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CHAPTER VI
“MAIL ORDER FRANK”

At the outcry from beyond the window of the little sitting-room, the dog, Christmas, became fairly frantic. Seizing him by the collar, however, Frank gave him a stern word. Wont to obey, the animal retreated to one side of the room, but still growling, and his fur bristling.

Frank instantly caught up the lamp from the table and carried it to the window. His mother peered out in a startled way at the scene now illuminated without.

“Why, it is Mr. Dorsett!” she exclaimed.

“As I expected,” said Frank, quietly.

“Frank,” murmured his mother, anxiously, “what have you been doing?”

“Preparing for eavesdroppers – and sneaks. Caught one first set of the trap, it seems,” responded Frank in clear, loud tones.

The captured lurker was indeed Dorsett. He was panting and infuriated. One foot was held imprisoned in a wooden spring clamp chained to a log in a hole in the ground. This aperture had been covered with light pieces of sod which Dorsett was pushing aside with his cane, while he continued to groan with pain.

The lamplight enabled him to discern more clearly the trap that had caught him. He managed to pull one side of the contrivance loose and got his foot free.

Wincing with pain and limping, he came closer to the window, boiling with rage.

“So you did it, and boast of it, do you?” he howled at Frank.

“I did and do,” answered Frank calmly. “This is our home, Mr. Dorsett, not a public highway.”

Dorsett uttered a terrific snort of rage. He brandished his cane, struck out with it, and its end went through the panes of both the upper and the raised lower sash.

Frank receded a step, unhurt, with the words:

“Very well. You will pay for that damage, I suppose you know. You will get no further rent until you repair it.”

“Rent!” roared the frenzied Dorsett. “You’ll never pay me rent again. I’ll show you. Tenants at will, ha! Can’t stroll around my own property, hey? Why, I’ll – I’ll crush you.”

“Mr. Dorsett,” spoke up the widow in a dignified tone, “it is true this is your property, but you have no right to spy upon us. You took away our dog – ”

“Who says so – who says so?” shouted the infuriated man.

“Christmas himself will say so in an unmistakable manner if I let him loose at you,” answered Frank. “The poundmaster at Riverton might be a credible witness, also.”

“You’ll pay for this, oh, but you’ll pay for this!” snarled the wretched old man as he limped away to the street.

Mrs. Ismond sank to a chair, quite pale and agitated over the disturbing incident of the moment.

“Frank,” she said in a fluttering tone, “that man alarms me. It makes me uneasy to think he is lurking about us all the time. I am unhappy to think we are subject to his caprices, where once he owned the property.”

“We own it yet, by rights,” declared Frank. “Some day I may prove it to Dorsett. But do not worry, mother. You must have guessed from my interest in what Mr. Gregson said to-night, that I believe there is something for me in this mail order idea. I have not yet formed my plans, but I am going to get into business for myself.”

The boy heard their guest stirring about up stairs, probably aroused by the window smashing. He reassured Gregson and went to bed himself.

Frank lay awake until nearly midnight thinking over all that Gregson had told him. He went mentally through every phase of the mail order idea that he knew anything about.

When Frank finally fell asleep it was to dream of starting in business for himself. At broad daylight he was in a big factory which his own endeavors had built up. Around him were his busy employes nailing up great boxes of merchandise ordered from all parts of the country.

The sound of the hammers seemed still echoing in his ears as he was aroused by the voice of his mother from her own room.

“Frank! Frank!” she called.

“Yes, mother,” he answered, springing out of bed.

“Some one is knocking at the front door.”

“Knocking?” repeated Frank, hurrying into his clothes. “That’s no knocking, it sounds more like hammering.”

Christmas was barking furiously. The hammering had ceased by the time Frank had got down the stairs and to the front door. He unlocked it quickly.

At the end of the graveled walk, just turning into the street was old Dorsett. He waved a hammer in his hand malignantly as he noticed Frank.

