.dt The Young Book Agent, by Horatio Alger, Jr.-A Project Gutenberg eBook
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“BOOKS! YOU GET RIGHT OUT OF THIS DOORWAY!”–#P. 112.:p112#
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[Illustration: “BOOKS! YOU GET RIGHT OUT OF THIS DOORWAY!–P. 112.”]
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THE YOUNG|BOOK AGENT
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Or, Frank Hardy’s Road to Success
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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.
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[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
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NEW YORK
STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY
1905
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Copyright, 1905
BY
STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY
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PREFACE
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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
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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.
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CONTENTS
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CHAPTER|| PAGE
I.|Frank at Home|#1:ch01#
II.|Down at the Wreck|#9:ch02#
III.|Disagreeable News|#17:ch03#
IV.|The Hunt for a Missing Man|#25:ch04#
V.|Frank at the Store|#34:ch05#
VI.|The Rival Merchants|#42:ch06#
VII.|A Fourth of July Celebration|#50:ch07#
VIII.|Frank Looks for Work|#58:ch08#
IX.|Frank Meets a Book Agent|#67:ch09#
X.|Frank Goes to New York|#76:ch10#
XI.|Frank as an Agent|#86:ch11#
XII.|A Bright Beginning|#96:ch12#
XIII.|Frank on the Road|#108:ch13#
XIV.|A Boy Runaway|#118:ch14#
XV.|Caught in a Storm|#127:ch15#
XVI.|An Important Sale|#136:ch16#
XVII.|A Curious Happening|#145:ch17#
XVIII.|The Would-be Actor|#153:ch18#
XIX.|Giving an Autograph|#162:ch19#
XX.|Frank’s Remarkable Find|#171:ch20#
XXI.|Gabe Flecker Shows His Hand|#180:ch21#
XXII.|The Rival Book Agent|#189:ch22#
XXIII.|News from Home|#197:ch23#
XXIV.|Lost in a Coal Mine|#205:ch24#
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XXV.|Frank Meets Flecker Again|#214:ch25#
XXVI.|An Escape|#224:ch26#
XXVII.|At Home Once More|#232:ch27#
XXVIII.|Frank Starts for the South|#242:ch28#
XXIX.|A Scene on the Train|#249:ch29#
XXX.|Frank Meets His Brother Mark|#257:ch30#
XXXI.|A Clever Capture—Conclusion|#264:ch31#
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THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT
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CHAPTER I||FRANK AT HOME
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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
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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.
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“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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER II||DOWN AT THE WRECK
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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?”
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“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.”
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“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.
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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.
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CHAPTER III||DISAGREEABLE NEWS
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“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?”
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“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
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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?”
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“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?”
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“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
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
CHAPTER IV||THE HUNT FOR A MISSING MAN
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
CHAPTER V||FRANK AT THE STORE
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
CHAPTER VI||THE RIVAL MERCHANTS
.sp 2
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.
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
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:
.pm letter-start
“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,
.ti 15
“John Peterson.”
.pm letter-end
“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.”
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
CHAPTER VII||A FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=p050.jpg w=495px
.ca
“THE SMOKE WAS SO THICK HE COULD NOT SEE WHERE HE WAS GOING.”–#P. 54.:p54#
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “THE SMOKE WAS SO THICK HE COULD NOT SEE WHERE HE WAS GOING.”–P. 54.]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
“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 colored
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.
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch08
CHAPTER VIII||FRANK LOOKS FOR WORK
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
CHAPTER IX||FRANK MEETS A BOOK AGENT
.sp 2
“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
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
“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.
.pm letter-start
“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.
.ti 15
“Yours very truly,
.ti 20
“Philip Vincent”.
.pm letter-end
“What beautiful books!” cried Ruth, as she
and Frank looked them over. “I’m sure they’ll
be interesting.”
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
CHAPTER X||FRANK GOES TO NEW YORK
.sp 2
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
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
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 cripple 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:
.pm letter-start
“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.”
.pm letter-end
“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.”
