The farmer lads had cloths tied over the lower parts of their faces, and had their hats pulled far down over their foreheads, so as to conceal their features as much as possible. One, the smaller of the trio, had his jacket turned inside out.

“What do you want?” demanded Frank, as he leaped to the ground.

“We want to speak to you,” said one of the big boys, in a rough voice.

“What about?”

“You’ll soon see.”

“Make him a prisoner, fellers,” cried the lad who had his coat turned inside out.

The voice appeared familiar to Frank, but he could not, for the moment, place it.

“You can’t make me a prisoner,” said the young book agent, and tried to back out with his bicycle.

“Can’t we, though?” came from the lad who had not yet spoken. “Don’t you try to run. If you do, you’ll get a taste of this.” And he brandished his club.

“We’re goin’ to give you a good lickin’!” came from the boy with the turned jacket.

“Oh, so it’s you!” ejaculated Frank, for he now placed the speaker as the stage-struck farm boy.

“You don’t know me,” said the boy in quick alarm.

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re the boy that wanted to become an actor.”

“It ain’t so. I’m Joe Small.”

“Your name is Jack, and you live in the yellow house over yonder hill.”

“Don’t talk to him,” put in the biggest of the trio, who had been offered five cents to help “polish off” the young book agent. “Give him what he deserves and let him go.”

“He’ll tell on me,” whispered Jack.

“No, he won’t. Just help make him a prisoner and leave the rest to Ollie and me.”

Watching their chance, the three boys crowded in on Frank, and overturned both him and his wheel. Then, despite the fact that he hit out vigorously, they sat down on him. Jack tried to kick him, but our hero pulled him down by the leg, and gave him a severe blow in the nose that drew blood.

“Oh! oh! my nose!” roared the would-be actor, and clapped a hand to that organ.

Frank had been hit several times, but at last he managed to throw off his assailants, and then he struck out in a lively fashion. Yet, with their clubs, they were at an advantage, and he was speedily getting the worst of the encounter when a man appeared in the distance, carrying a basket of eggs in his hand. It was Samuel Windham.

“Hi! hi! What does this mean?” cried the young farmer, in amazement.

“Help me, please!” gasped Frank, who was almost out of wind from his exertions.

“Highway robbers, eh?” cried the young farmer, and setting down his basket he leaped forward, and threw one of the masked youths headlong.

“Don’t!” screamed the other. “We ain’t no robbers. We’re only havin’ a bit of fun.”

“Pretty rough fun,” came from Samuel Windham, and he made after the lad, who took to his heels, and disappeared behind the trees. Seeing this the others also ran off at top speed, leaving the field to Frank and his friend.

“Thank you; you came in the nick of time,” said our hero, as he brushed off his clothing.

“Hurt much?”

“Not very much. I got a nasty crack in the shoulder and one on the left hand, but I’ll soon get over them.”

“What made ’em attack you, I wonder.”

“It was on account of the smallest boy,” said Frank, and then told of the lad’s stage tendencies. Samuel Windham laughed uproariously at the story.

“Just like him,” he said. “That boy always was a queer stick. His folks had better take him in hand. Will you make a complaint?”

“I guess not. I don’t expect to visit this neighborhood again in a hurry. They got about as good as they gave.”

“Wonder who the other boys were?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

As he was in no hurry, Frank pushed his wheel along, and walked into Camperville with Samuel Windham.

“I shall not forget you,” said our hero, on parting with the young farmer. “If you hadn’t come up I don’t know what I should have done.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” And then they shook hands, and Samuel Windham walked on to a grocery store, where he traded his eggs for table commodities.

Reaching his room at the hotel, Frank placed the books he had purchased in the closet. He had expected to look them over before retiring, but felt too tired to do so. He procured his supper, and after a glance at a local weekly paper, returned to his apartment and went to bed.

Business around Camperville continued rather poor, and by the end of the week, Frank moved on to the next town, six miles westward. He crossed the Delaware River, and now found himself in Pennsylvania. Here business was a little better, and he took up his quarters at a hotel called the Grandmore House, which was partly filled with summer boarders.