“We’ll see if I am to have free range of my own premises,” he shouted. “Young man, you get your traps out of here within the time limit of the law, or I’ll throw you into the street, bag and baggage.”

Frank saw that Dorsett had just nailed a square white sheet of paper across the door panel. He stood reading it over as his mother came out onto the porch.

“Was that Mr. Dorsett, Frank?” she inquired.

“Yes, some more of his friendly work.”

“What is it, Frank?”

“A five-days’ notice to quit,” answered Frank.

Mrs. Ismond scanned the legal document with a pale and troubled face. Frank affected unconcern and indifference.

“Don’t let that worry you, mother,” he said, leading her back into the house.

“But, Frank, he can put us out!”

“If we stay to let him, probably. The law he has invoked to rob us, may also enable him to evict us, mother, but he won’t win in the end. You say you dislike the place. Very well, we will move.”

“But where to, Frank?”

“This isn’t the only house in Greenville, is it, mother?” asked Frank, smiling reassuringly. “What’s more, Greenville isn’t the only town in creation. Stop your fretting, now. I’ve got a grand plan, and I am sure to carry it out. Just leave everything to me. My head is just bursting with all the ideas that interesting balloonist has put into it. Why, mother, if I can only get a start, if I can get hold of a few novelties and do a little advertising – ”

“Oh, Frank, it takes money to do all that!”

“And brains. Mostly brains and industry, Mr. Gregson says. Mother, now or soon, here, at Greenville or somewhere else, I am determined to give the mail order idea a trial.”

“Mail order, Frank?”

“Capital! excellent!” cried Frank with enthusiasm. “Why, mother, you have suggested the very catchy name. I will use to advertise by – ‘Mail Order Frank’!”

CHAPTER VII
STRICTLY BUSINESS

The balloonist, Park Gregson, needed rest after his strenuous experience of the previous day, so Frank did not disturb him. He and his mother had their breakfast together, then Frank started out on his usual daily round of duties.

He did his chores about the house. Then he went down to the eight o’clock train to get a bundle of daily newspapers from the city. These he delivered to his regular customers. At nine o’clock he went to the office of Mr. Beach, the lawyer.

Frank was informed by the attorney’s clerk that Mr. Beach had left Greenville to see a distant client. He would not be back for two days.

“I need somebody’s advice about this five-day notice of Mr. Dorsett,” reflected Frank, and proceeded to visit the insurance man, Mr. Buckner.

“Good!” exclaimed the latter briskly, as Frank put in an appearance, “I was just about to send for you.”

“To send for me?” repeated Frank.

“Yes, I told you that you might expect some further business commissions from me, you remember?”

“Yes, Mr. Buckner.”

“Well, they have materialized. Can you give me your time unrestrictedly for a week or ten days?”

“Why – yes, I think so,” answered Frank, but somewhat slowly, for he thought of their family complications.

Mr. Buckner was a keen-witted man. He read something under the surface in Frank’s hesitancy.

“Something troubling you, Frank?” he suggested.

“Oh, nothing serious, Mr. Buckner. It seems we have offended Mr. Dorsett. He is our landlord. He has ordered us to leave the house we rent from him within five days.”

“Hum, the old curmudgeon! His house! I wonder whose it would be if some of his clever rascality was investigated?”

“Well, I suppose we have got to go,” said Frank. “He is ugly and determined.”

“Oh, that difficulty can be easily solved,” declared Mr. Buckner, lightly. “You know the vacant store front on Cedar street? I am agent for that property, owner a non-resident. There are five nice, comfortable living rooms upstairs. It’s only two blocks’ move for you. If it suits you, make the move. You need pay no rent until you decide where you wish to locate permanently.”

“You are very kind,” said Frank.

“Why – never thought of it!” exclaimed Mr. Buckner, with new animation of manner and voice. “The very thing, it exactly fits!”

“What do you mean?” inquired Frank.

