When Nelson left the lunch-room he scarcely knew what he was doing. The conversation which had occurred had been an important one, but his head was in such a whirl that just now he could make little or nothing out of it.

He had no desire to sell papers,—indeed, he had no desire to do anything,—and all he did was to walk up the street and keep on walking until he was well uptown. Then he began to cross the city in the direction of Broadway.

At last he began to "cool off" a bit, and then he went over all that had been said with care. As he did this he became more and more convinced that Sam Pepper had not told him the truth concerning his parent.

"He is holding something back," he told himself. "And he has some object in doing it. He shall never make me a thief, and some day I'll force him to tell his secret."

"Hullo, Nelson! what brings you up here?"

The question was asked by a young man who carried a flat bag in his hand. The man was an agent for books, and the boy had met him many times before.

"Oh, I just came up for a walk," answered our hero. "How is business, Van Pelt?"

"Poor," answered George Van Pelt, as he set down his bag, which was heavy. "Haven't made but half a dollar so far to-day."

"That's no better than selling newspapers."

"I don't suppose it is, and you don't have to carry around such a bag as this, either. But I would have made more to-day if a customer hadn't tripped me up."

"How was that?"

"There was a young gent living near Central Park named Homer Bulson, wanted me to get certain French books for him. I got the books, but when I went to deliver them he refused to take them, saying they were not what he had ordered."

"Were they?"

"They were. I could make him take them, according to law, but to sue a man is expensive. But now I've got the books on my hands, and they cost me over three dollars."

"Can't you sell them to somebody else?"

"I hardly think so. You see, they are books on poisons, and there isn't much call for that sort of thing."

"Poisons! What did he want to do with them?"

"He said when he ordered them, that he was studying to be a doctor, and was going to make poisons a specialty."

"It's a shame you can't make him take the books."

"So it is. I suppose I could make him take them, if I wanted to create a row. But I can't do that. I haven't the cheek."

"I'd make him take them, if I was in your place. Anyway, I'd tell him I was going to sue him if he didn't pay up. Perhaps that might scare him."

"I was thinking something of doing so. Do you really think it might make him come down?"

"I know some folks hate to think they are going to be sued. And if he lives in a fine house he must be pretty high-toned."

"Oh, he is! He's a young bachelor, and lives in fine style, directly opposite the home of his rich uncle."

"Then I'd try him again, before I'd give up."

"I will. Do you want to come along?" went on George Van Pelt, who hated a quarrel.

"I might as well. I'm not doing much just now," answered Nelson.

"Of course you haven't given up selling papers?" went on George Van Pelt, as the two walked along.

"No. But I wish I could get something better to do."

"That's hard these times, Nelson. How much a day can you make at it?"

"From seventy-five cents to a dollar and a quarter. Sometimes I make a dollar and a half, but that's not often."

"The books used to bring me in from three to five dollars a day. But the department stores cut the prices now, and soon the whole book-agent business will be ruined."

"What will you go into then?"

"I don't know. If I had the money I'd start a newsstand—for papers and books, too."

"That would pay, if you could get hold of the right corner," said our hero, with interest.

"I know of a good corner on Third Avenue. The man who keeps it now is old and wants to sell out."

"What does he want for the stand?"

"A hundred dollars. Of course the stock isn't worth it, but the business is."

"That depends on what he takes in a day."

"He averages seventy-five dollars a week. But it would be more, if he was able to get around and attend to it."

"A hundred dollars a week would mean about thirty dollars profit," said Nelson, who was quick at figures. "How much is the rent?"

"Five dollars a week."

"That would leave twenty-five dollars for the stand-keeper. Does he have a boy?"

"Yes, and pays him three dollars a week."

"Maybe we could buy the stand together, Van Pelt. You know all about books, and I know about the newspapers. We ought to make a go of it."

"That's so, but——" The book agent looked rather dubiously at our hero's clothes. "How about the cash?"

"We might save it somehow. I'm saving up for a suit now."

"You need the suit."

"I expected to get it in a few days. But Billy Darnley robbed me of five dollars, so I've got to wait a bit."

"Well, if we could raise that money we might buy out the stand and try our luck," continued George Van Pelt, after a thoughtful pause. "I think we'd get along. How much have you."

"Only a dollar or two now."

"I've got fifteen dollars, and about ten dollars' worth of books."

"Couldn't we get the man to trust us for the stand?"

"He said he might trust me for half the amount he asks, but fifty dollars would have to be a cash payment."

"We'll raise it somehow!" cried Nelson enthusiastically. The idea of owning a half interest in a regular stand appealed to him strongly. In his eyes the proprietor of such a stand was a regular man of business.

The pair hurried on, and at length reached the vicinity of Central Park, and Van Pelt pointed out the house in which the rich young man who had refused to take the books lived.

"Perhaps he won't let me in," he said.

"Wait—somebody is coming out of the house," returned our hero.

"It's Mr. Bulson himself," said George Van Pelt.

He hurried forward, followed by Nelson, and the pair met the young man on the steps of his bachelor abode.

