left behind, and the
long journey to South Carolina was begun.

Earlier in the year the journey would have made Frank feel strange, but
knocking around as an agent had given him confidence in himself, and he
felt quite at home as he settled back in his seat, and reviewed the
situation.

“I hope that fellow does prove to be Jabez Garrison and that the other
chap is Gabe Flecker,” he said to himself. “It will be killing two birds
with one stone.”

It was growing dark when the Quaker City was reached. At the main
railroad station on Broad Street, Frank obtained a ticket to Charleston,
and also a berth in a sleeping car. He had barely time to get his supper
at a nearby lunch room, when his train came in and he got aboard.

It was a misty night, so but little could be seen of the landscape.
Frank sat up for a while to read, and then went to bed. He slept
soundly, and got up about seven o’clock.

“We must be pretty well south by this time,” he thought. He was
tremendously hungry, and after making his toilet, waited impatiently for
the dining car to be taken on.

“First call for breakfast!” was the welcome cry a little later, and he
made his way towards the dining car, which was at the rear end of the
rather long train. To get to it he had to pass through two sleepers.
Here some of the folks were not yet up, and he had to take care so as
not to disturb them.

He was passing through the last sleeper, when a man emerged from behind
the heavy curtains of a berth and bent over a hand-bag which rested in
the aisle. The man’s back was toward Frank, but a single glance showed
our hero that the individual was Gabe Flecker.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXIX

                          A SCENE ON THE TRAIN


“GABE FLECKER, by all that is wonderful!” murmured the young book agent
to himself.

He was about to accost the fellow, but suddenly changed his mind, and
passed on to the dining car without letting the rascal catch sight of
his face.

“When will this train make the next stop?” he asked of a train hand.

The man consulted his watch.

“In about two hours and a half.”

“Thank you.”

Frank sat down to his breakfast in a corner of the dining car. He had
scarcely begun eating when Gabe Flecker came in, accompanied by a man
who looked to be a Southern planter. The pair went to the table next to
the one our hero occupied, and Flecker sat down with his back directly
behind that of the young book agent.

“Yes, Mr. Lee, this real-estate deal will make you a rich man,” Frank
heard Flecker remark, during the course of the meal. “It is really one
chance out of a hundred.”

“You are certain that the property is free and clear?” questioned the
planter.

“Perfectly clear, sir—I’ll give you my personal guarantee.”

“And you are authorized to sell the land for eight thousand dollars?”

“That’s the figure—providing I can get a customer this week. You see,
the family need ready money, otherwise they would hold out for ten or
fifteen thousand dollars. It’s a snap—the biggest snap I ever heard of,”
went on Gabe Flecker, glibly.

“It is certainly a low figure,” replied Mr. Lee. “Colonel Moss wanted to
buy the place three years ago, and they asked sixteen thousand dollars.”

“Then you will take the property?”

“I reckon I will. I’ll think it over first, though.”

“You had better make a deposit and close the bargain. If you don’t I’ll
have to offer it to somebody else.”

“I see.” The planter stroked his beard for a moment. “Well, I reckon
after all I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted the place.”

“And you will make a deposit now, to bind the bargain?”

“How much of a deposit?”

Gabe Flecker hesitated. In his mind he was wondering how much the old
planter had with him.

“I was told to get a deposit of a thousand dollars if I could,” he said,
slowly.

“I have only four hundred and fifty dollars with me, Mr. Wardell.”

“Then I’ll take that. Of course you’ll be prepared to pay the balance by
a week from to-day?”

“Yes—as soon as I can get a clear deed. But I can’t let you have more
than four hundred. I must keep some money for traveling expenses.”

“All right; I’ll take the four hundred dollars,” said Gabe Flecker,
quickly. “I’ll write you out a receipt at once. I don’t generally do
business when I am eating, but I’ll make an exception this time.”

The old planter brought forth a large wallet, and counted out four
hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. In the meantime, Gabe Flecker
began to write out a receipt, which he signed Thomas C. Wardell, Agent
for the Paramore Estate.

“There’s the receipt,” said he, and passed it over. As he did so, Frank
arose and confronted him.

“Wait a minute, please,” he said to the planter. “Don’t pay any money to
this man.”

“What do you mean?” began Gabe Flecker, and then, as he recognized our
hero, he stared as if he saw a ghost.

“What’s the trouble?” came from Gasper Lee.

“This man is not a real-estate agent. He is a swindler.”

“A swindler!” cried the planter, and put his hand to his hip pocket, as
if to draw a pistol.

“Don’t shoot!” cried Gabe Flecker, in alarm. “It—it’s a mistake. I—er—I
don’t know this boy.”

