Half an hour later found Frank on his way home by way of the stage which ran between Bardon, Claster, and half a dozen other points. He had his books in one hand and a fine, fat chicken, cleaned and dressed, in the other.

“I’ve certainly had a splendid start,” said he to himself. “I’ve sold thirty-nine dollars’ worth of books and made nine dollars and a quarter. If I do as well every day I’ll soon be rich.”

It was dark when he reached home, and it must be confessed that he was very tired, and his arms ached not a little from carrying the books. Yet he could not help but whistle as he entered the house, so light was his heart. Frisky greeted him with short, sharp barks of delight.

“Glad to see me, aren’t you?” cried Frank, and putting his books on the hall rack, he patted the dog.

“You must feel happy, Frank,” cried Ruth, who came into the hall to greet him.

“I do feel happy.”

“Then you got an agency for those books?”

“I did more, Ruth—I’ve sold some of the books.”

“Good for you!”

The family had already eaten supper, but a generous portion had been saved for our hero.

“Here’s a chicken I brought from Bardon,” said Frank. “I bought it from a man because he bought a book from me,” he explained.

“It is a nice fowl,” answered his mother, after an examination. “So you got your books and have begun to sell them? You were fortunate.”

“Let’s go up to father’s room, and I’ll tell you all about it, mother.”

The whole family gathered in the patient’s room to hear what Frank might have to say. Mr. Hardy was now able to move around the room a little bit, but could not go downstairs.

It was a long story, but all listened with deep interest to all our hero had to say.

“And you have really sold thirty-nine dollars worth of books, Frank!” ejaculated his father, in amazement. “It is wonderful. I did not think any agent could do so well.”

“And to think his commission is over nine dollars!” put in Ruth. “Oh, Frank, you’ll be a millionaire!”

“Hardly,” he answered, with a short laugh.

“You must remember that Mr. Begoin’s order alone amounted to thirty dollars. If it had not been for that my commission would have been only two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“But even that is very good,” put in Mrs. Hardy.

“I am glad you spoke to the lawyer,” came from Mr. Hardy. “I shall be glad to see him. I want to know how I stand in this matter of damages from the railroad, and also how I stand in this Garrison case. I am not up in legal matters, and need somebody to straighten out the tangle for me.”

“I’ve got to send in that order for the set of books to-night,” continued Frank. “And I want to get those blank books too.” And he wrote out the necessary orders without delay. For the blank books he obtained a post-office money order, and sent off the letters before retiring.

It must be admitted that Frank slept but little that night. His head was filled with schemes for selling books. He felt that, if he had not struck a bonanza, he had at least struck something that promised very well, and he was resolved to work it “for all it was worth,” as he expressed it.

Like many another person taking up an agency, Frank had a feeling against working close around home, and so resolved to cover a number of towns and country places to the west of Claster. This would keep him from home perhaps a few nights at a time, and he had his mother put some things in a valise for his personal use.

“You’ll be loaded down, with your books and your valise,” said Mrs. Hardy.

“Never mind, mother, I’ll get used to carrying them,” he answered, bravely.

Frank left home at nine o’clock the following morning. He took the stage for Fairport, which was fifteen miles away. Fairport was a center for villages and farms several miles around, and the young book agent felt he could find enough to do in that vicinity for at least a week, if not longer.

He already knew of a cheap but respectable hotel at Fairport, and arriving at the town made his way thither.

“How much will you charge me for a room, with breakfast and supper, for a few days or a week?” he asked of the proprietor.

“Don’t want dinner?”

“No, sir! I’ll be away during the day.”

“A dollar a day as long as you stay.”

“All right, sir. Here is my valise, and I’ll start from supper to-night.”

“Very well. You can register, and your room will be Number 21.”

Frank placed his name in the hotel book and then, after brushing up a bit, set out with his case of books in his hand, to see what he could do. The extra volumes he had brought along he left at the hotel.

He had an idea that he could do better just outside of the town than in it, and so took to a road which led to another settlement two miles away.

He soon came to a neat-looking farmhouse, and going up to the front door, rang the bell. A tall, thin woman, with a hard face, came to answer his summons.

“Good-morning, madam,” began Frank politely.

“What do you want, young man?” the woman demanded, briefly.

“If you have a few minutes to spare I’d like to call your attention to several books I am selling.”

“Books! You get right out of this doorway, or I’ll set our dog on you!” she cried, shrilly. “What impudence! To take me from my baking like this!” And she slammed the door in Frank’s face.