“Sit down, and I’ll explain. You took a check yesterday to pay for some salvage at a fire at Riverton.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Frank.

“I notified my client last night by telegraph of our success. He’s a Lancaster man, in the hardware line. He ran up to Greenville last evening to see me. It seems that Morton, the man burned out at Riverton, was also in the hardware line. Everything he had was burned up in the fire. When they came to clear the wreck, they found all the metal stock he carried massed in among the ashes in the cellar. The insurance company had it put in big packing cases. It was all mixed up, some of the stock damaged entirely. My client, however, decided that it might net him a profit on the two hundred dollars he paid for it.”

“I see,” said Frank.

“What he has engaged me to do, is to go or send to Riverton and get the stuff carted over here. Then he wants the rubbish gone over, and the good stuff selected and sorted out. It seems that Morton had been neglecting his regular hardware business for some time. He invented an apple corer that wouldn’t core very well. He bought a lot of little stuff, such as initial buttons, needles and the like, and was trying to get into the mail order business, when the fire came along.”

“The mail order business?” said Frank in a quick breath.

“Yes. Now he’s going to take his insurance money and buy an interest in some publishing business in the city. Well, you can see that a little time and care may result in picking out quite a lot of really valuable stuff from the mass, brushing it up and all that.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Frank.

“We can store the plunder in the Cedar Street building. You take charge of it, hire what help you need, and I’ll divide with you what I charge my client for my services. Pretty liberal, ain’t I now, Frank?” asked Mr. Buckner, with a smile. “You doing all the work, and me getting a full half of the pay.”

“Yes, but you are the directing genius of the affair, you know,” suggested Frank pleasantly.

“Oh, I can direct all right, if you will do the hustling,” laughed the insurance man. “Settled, is it? All right. My client thinks it will take a week or ten days to sort the stuff into some kind of shape. He’ll be here to inspect progress next Saturday. You make your arrangements, and draw five dollars a day.”

Frank was quite stunned at the munificent offer.

“I trust you implicitly, Frank,” went on his kind friend. “Here is a letter to the custodian of the property at Riverton, and here is twenty dollars to carry around with you to meet any expense that may come up. Hire the moving teams as cheaply as you can, store the boxes at the Cedar Street place. I leave the details entirely to you. When can you start in?”

“Right now,” replied Frank promptly.

“All right, get into action.”

Frank was proud and pleased as he hurried back home. He did not let the grass grow under his feet, but neither did he go off in a wild tangent that might disorder things. He was all business and system.

First, he reported to his mother. They decided to move at once. Then he sought out Nelson Cady, a close chum, and commissioned him to look after his evening paper route and other odd jobs he did daily. Frank decided he could save money by hiring home talent to do the moving of the salvage stuff. He was not much acquainted at Riverton. The teamsters there might be extortionate, as it was a double trip for the wagons.

Within an hour’s time Frank had made an excellent bargain, and all interested were duly satisfied with the arrangement. An honest old negro named Eben Johnson, who carted ashes and other refuse for the town, was not doing much that especial day. He agreed to lease his two teams and one driver for twelve hours for seven dollars and the keep of man and horses.

Frank knew he could make no more economical arrangement than this. By eleven o’clock he was on the way to Riverton, acting himself as driver of one of the teams.

The driver of the other team was a good-natured though rather shiftless fellow, named Boyle. When they reached Riverton, Frank took him to a restaurant, gave him the best meal he had ever eaten, and made the fellow his friend for life. The horses were given a first class feed and a good rest.

Frank found he had to handle eight immense packing cases and one zinc box. This latter was full of books and papers. These went to the purchaser, it seemed, along with the “good will” of the business.

The eight packing cases were tremendously heavy. A glance at their contents showed Frank a confused jumble. There were hammers and hatchets with their handles burned off, saws and chisels, blackened, and some of them burned out of shape by the fire. There were nails, tacks, hinges, keys, door knobs, in fact a confusing mass of mixed hardware of every description.

