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

“Didn’t you get your case?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down. Going home, I suppose?”

“I am going to Bardon first.”

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

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

“Why, has he been sick?”

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

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

“So they say.”

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

“I think not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am selling books.”

“Indeed? What sort of books?”

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

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

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

“And what is such a set worth?”

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

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope selling books pays you, Frank.”

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

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

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

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

“I do, Mr. Begoin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well,” answered Robert Begoin.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t want any books.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d like to show you some books.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dwenty cents.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Three dollars.”

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

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

“I’ll give you two dollars.”

“Sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“Then make it two and a half.”

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

At this the man sighed.

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

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, hand it over.”

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

“Then do it.”

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

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

“No, sir, I ran all the way.”

“Humph! So you won’t take less than three dollars?”

“I can’t. But I tell you what I’ll do. I see you have some chickens for sale.”

“Yes, all you want.”

“What will you charge for a nice chicken, cleaned and dressed? My father is home sick and I’d like to take one to him.”

“I’ll let you have your pick for sixty cents.”

“Then I’ll take one,” answered Frank.