It was certainly a cold reception, and the young book agent’s face grew red with mortification. He was on the point of making an angry retort, but checked himself, and, instead, left the yard whistling merrily.

“That was a flat failure,” he reasoned. “But as I am bound to have them I must make the best of them.”

He visited three farmhouses in succession, but nobody cared to buy books. Some said they had too many books already, and others said they had no money to spare.

It was now noon, and Frank’s face grew sober as he realized that half the day was gone and he had not sold a single volume. Was his bright prospect of the day previous to vanish after all?

“I’ve got to sell something, that’s certain,” he muttered, as he set his teeth hard. “Now, the very next call must mean a book sold.”

The next farmhouse soon came to view. As he walked up to the door he saw that the woman of the place and two men, evidently a father and son, were eating their dinner.

“Excuse me, madam,” said he, struck by a sudden thought. “But would you care to sell me a dinner? I don’t care to go away back to the hotel at Fairport.”

The farmer’s wife looked him over carefully.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Frank Hardy. I’m selling books for a living.”

“What does he want, Martha?” asked the husband.

“Wants to buy his dinner. He’s selling books.”

“Well, sell him a dinner if he wants it.”

“All right, you can come in, Mr. Hardy.”

“How much will it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know—about twenty cents, I guess.”

“Thank you, that’s cheap enough.”

Frank was soon in the house, and having washed his hands at the kitchen sink, sat down to the table. A really liberal meal for twenty cents was set before him.

“Like to look at some of my books?” he asked of the farmer, who had about finished his repast.

“I dunno.”

“It won’t cost you anything. Here you are. Look them over all you please,” and Frank passed over the health book and the cattle and poultry work. Then, without saying more he continued to eat what was set before him.

“This here cattle book is quite something,” said the farmer, after a spell of silence. “I think Bill Judkins has one of ’em.”

“This is the latest and best—just issued last fall,” returned Frank. “It is thoroughly up-to-date, and tells of the latest methods of treating cattle and poultry for all sorts of diseases.”

“Samuel, you ought to have such a book,” put in the farmer’s wife. “Don’t you think so, Hiram?”

“Might be a good idee,” responded the son, who was about twenty years of age and six feet two inches in height. “Might be we wouldn’t hev lost thet cow last month if we’d known what was the matter of her.”

“Here is a chapter on cows,” said Frank, turning to it. “Here are the diseases, and here are the remedies.”

“By gum! That’s what was the matter o’ our cow!” exclaimed Hiram, looking into the book. “Here’s the medicine to give fer it, too. It’s too bad, pop, we didn’t have such a book when she tuk sick.”

“How much is a book like thet?” questioned the farmer, cautiously. “I can’t afford no fancy figure.”

“There is the price right on the front page,” answered Frank. “Three dollars, no more and no less, and the same price to all.”

The way he said this made the farmer’s son laugh.

“Reckon you’re a book agent right enough,” he observed. “Bet you kin talk like one of them patent medicine men as travels around, can’t you?”

“I can talk about these books, because I understand them.” He turned to the farmer’s wife. “It’s just like this pie. You know how to make it, and that’s why it’s good.”

She smiled broadly.

“Do you want another piece?”

“Don’t know that I am entitled to it, ma’am—but it’s mighty good.”

“Yes, you can have it,” she answered, and got another piece from a side table. Then she turned again to her husband. “You might better take the book, Samuel.”

“Guess as how I will.” And the farmer went upstairs to get the money.

“You can pay me to-morrow, when I bring the book,” said Frank. “This is only my sample. I’ll bring you a nice, clean copy.”

“Good for you.”

“What do you think of the other book?” went on the young book agent. “If you have one book with which to doctor your cattle and poultry, you ought to have another with which to doctor yourself.”

“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Hiram. “Thet’s a good joke.”

“Betty Daws has a family doctor book,” said the farmer’s wife. “She says it saves her many a spell of sickness.”

“Do you ever have much sickness?” asked Frank.

“Sometimes. Father, he had chills and fever, and Hiram had an earache.”

“Here is an article on chills and fever, and here is another on earache and how to cure it.”

“Gosh, if it tells how to cure earache I want the book,” put in Hiram. “Tell you what I’ll do, ma. It’s your birthday next Tuesday. I’ll buy you a book for a present.”

“Thank you, Hiram, it will be very nice,” answered his mother.

Frank remained at the farmhouse a short while longer, and then started to pay for the dinner he had had.

“Never mind that,” said the farmer’s wife. “Take it out of the price of the books when you bring them,” and so it was settled.