Frank and his man could not handle four of the cases alone. The lad had to hire a couple of men to help them load these onto the wagons. As they got all ready to start for home, the custodian came up with a little wizened man with a Jewish cast of countenance, and introduced him as Mr. Moss.

“There’s a lot of junk not worth carting away over at the ruins,” explained the custodian to Frank. “This man wants to buy it.”

“All right,” said Frank, “let him make an offer.”

“Mein frient, two dollars would be highway robbery for dot oldt stuff,” asserted the junk dealer, with a characteristic shrug of his shoulders.

“Is that your offer, Mr. Moss?” asked Frank in a business-like tone.

“I vill gif it chust to spite oldt Isaacs, my combetitor,” declared Moss.

“Well, we will go and take a look at the stuff,” said Frank.

“Mein frient, dot vos useless,” insisted Moss. “Time ish monish. Tree tollars!”

“No,” said Frank definitely. “I always calculate to know what I’m about.”

He left the wagons, and accompanied by Moss soon reached the blackened ruins of the hardware store.

Just as they arrived there, a shrewd-faced little urchin approaching them halted, and gave both a keen look.

“Hoo!” he yelled – “I must tell vader!”

Moss threw his cane after the disappearing urchin, and looked perturbed and anxious.

“Dot vos de stuff,” he explained, pointing out two cindery piles back of the ruins.

“Why,” said Frank, poking in and out among the debris, “there is quite a heap of it.”

“Ashes, mein frient, ashes,” suavely observed the junk dealer.

“Not at all,” retorted Frank. “Here is a stove, all but the top. Here are a lot of hoes and rakes, twisted a little, but not entirely worthless. Both heaps are nearly all solid metal. There must be over a ton of iron here.”

“Four tollars – I tell you vot I do: four tollars,” said Moss fervently.

Frank shook his head and continued to look calculatingly at the blackened heaps.

“Five tollars,” spoke Moss with sudden unction. “Mein tear younug frient – cash. Say nodings. Dere vos de monish.”

But Frank looked resolutely away from the bank note tendered as a near shout rang out.

A stout, clumsy man had come lumbering around the corner at his best gait, in a frantic state of excitement.

He was in his shirt sleeves, drenched with perspiration and waving his arms wildly. Beside him ran the urchin Frank had before noticed. It was apparent that he had succeeded in satisfying his father that a sale of the fire debris was on.

“Mishter, Mishter,” he called, “it is Ezekiels Isaacs. I vill puy de goods. How mooch is offered?”

“Five dollars so far,” repeated Frank tranquilly.

“Six,” instantly bolted out the newcomer.

“Seven!” snarled Moss.

“Ten tollars,” pronounced the other, pulling out a fat pocketbook.

“Gentlemen,” said Frank. “I have made up my mind. You must start your real bids at double that, or I cannot entertain an offer.”

“Yesh,” cried Moss eagerly – “twenty tollars.”

“Und a kee-varter!” howled his rival.

“Un a hal-luf!”

“Tage it!” roared Moss, waving his cane in impotent rage, and turned away disgusted.

“Of course you gif me four per cent. discount for cash?” demanded the successful bidder.

“Of course I shall not,” dissented Frank. “Shall I call back Mr. Moss? No? Thanks, – that is correct, twenty dollars and fifty cents. Here is a receipt.”

Frank felt that he had closed an exceptionally good sale. Within half-an-hour the wagons were started on their way for Greenville.

CHAPTER VIII
A STEP FORWARD

The return trip took three hours. It was just five o’clock when the wagons drew up in front of the store front building on Cedar Street, in Greenville.

A man whom Mr. Buckner had hired was sweeping out the place. With his aid and that of another helper, the big packing cases were stowed in the main floor room as Frank wanted them.

Frank had just paid off the two outsiders, when the man he had leased the wagons from drove up in a light vehicle. He was all smiles. He looked over the horses and turned to Frank.