“This man is Gabe Flecker, and he is wanted by more than one person for
swindling,” continued Frank, calmly. “You had better have nothing to do
with him.”

“Doesn’t he hail from Charleston?”

“Not at all. The last I heard of him he escaped from the police of
Goshen, New York.”

“Is it possible!” The planter put his money away.

Seeing this action, Gabe Flecker started to tear up the receipt he had
written. But, like a flash, Frank drew it from his grasp.

“Hi! give that back!” roared the swindler.

“Not just yet, Mr. Flecker.”

“If you don’t give it back I’ll make it hot for you.”

“You are sure you are right, young man?” questioned the planter,
sharply.

“I am.”

“Then the best thing we can do is to have this fellow held for the
police.”

“Exactly.”

“Will you be a witness against him? I personally cannot prove that he is
not what he pretends to be.”

“Of course, I’ll be a witness against him. I am well acquainted with a
gentleman—an ex-mayor of a New Jersey town—who was swindled out of
sixty-five dollars by this fellow. He got my friend’s autograph, and
then used the autograph on a check.”

“The scoundrel!”

“It’s all a mistake!” roared Gabe Flecker. “I never swindled anybody out
of a cent.”

By this time a crowd was beginning to collect, and the conductor of the
train came hurrying to the spot.

“You can’t quarrel here,” he said. “Come to the smoker.”

“I am willing,” said Frank, and Gasper Lee said the same. As there
appeared to be no help for it, Gabe Flecker marched to the smoker.
There, surrounded by a number of men, our hero told his story, and
Gasper Lee related how he had met Flecker in New York, and how the
sharper had gotten into his good graces, and mentioned some valuable
property on the outskirts of Charleston as being for sale.

“I should have handed over my money had it not been for this young man,”
concluded the planter. “I was fairly talked into making a bargain with
this rascal.”

“Were you going through to Charleston?” asked the conductor of Gabe
Flecker.

“I was; but I guess I’ll get off at the next station, now,” growled the
swindler.

“If you do, I’ll put you in the hands of the police,” came from Gasper
Lee.

“Just what I have in mind to do,” added Frank.

The matter was talked over for several minutes, and at last it was
decided that the swindler, Frank, and the planter, should get off at the
next station, which was Greensboro. A brief stop was made at a small
crossing, where there was a telegraph office, and a message was sent to
the Greensboro police to be on hand when the train arrived.

“Just wait; I’ll even up with you, some day, young man,” said Gabe
Flecker to Frank, when he saw that further resistance for the time being
was useless.

“I am not afraid of you, Flecker.”

“How did you happen to be on this train?”

“That is my business.”

“Were you following me?”

“Perhaps I was.”

“If you were, I don’t see why you didn’t have me arrested between New
York and Philadelphia.”

“Let me ask a question. How did you happen to go south?”

“That is my business.”

“Were you going to swindle somebody in Charleston?”

“No; I was going down there to meet an old friend.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not telling you, Hardy,” growled Gabe Flecker, and then would say
no more.

It was not long after this that Greensboro was reached and the train
came to a halt. Two policemen were at the station, and the swindler was
handed over to them, and Frank and Gasper Lee accompanied the officers
and their prisoner to the station house. Here a formal complaint was
made against Gabe Flecker, and Frank told all he knew about the man.

“You will have to be detained as witnesses,” said the officer who took
charge of the case. “That is, unless you can furnish satisfactory
security for your appearance when wanted.”

“Do you mean you’ll lock me up as a witness?” ejaculated our hero.

“We’ll have to detain you, and also Mr. Lee.”

“But I must get to Charleston as soon as I can,” urged the young book
agent.

At this the officer of the law shrugged his shoulders.

“I am sorry for you, but I cannot do otherwise than my duty in this
matter.”

“That’s right; lock him up,” came from Gabe Flecker, who enjoyed the
quandary in which our hero was thus placed.

Frank’s heart sank within him. This was a situation of which he had not
dreamed. He had caught Gabe Flecker, but by doing so, it was possible
that he would miss catching that greater rascal, Jabez Garrison.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXX

                      FRANK MEETS HIS BROTHER MARK


“DO you mean to say that we shall have to remain here?” demanded Gasper
Lee of the officer.

“Unless you can furnish security for your appearance against this
Flecker. You must remember, you are all strangers to me, and he may be
as innocent as you are—in which case I should get myself into trouble if
I allowed you to get away.”

“This is an outrage!” stormed the planter. “I am a Southern gentleman,
sir.”

“Perhaps you know somebody in Greensboro who might go security for you,”
suggested the officer.

The planter stroked his beard.