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
CHAPTER XI||FRANK AS AN AGENT
.sp 2
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
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
CHAPTER XII||A BRIGHT BEGINNING
.sp 2
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,”
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
CHAPTER XIII||FRANK ON THE ROAD
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
CHAPTER XIV||A BOY RUNAWAY
.sp 2
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.
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
“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 colored 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.”
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch15
CHAPTER XV||CAUGHT IN A STORM
.sp 2
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.
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
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 colored
driver, a lady, a maid, and four children.
“Hi, dar, wot you doin’?” demanded the
colored coachman.
“I’m closing the windows,” answered Frank.
“It’s raining in.”
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
CHAPTER XVI||AN IMPORTANT SALE
.sp 2
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
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
CHAPTER XVII||A CURIOUS HAPPENING
.sp 2
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.
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
“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.
.pm letter-start
“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.”
.pm letter-end
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.
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
CHAPTER XVIII||THE WOULD-BE ACTOR
.sp 2
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!
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
CHAPTER XIX||GIVING AN AUTOGRAPH
.sp 2
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.
.if h
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“THEY OVERTURNED BOTH FRANK AND HIS WHEEL.”–#P. 163.:p163#
.ca-
.if-
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[Illustration: “THEY OVERTURNED BOTH FRANK AND HIS WHEEL.”–P. 163.]
.sp 2
.if-
“Can’t we, though?” came from the lad who
had not yet spoken. “Don’t you try to run. If
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
CHAPTER XX||FRANK’S REMARKABLE FIND
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
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!”
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
CHAPTER XXI||GABE FLECKER SHOWS HIS HAND
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
“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!”
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
CHAPTER XXII||THE RIVAL BOOK AGENT
.sp 2
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
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
“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:
.pm letter-start
.ti +12
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.
.ti 20
FRANK HARDY.
.pm letter-end
“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.”
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
CHAPTER XXIII||NEWS FROM HOME
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
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:
.pm letter-start
“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
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
States port. He does not know how soon he will
reach Philadelphia and receive his discharge.”
.pm letter-end
“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.
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch24
CHAPTER XXIV||LOST IN A COAL MINE
.sp 2
“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.”
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=p210.jpg w=494px
.ca
“‘HELP US TO GET OUT, WILL YOU?’”–#P. 210.:p210#
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “‘HELP US TO GET OUT, WILL YOU?’”–P. 210.]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch25
CHAPTER XXV||FRANK MEETS FLECKER AGAIN
.sp 2
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
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
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?”
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch26
CHAPTER XXVI||AN ESCAPE
.sp 2
“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
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
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:
.pm letter-start
“I am deaf and dumb. What did you show
me the books for?”
.pm letter-end
“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.
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
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:
.pm letter-start
“I never buy books. I borrow them from my
children.”
.pm letter-end
“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.”
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch27
CHAPTER XXVII||AT HOME ONCE MORE
.sp 2
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.”
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
“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,
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch28
CHAPTER XXVIII||FRANK STARTS FOR THE SOUTH
.sp 2
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:
.pm letter-start
“Dear Folks at Home: I suppose you
will all be glad to know that I am back in the
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
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?”
.pm letter-end
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
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:
.pm letter-start
“Am starting to-night for Charleston. Keep
your eye on Garrison.
.ti 15
“Frank.”
.pm letter-end
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.
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch29
CHAPTER XXIX||A SCENE ON THE TRAIN
.sp 2
“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.”
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
“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?”
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
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,
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 269.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 270.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch30
CHAPTER XXX||FRANK MEETS HIS BROTHER MARK
.sp 2
“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.”
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 272.png
.pn +1
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.
.pm letter-start
“Hold Flecker. Will come on at once and
make an example of him.
.ti 15
“Sinclair Basswood.”
.pm letter-end
“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
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
“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.”
.bn 275.png
.pn +1
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
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch31
CHAPTER XXXI||A CLEVER CAPTURE—CONCLUSION
.sp 2
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.
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 279.png
.pn +1
“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.
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
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.”
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
“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
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
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.
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
“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.
.sp 4
.nf c
THE END
.nf-
.sp 4
.pb
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.sp 4
.dv class='tnbox'
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-
.dv-