“Mistah Newton, sah,” he observed, “the mussiful man am kind to his beast. Ah see dem hosses in good trim, sah, and am obleeged. Sah, you am a good-luck boy. Like to hire you as my manager, sah, ef I had enough money. Ha! Ha!”

“Where does the good luck come in, Mr. Johnson?” inquired Frank smilingly.

“Ah tell you ’bout dat, sah. Logic am logic. Theyfoh, it follows ef I’d gone up to dat no-good, cheap hauling for de lumbah comp’ny I’d been out five dollahs, ’cause you paid me seben, ’sides having de hosses worked to death. Again, sah, de suckamstance am dis: I happened to be in town when a stranger gen’man came ’long and hiahed me to drive him into de woods. Got another gen’man from your house. I helped dem get a b’loon down from a tree, load it on de wagon and took it to de train. One ob de gen’mans knew you ’ticularly, sah.”

“Yes, Mr. Gregson,” murmured Frank. “Did both leave town?”

“Yes, sah, with the b’loon.”

Frank was sorry he had not seen his entertaining acquaintance before he went away. Mr. Johnson continued:

“Rar gen’man, dose, ’specially dat professor. What think, sah? He say: ‘How much am dis exertion on youah part worth, Mistah Johnsing?’ and when I say, ‘Bout eight bits, Mistah Professor,’ he laugh and gib me a five dollah gold piece. And de other gen’man say to me confimadentially: ‘Mistah Johnsing, please tell young Mistah Newton I shall write to him, and when I get making a little money I shall do myself de pleashah of sending him a gold watch and chain, and dat dog of his a gold collah.’ Deed he did, sah.”

Frank laughed pleasantly, believing that “Mistah Johnsing” was romancing a trifle. Then he said: “I believe our contract on the teams was for twelve hours’ service, Mr. Johnson?”

“Dat am correct, sah.”

“If you say so, I will give them a good feed and do our moving from the house to the rooms upstairs here. Of course I will pay your man for the extra labor.”

“Dat am highly satisfact’ry to me, Mistah Newton.”

The two teams were driven over to the cottage and unhitched in front of it. Frank rigged up a convenient feed trough, gave the horses their oats, and invited Boyle to join him at supper.

Frank had talked over the moving question with his mother that morning. He found that she had put in a busy day. All the pictures were removed from the walls and neatly encased in newspapers. The books had been placed in boxes; everything, even to the beds, carried from upstairs.

Notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Ismond spread out an appetizing meal for the two workers.

“Mother, this really won’t do,” remonstrated Frank seriously.

“What won’t do, my son?” asked his mother, smiling.

“Carrying those heavy things down stairs.”

“But I did not do that – at least not all of it,” the widow hastened to say. “Your friend, Nelson Cady, happened along about three o’clock. Nothing would do but he must lend a helping hand. Then his chums found him out. They were soon in service, too.”

Just as Frank finished his supper there were cheery boyish hails outside. Nelson and five of his cohorts animatedly demanded that they become part and parcel in the fun and excitement of moving.

Soon there was a procession carrying various articles to the rooms on Cedar Street. The wagons took the heavy furniture and such like. Just at dark the last had left the cottage. Looking back, Frank saw Mr. Dorsett sneaking into his empty house from the rear.

“He doesn’t look particularly happy, now he has had his own way,” reflected Frank. “I hope mother doesn’t take the change to heart.”

His first question was along that very line, as the last chair was set in place in the new family habitation.

“Sad, Frank?” said his mother – “no, indeed! When we were forced from the old home on the hill a year ago, I was very sorrowful. It is a positive relief now, though, to get out of the shadow of Mr. Dorsett and all belonging to him. It is nice, and home-like and cozy here, and I am sure we shall be very comfortable and happy in our new home.”

Many hands had aided in bestowing the family goods just where Mrs. Ismond wanted them. There was very little tidying up to do half-an-hour after Frank had dismissed the teamster, with a dollar for his extra work.