“I cannot recall anybody that I know——” he began. “But wait. Does
Captain Farrand still reside here?”

“You mean old Colonel Farrand’s nephew?”

“Yes.”

“He does.”

“Then kindly send for him at once.”

“I will do so, Mr. Lee.”

Without delay a messenger was sent out, and in less than half an hour he
returned with a pleasant-looking business man of thirty-five or forty.

“Why, my dear Mr. Lee, what does this mean?” demanded the newcomer, as
he shook hands.

“It means that I am in a mess, and I need you to get me out of it,”
answered the planter.

“What is the trouble?”

“A rascal tried to swindle me on the train from New York. This young man
came to my assistance. Now, we have the rascal locked up, but I must
remain as a witness, unless I can get somebody to go my security.”

“That is easy.” Captain Farrand turned to the police officer. “What sort
of a bond do you want, sir?”

“A thousand dollars, captain.”

“Very well; make it out and I will sign it. I know Mr. Lee very well.”

“I wish I could find somebody to go on my bond,” put in Frank.

The planter looked at him squarely, and then at Captain Farrand.

“Captain, do me an additional favor,” he said.

“Name it, Mr. Lee.”

“Go on a bond for this young man. I know he is honest; his face shows
it. I will be personally responsible to you for the amount.”

“Very well,” answered Captain Farrand.

A few minutes later the necessary papers were made out and signed, and
then Frank and the planter were told they could go where they pleased
for the next few days.

“I shall telegraph to Mr. Sinclair Basswood,” said our hero.

He happened to remember the ex-mayor’s home address, and sent the
telegram without delay. It was rushed through, and in less than two
hours the answer came back.


    “Hold Flecker. Will come on at once and make an example of him.

                   “SINCLAIR BASSWOOD.”


“That is just like him,” thought our hero, and took the telegram to the
police station.

“Evidently, Mr. Basswood is going to have the fellow punished,” said the
officer, with a smile.

“Don’t you think he deserves it?”

“He assuredly does—if he is guilty.”

Feeling that he could safely leave the case in the hands of the ex-mayor
and Mr. Lee, Frank hurried to the railroad station and found he could
get a train for Charleston early in the evening. This would bring him to
his destination about midnight, and he telegraphed to his brother, Mark,
to meet him.

It was a hot night, and Frank was glad when the train came along and he
could sit by the open window and catch the breeze. The train made fast
time, as it sped along past plantation after plantation, and across
numerous brooks and rivers.

“I am certainly having my share of adventures,” thought the young book
agent. “Who would have dreamed of meeting Gabe Flecker on this trip?”

He had had supper with Mr. Lee, who had insisted upon paying for a very
elaborate meal, and by nine o’clock he fell into a doze, from which he
did not awaken until the train rolled into the commodious station at
Charleston.

“All out for Charleston!” was the cry, and gathering up his dress-suit
case, he followed the crowd out on the station platform and then into
the station itself.

“Frank!” called a joyful voice presently, and up rushed his big brother,
Mark, as brown as a berry from his long sea trip.

“Mark!” returned our hero, and the brothers shook hands warmly.

“My! but it does a fellow’s eyes good to look at you,” went on Mark.

“I can say as much,” answered Frank, with a smile. “But tell me, have
you learned anything new about Jabez Garrison, Mark?” he continued,
anxiously.

“Nothing much. But I am pretty sure he is still at the Planters’ House.
But I haven’t seen that Flecker or Becker again.”

“And you won’t—for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is in jail,” answered the young book agent, and related some of the
particulars.

“And that is what delayed you. I thought it was strange you didn’t come
on that other train. What do you propose to do?”

“Hunt up this Jabez Garrison without delay, and if he is really the man
we want, have him arrested on the spot.”

“All right, Frank; I’ll do whatever you say. You know more about this
case than I do.”

“We must find an officer first.”

“There is one around this depot.”

“Let us go to headquarters, Mark. We want an experienced man—one who
will not make a mess of this matter. This Jabez Garrison must be a very
slick individual with whom to deal.”

They were directed to the station, and Frank engaged a cab to take them
to the place.

“Are all the folks well at home?” questioned Mark, on the way.

“As well as can be expected, Mark. Father’s foot is not as strong as it
might be. How did you like your trip?”

“Oh, it was fine, Frank. But let me tell you that a life on shipboard is
no picnic.”

“I believe you.”

“If a boy wants to run away to sea, let him do it. One good long trip on
the ocean will cure him of his foolishness.”

“What do you expect to do next, Mark?”

“Go into business—if I can get in. You seem to be making a success of
selling books.”

“Yes. Perhaps you can sell books, too.”

