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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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 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.

“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.