Then he led a gay procession down the principal village street. They entered a little ice cream parlor, and Frank “treated” – one ice cream and a glass of soda water all around.

“I want to see you, Nelson, as early in the morning as I can,” said Frank, as they separated for the night.

“Business?” inquired Nelson, in a serious way.

“Why, yes. Truth is, I can put some loose change in your pocket, if you care to undertake a ten-days’ job I have in hand.”

Nelson shook his head dubiously, with a very important air.

“Dunno,” he said calculatingly. “You see, I am expecting a letter any day now.”

Frank smiled to himself. Nelson had been “expecting a letter” every day for a year. Every boy in the village knew this, and occasionally guyed and jollied him about it.

Nelson’s great ambition was to become a cowboy. On one occasion he had run away from home, bound for far-away Idaho. He got as far as the city, was nearly starved and half-frozen, and came home meekly the next day.

His father gave him a good, sensible talk. He tried to convince Nelson that he was too young to undertake the rough life of a cowboy. This failing, he agreed that if Nelson would get some respectable stockman in Idaho to ensure him a regular berth for a year, he would let him go west and pay his fare there.

Since then Nelson had spent nearly all the pocket money he could earn writing to people in Idaho, from the Governor down. Nobody seemed to want an inexperienced, home-bred boy to round their stock, however. Still, Nelson kept on hoping and trying.

“I’ll risk your letter coming before your contract with me is finished, Nelson,” said Frank kindly. “About this cowboy business, though – take my advice and that of your good, kind father: don’t waste your best young years just for the sake of novelty and adventure. No ambitious boy can afford it.”

“But I have a longing for the wild ranch life,” said Nelson earnestly.

“All right, then do your duty to those at home, earn a good start here, where you have friends to help you, and begin with a ranch of your own. When I have made enough money, I would like to run a ranch myself. But I want to own it. I want to make a business investment – not fun and frolic – out of it.”

“All right, I’ll be on hand in the morning,” promised Nelson.

“I have been saving a surprise for you, Frank,” said his mother, as he rejoined her about nine o’clock. “What do you think? Your friend, Mr. Gregson, insisted on leaving you twenty-five dollars.”

“Oh, that won’t do at all!” cried Frank instantly.

“The professor, who was with him, insisted that it must. Besides, they left all sorts of kind regards for you.”

Frank’s was a truly grateful heart. It had been a splendid day for him. He took up a lamp and went downstairs, whistling happily.

“There’s a lot of work to do here,” he said, going from box to box, flashing the light across the contents. “There must be a million needles in that packing case. Poor Morton’s apple corer – there’s several thousands of those. And here’s a great jumble of lawn mower repair material.”

Frank stood mapping out how he would handle the mass of stuff. About to leave the room, he set down the lamp and curiously inspected the zinc box that had apparently been the burned-out hardware man’s safe.

It was filled with papers of various kinds: receipted bills, statements of accounts and letters. Many of these latter were from mail customers who had bought the apple corer and were dissatisfied with its operation.

Many of the papers were partly burned away. All were grimed with smoke. Finally from the very bottom of the box Frank fished up a square package. Opening this, he found it to be some part of a mail order office equipment.

Frank’s eye sparkled. There were several sheets of cardboard. On each of them a colored map of a State of the Union was printed. Each town had a hole near it. This was to hold minute wooden pegs of different hues, each color designating “written to,” or “first customer,” or “agent,” and the like.

At a glance Frank took in the value and utility of this outfit. As he drew some typewritten sheets from a big manilla envelope, he grew positively excited at the grand discovery he had made.

“Fifty thousand names!” exclaimed Frank – “possible mail order customers all over the country! Oh, if this outfit were only mine! Can I get it, or its duplicate? Why,” he said, in a fervent, deep-drawn breath, “circumstances seem absolutely pushing me into the mail order business!”