“Well, I could try it. I used to think I’d take hold of the flour and
feed business with father. But now he has given that up, so I’ll have to
try something else.”

“I’ll put you in the way of selling books, and you can try your luck at
it,” answered Frank.

“Perhaps I could sell some among the shipping people. They like to do
business with somebody who has followed the sea.”

“That is certainly an idea. You might sell them books relating to the
ocean, and works on navigation, and the like—and also maps. It is
certainly a wide field,” continued our hero.

The station house was soon reached, and leaving the cabman waiting for
them, Frank and Mark went inside, to tell their tale, and get what
assistance they could.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXXI

                      A CLEVER CAPTURE—CONCLUSION


LESS than half an hour later the cab was on its way to the Planters’
House, a well-known hotel in Charleston. It contained Frank and Mark,
and two officers of the law who were dressed in plain clothes. The
officers had heard the boys’ story and were prepared to do their duty
should the man Mark had spoken about prove to be the absconding rascal
from Philadelphia.

“But, mind you, there must be no mistake in this affair,” said one of
the officers. “It is a serious matter to arrest an innocent man.”

“I know the Jabez Garrison I am after,” answered Frank. “Just let me get
one square look at this man here, and I’ll tell you if he is the right
fellow or not.”

When the hotel was reached Mark went in first, to make certain that
Garrison was not hanging around the lobby or reading room. But as it was
after midnight the lower floor of the hotel was practically deserted.

“We want to find Mr. Jabez Garrison,” said Frank, to the clerk.

“No such party stopping here,” was the prompt answer.

“Will you let me look at the register?” continued our hero.

“Certainly. But we haven’t anybody by that name.”

“I may be mistaken in the name.”

The hotel register was produced, and the young book agent went over the
list with care. He knew Jabez Garrison’s handwriting fairly well.

“The man we are after is a great criminal,” said Frank, to the clerk.
“Here are three names that may belong to the fellow we are after. Can
you tell me anything about the persons?”

“I know Mr. Dale and Mr. Kussuth well,” said the clerk. “They are
well-to-do business men. One comes from Savannah and the other from
Raleigh.”

“What about this man who is registered as George Paradoe?”

“He is a stranger here.”

“I see by the register that he came less than two weeks ago.”

“That is correct.”

“Can you describe the man?”

As well as he was able the clerk did so.

“He is our man, I am quite sure,” said Frank. “How can I see him?”

“This is no game?”

“No,” came from one of the police officers. “This young man is really
after a great criminal. If he identifies his man we are to arrest him.”

“Well, you might go up and tell Mr. Paradoe, or whatever his real name
is, that you have a message for him. Shove your way into the room when
he opens the door, telling him he must sign in a book for the message.
I’ll write out something for you.”

The bogus message was written out and placed in an envelope, and Frank
went upstairs, followed by Mark and the officers. George Paradoe, as he
styled himself, had Room 134, and upon the door of this our hero knocked
sharply.

“What’s wanted?” came sleepily from within.

“A message for you, Mr. Paradoe,” answered Frank, in an assumed voice.

“Oh, all right. Wait till I get up.”

There was a movement within the room, as the man inside leaped up and
slipped on a robe. Then the door was unlocked.

Frank was on the watch and as soon as the door was opened he shoved his
way into the room. The electric light had been turned on, so he could
see the face of the man plainly.

“Hi, don’t shove into here!” cried the man, and then looked at our hero
sharply. “What—er——”

“Jabez Garrison!” shouted Frank. “Come in here!” he called to those in
the hallway.

“Not much! This is my room!” hissed Jabez Garrison, and hurling Frank to
one side, he closed the door and locked it. “Now, who have you outside,
boy?” he demanded.

“Two officers of the law,” answered our hero. “Mr. Garrison, your game
has come to an end.”

“Has it?” sneered the man. “Not much! Take that!”

He aimed a savage blow at Frank’s face. It was unexpected, and our hero
dropped to the floor like a log. Then Jabez Garrison caught up his
valise and a bundle of clothing and made for one of the windows, outside
of which was a fire escape leading to an alleyway.

Dazed and bewildered, our hero staggered to his feet. He was just in
time to see Jabez Garrison descending the fire escape.

“Stop him!” he called out. “He is running down the fire escape! Go after
him!”

“I will!” answered one of the officers, and hurried through the hallway
with all speed.

Still smarting from the blow received, our hero staggered to the door
and unlocked it. At once Mark and the remaining officer came into the
room. The officer rushed to the window while Mark ran to Frank’s
assistance.

“Are you hurt, Frank?”

“Not much. But he gave me a hard blow, I can tell you!”