At the hotel Frank fell in with rather a pleasant man by the name of Sinclair Basswood, who had at one time been the mayor of a New Jersey town. Mr. Basswood had a great idea of his own importance, and never grew tired of speaking of his rise in life.

“Stick to your work, my lad,” said Sinclair Basswood to Frank, graciously, “and some day you may become a mayor, as I did.”

“I don’t know as I want to become a mayor,” answered our hero. “I’d rather become a book publisher. Not but what it’s a great thing to be a mayor,” he added hastily.

“A very responsible position, I assure you,” responded the ex-mayor.

“A mayor must have his hands full?”

“Quite true, my lad; the duties are arduous enough. But I felt that I owed something to the town in which I was born and raised, so I consented to run on the ticket when they asked me, and I was elected by two hundred and six majority,” responded Sinclair Basswood.

One day the ex-mayor was sitting on a side veranda, smoking a cigar, when a small-built, shrewd-looking individual approached him.

“Excuse me, but is this Mr. Sinclair Basswood,” said the newcomer, politely, after making certain that the ex-mayor was alone.

“I am that individual.”

“I mean the ex-mayor.”

“The same.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Basswood; very glad indeed.” The newcomer shook hands warmly. “Excuse me, but do you know I have desired to know you for a long time.”

“Really you flatter me,” said the gratified Mr. Basswood.

“Not in the least, my dear sir—not in the least. And now let me tell you what motive has prompted me—a stranger—to intrude myself upon you.”

“Oh, no intrusion, sir.”

“Thank you—thank you a thousand times for saying so. But in a word, I wish to obtain your autograph.”

“I fear,” replied the ex-mayor, “that it is scarcely worth the giving.”

“Let me judge of that, Mr. Basswood. I have already secured the autographs of some of the most distinguished men of our country, including the President and his Cabinet. I wish to place your autograph in that collection of celebrities.”

“Well, you are welcome,” said the ex-mayor, secretly tickled to be thought of such importance.

“Please write your name here,” went on the stranger, and produced a stylographic pen and a small sheet of paper, and, without hesitation, Sinclair Basswood complied with the request. In finishing up with a flourish he made a small blot on the edge of the sheet.

“That’s too bad,” he said, in a disappointed tone.

“Oh, I can easily remove that, sir,” said the stranger. “Very much obliged, sir, for your kindness. I shall prize the autograph exceedingly.” And then, before Sinclair Basswood could question him regarding his name, he bowed and withdrew.

The man who had obtained the autograph was just passing through the hotel when he met Frank.

“Hullo, are you stopping here?” exclaimed our hero, as he recognized the slick features of Gabe Flecker.

“No, I am not,” was the quick reply, and then the dapper young man lost no time in leaving the hotel and disappearing.

“Do you know that young man?” demanded Sinclair Basswood, who had seen Frank address the dapper individual.

“Not very well. I met him once on the road.”

“He asked me for my autograph.”

“Is that so? What did he want to do with it?”

“Said he wished to put it in a collection he owns. He has that of our President, his Cabinet, and other celebrities.”

“He told me he was buying butter from the farmers,” said Frank, bluntly. “But, even so, he may be an autograph collector.”

“Well, the autograph didn’t cost me anything,” responded Sinclair Basswood, loftily. “He supplied the pen, and the paper too.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t an order you signed?”

“An order?”

“Yes. I once heard of a good-for-nothing book agent who used to collect autographs. After that he would write out an order for books over each signature.”

“Good heavens! Perhaps that chap is a swindler!” ejaculated the ex-mayor, turning pale. “Where is he?”

“He has left the grounds.”

A search was made, but Gabe Flecker had disappeared and could not be traced.

“I’d give five dollars to have that autograph back,” groaned Sinclair Basswood. “How foolish to give it to an utter stranger.”

“Let us hope that it is all right,” replied Frank. “Remember, there are many honest autograph hunters in this world, and Mr. Flecker may be one of them. But I must admit I do not like his looks.”