Homer Bulson was a tall, slim young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat weak, but in his eyes was a look full of scheming cunning. He was faultlessly dressed in the latest fashion, wore a silk hat, and carried a gold-headed cane.

"Mr. Bulson, I must see you about these books," said George Van Pelt, coming to a halt on the steps of the stone porch.

"I told you before that I did not wish to be bothered," answered the young man coldly.

"But you ordered the books, sir."

"I will not discuss the matter with you. Go away, and if you bother me again I shall call a policeman."

"My friend hasn't done anything wrong," put in Nelson boldly. "You ordered some books from him, and you ought to pay for 'em."

"What have you to do with this matter?" demanded the rich young man, staring harshly at our hero.

"This man is my friend, and I don't want to see him swindled," said our hero.

"Swindled!"

"That's it. You ordered some books on poisons from him, and now you don't want to pay for 'em. It's a swindle and an outrage. He's a poor man, and you haven't any right to treat him so."

"Boy, if you speak like that to me, I'll have you put under arrest," stormed Homer Bulson in a rage.

"You must take the books," put in George Van Pelt, growing braver through what Nelson was saying. "If you won't take them, I'll sue you for the amount."

"Sue me?"

"Yes, sue you."

"And I'll put the reporters on the game," added the newsboy. "They like to get hold of society notes." And he grinned suggestively.

At this Homer Bulson's face became filled with horror. For more reasons than one he did not wish this affair to become public property.

"To sue me will do no good," he said lamely.

"Yes, it will," said the book agent. "You have money and will have to pay up."

"Or else your rich uncle will pay for you," said Nelson, never dreaming of how the shot would tell. Bulson grew very pale.

"I—I will take the books and pay for them," he stammered. "Not because I think I ought to take them, mind you," he added, "but because I wish no trouble in public. Where are the books?"

"Here." And George Van Pelt brought two volumes from his satchel.

"How much?"

"Just what I told you before, Mr. Bulson—five dollars."

"It's a very high price for such small books."

"They are imported from France, remember, and besides, books on poisons——"

"Give them to me."

The books were passed over, and Homer Bulson drew from his vest pocket a small roll of bills. He handed over a five to George Van Pelt.

"Now begone with you," he said sourly. "And don't ever come near me again for another order."

"Don't worry, I won't come," answered the book agent. "You are too hard a customer to suit."

He pocketed the money and rejoined Nelson on the sidewalk. Then both started to walk away.

As they did so our hero glanced across the way and saw, in a window of the house opposite, the young lady who had offered her assistance after Billy Darnley had robbed him.

She recognized him and smiled, and he promptly touched his hat respectfully.

Homer Bulson saw the act and so did George Van Pelt, and both stared at Nelson.

"Whom did you see?" asked Van Pelt, as they walked down the street.

"A lady who once offered to help me," said Nelson. "She was in that house. She has left the window now."

"Why, that is where that man's rich uncle lives!" exclaimed the book agent.

"Is it?" cried our hero. "Then perhaps the lady is a relative to him."

"Perhaps."

"What is the uncle's name?"

"Mark Horton. I understood that he was once a rich merchant of Philadelphia. But he's a sickly old man now. I wanted to sell him some books, but they wouldn't let me see him."

"I hope that young lady isn't a relative to that Homer Bulson," mused Nelson. "If he is, he can't be very nice company for her."

"That's true, Nelson."

"You said you tried to sell books there but they wouldn't let you in."

"No, the gentleman was too sick to see me—at least that is what they said. But perhaps it was only a dodge to keep me out."

"I suppose they play all sorts of tricks on you—to keep you out of folks' houses," went on the newsboy thoughtfully.

"Sometimes they do. Some folks won't be bothered with a book agent."

"And yet you've got to live," laughed Nelson.

"Yes, all of us have got to live. But lots of folks, especially those with money, won't reason that way. They'll set a dog on you, or do worse, just to get rid of you. Why, once I had a man in Paterson accuse me of stealing."

"How was that?"

"It was the first week I went out selling books. I was down on my luck and didn't have any clothes worth mentioning."

"Like myself, for instance," interrupted the newsboy, with a laugh.

"If anything my clothes were worse. Well, I was traveling around Paterson when I struck a clothing shop on a side street. I went in and found the proprietor busy with a customer, and while I waited for him I picked up a cheap suit of clothes to examine it. All of a sudden the proprietor's clerk came rushing out of a back room and caught me by the arm.

"'You vos goin' to steal dot coat!' he roared.

"'No, I wasn't,' I said. 'I was just looking at it.'

"'I know petter,' he went on, and then he called the proprietor and both of them held me."

"I reckon you were scared."

"I was, for I didn't know a soul in the town. I said I wasn't a thief, and had come in to sell books, and I showed them my samples. At first they wouldn't believe a word, and they talked a whole lot of German that I couldn't understand. Then one went out for a policeman."

"And what did you do then?"

"I didn't know what to do, and was studying the situation when the other man suddenly said I could go—that he didn't want any bother with going to court, and all that. Then I dusted away, and I never stopped until I was safe on the train and on my way back to New York."

"Did you ever go to Paterson after that?"

"No, I never wanted to see that town again," concluded George Van Pelt.