“If you are all right, I’ll help run him down,” continued Mark.

In a moment he was out on the fire escape, and Frank followed. In the
meantime Jabez Garrison had reached the ground and was running through
the alleyway with all speed.

But the rascal had taken less than a dozen steps when he ran straight
into the officer who had gone below. This officer grabbed him by both
arms.

“Let me go!”

“What are you running for?” asked the officer,

“That is none of your business! Let me go, I say!” gasped Jabez
Garrison.

He began to struggle and might have gotten away, but the other officer
came up, quickly followed by Mark and Frank. Then the rascal was
handcuffed.

“This is all a mistake,” said Jabez Garrison. “I insist upon it,
gentlemen, I have done nothing wrong.”

“Then what did you run away for?” sneered one of the officers.

“I—have—er—been feeling very bad for months. In fact, I sometimes think
I am going crazy, I have such pains in the head.”

“You must have been crazy when you walked off from Philadelphia,” said
Frank. “Where is all the money you took with you?”

“I—er—I don’t know anything about any money. I am a poor man. Oh, my
head!” and Jabez Garrison put his hand to his temple. “Yes, I must be
going crazy!” he moaned.

“I guess he is putting on,” said Mark. “I think his valise ought to be
searched.”

“No! no!” cried the swindler, in fresh alarm.

“We’ll take it to the station house,” said one of the officers.

Despite his protestations that he was innocent of all wrongdoing, and
his declaration that he must be going crazy, Jabez Garrison was taken to
the station house. There his valise was searched, and much to Frank’s
satisfaction it was found to contain bank notes to the amount of
fourteen thousand dollars.

“This is the best find yet!” cried our hero. “Now, father can have his
money back—or at least some part of it.”

Jabez Garrison had left some of his clothing at the hotel and, later on,
in one of the coats were found some time-tables of trains for the West,
and a flat pocketbook containing a money-order for ten thousand dollars.

“This is another grand find,” said Frank. “Now father will surely get
his money back.”

“Oh, I am crazy! crazy!” groaned Jabez Garrison, when he saw how
completely he had been exposed.

“That will be for a court to decide,” said one of the officers. “For the
present you will remain in the lock-up.”

“This is certainly a grand capture,” said Mark, as he and Frank were
walking to a telegraph office, to send the news home. “Frank, you are a
smart boy. I am proud of you for a brother.”

“Some of the credit is yours, Mark. If you hadn’t sent that letter in
the first place, it is likely Garrison would have gotten away.”

“Well, it proves the old saying, ‘Murder will out’ sooner or later. I
suppose he felt sure he would never be captured and that he could live
like a prince on what he stole. Now, he will most likely spend a good
many years in prison,” replied Mark.

“Well, he should learn the truth of the old saying, ‘Honesty is the best
policy,’” replied our hero.

Let me add a few words more before drawing to a close this story of
Frank Hardy, the young book agent.

In due course of time Jabez Garrison was tried for his crime and sent to
prison for eight years. Gabe Flecker was also brought to the bar of
justice and sent to prison for two years. For the capture of Flecker,
Sinclair Basswood paid Frank the reward of fifty dollars.

After a good deal of delay Mr. Hardy received from the benevolent
society in Philadelphia the money he had had to pay when Garrison ran
away. Frank’s father also received from the railroad company the sum of
two thousand dollars for the accident on the road, and these combined
sums gave him a sufficient capital with which to start life anew.

“I feel like a rich man,” said Mr. Hardy. “I shall take good care not to
let my money slip through my fingers again.”

“What business will you go into, father?” asked Frank.

“I will see about that later. I shall jump at nothing hastily,” was the
parent’s answer.

When all the matters in court had been settled, Mark tried his luck at
selling books. But he could not make a living at it and at the end of a
month gave it up.

“You have all the talent in the family in that direction,” he said to
Frank. “I am going into some regular line of business.”

Early in the spring Mr. Hardy had a good chance to buy a flour and feed
business in Philadelphia, and closed the deal after he and Frank and
Mark had made a thorough investigation. He took Mark in with him, and
the business proved to be highly successful from the start.

Frank continued to sell books until Christmas. After the holidays he
entered high school and gave all his time to his studies.

“I am going to get a good education first, and then go into the
publishing business,” he said.

“You are wise,” said Mr. Vincent, to whom he had made the speech. “An
education is worth much to every man.”

The years passed and Frank graduated from high school at the top of his
class. Then he entered Princeton College; and here we will leave him,
wishing him well.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




Transcriber’s note:

    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.

    ○ Unpaired quotation marks were left as the author intended.

    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.

    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.



***