The following week was a busy one for the young book agent. He spent one day in collecting all the old books he had bought, and sent them to his home, where they were stored in a vacant bedroom, which was thus turned into what the family called “Frank’s bookery.” He also ordered the new books he wished.

“You are certainly doing remarkably well,” was Mr. Hardy’s comment, when Frank had told the story of his week’s work. “I never dreamed you would do half as well.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll do so well right along,” answered the son. “But I’m going to do my best.”

Mr. Hardy also had news to tell. Mr. Begoin, the lawyer, had called upon him, and a letter had been sent to the officials of the railroad company, notifying them that damages for the accident would be demanded. As a consequence, a lawyer in the employ of the railroad company had appeared.

“He was a very slick fellow,” said Mr. Hardy. “He tried his best to get me to accept two hundred dollars in full for my claim. When he saw that I wouldn’t take two hundred, he advanced to three hundred, and then to four hundred. He said I was very foolish not to accept four hundred.”

“And what did you tell him, father?” questioned Frank.

“I told him, after he had talked for half an hour, that I meant to leave the matter entirely with my lawyer, Mr. Begoin.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He was much disturbed, and before he went wanted to know if I’d sign off my claim for five hundred dollars. He said if I sued the company they would fight to the bitter end.”

“Do you think they will fight?”

“Perhaps; but Mr. Begoin says I have a perfectly clear case and need not be afraid of them.”

“How much does he think you ought to have?”

“He says he will sue them for five thousand dollars. I don’t think, though, that I’ll get more than half that. But if I get only a thousand it will be better than accepting five hundred now.”

“You are right, father. I’d let Mr. Begoin go ahead. He must know just what he is doing. What did he say about the Jabez Garrison affair?”

“He cannot help me much in that matter. Our only hope is to find Garrison, and make him give up whatever money he still possesses.”

“Do you imagine he took much cash with him?”

“It’s more than likely he took some. But you must remember he owes some large amounts. Those would have to be squared up before I could get back the amount of my bond.”

“But wouldn’t the claim of the benevolent order be a prior claim to ordinary business claims?”

“I think so, since that was actual cash entrusted to him.”

“When do you expect to hear from Mr. Begoin again?”

“Not until he hears from the railroad company, or from Philadelphia.”

Mr. Hardy could now hobble around the house with the aid of a cane, but it was thought best not to let him go beyond the porch and the back garden.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said to Frank. “I’ll make out several lists of the books you have.”

“Just make out one nice list, father, and that will be enough,” returned our hero. “I am going to New York again before long and see some dealers in second-hand books. Perhaps I’ll do as well buying up old books as in selling new books.”

“Perhaps you can make more sales, Frank, if you’ll agree to take old books in part payment.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

It rained for two days so hard that to attempt to go out and sell books was out of the question. Frank spent the time around the house, doing whatever came to hand. He also put his bicycle in prime condition, for in the future he intended to ride the wheel as much as possible, and thus save railroad and stage fares.

He received a very complimentary letter from Mr. Vincent, in which the publisher congratulated him on his success.

“You are undoubtedly cut out for this business,” wrote Mr. Vincent. “Keep at it by all means, and some day you may become a publisher yourself—provided you don’t come to the conclusion that you can make more money by selling alone.”

As soon as it cleared off, Frank set out with a large package of books which were to be delivered. He also carried his order case, and a small valise, for he expected this time to remain away from home for some time.

“You are pretty well loaded down,” said Mrs. Hardy, who was at the gate to see him off.

“He is a peddler with a pack,” said Ruth. “But don’t you mind that, Frank, so long as you are making money.”

“I don’t mind it a bit,” he answered, cheerfully, and then, with a wave of his hand, he started for Camperville, twenty-two miles distant.

He had three calls to make on the road, and at the last of the three he stopped for dinner. As he was entering the yard, he encountered a small-built, sallow-faced man coming away, valise in hand. The stranger had an air about him that was far from reassuring.

“I am so glad he has gone, ma,” Frank heard a girl in the kitchen say.

“So am I glad, Emma. I wonder where the money went to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. We didn’t take it, goodness knows.”

“He was awfully angry.”

So the talk ran on, and Frank soon gathered that the stranger had lost ten dollars while stopping at the house overnight.

“He almost accused us of stealing it,” said Mrs. Farley, the lady of the place. “He said he had placed two five-dollar bills on the mantelshelf in his room, and now they were gone. We hunted everywhere, but couldn’t find the money.”

“What is he going to do about it?”

“Nothing—now. First, he asked where the constable lived, but at last he said if we wouldn’t charge him anything for stopping here he wouldn’t make any complaint. We didn’t want the notoriety, so we let him go.”

“Perhaps it was only a game to cheat you out of what was coming to you,” suggested the young book agent.

“Oh, ma, maybe that’s so,” put in Emma.

“It might be,” answered Mrs. Farley, doubtfully. “But I shouldn’t want to be dragged into court over the matter.”

“He looked like a sharper to me,” said Frank. “Still it is possible that he lost the money. Maybe it blew out of the window.”

“We looked under the window and all over the dooryard.”

All during the meal the strange affair was discussed, but without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Frank had a health book to deliver, and after collecting for this, and settling for his meal, he went on his way.

About a mile down the road he came across the stranger once more. The fellow was seated on a bridge that crossed a small stream, and was munching an apple.

“You certainly don’t look like an honest man to me,” was our hero’s mental comment. “I believe you’ve swindled Mrs. Farley out of her board money.”

“Hullo there!” called out the man.

“Hullo!” returned Frank, briefly.

“How far is it to Camperville?”

“About two miles, I think,” and now Frank came to a stop.

“What are you doing? Peddling?” went on the man in a hard, unpleasant voice.

“Hardly. I’m a book agent.”

“Oh! Hard work, isn’t it?”

“Rather hard; yes.”

“I tried it once, but there wasn’t enough money in it to suit me.”

“What do you do?” asked our hero curiously.

“Me? Oh, I’m in half a dozen things. What’s your name?”

“Frank Hardy. What’s yours?”

“Gabe Flecker. I’m buying up butter on commission just now.”

“For a New York house?”

“Yes—the Gasson & Flecker Company. Flecker is my uncle. Do you know anybody who has butter to sell?”

“No.”

“We’ll pay the best price,” went on Gabe Flecker, handing out a card. “Tell your friends around here to write to us, and send us their butter on commission.”

Frank slipped the card into his pocket and mounted his wheel again.

“Guess I’ll have to get a wheel,” said Gabe Flecker. “It’s better than walking.”

“You are right there,” answered the young book agent, and in a moment more he was out of hearing.

Frank was more convinced than ever that the fellow was a sharper. His eyes had a look in them that could not be trusted.

“I’d not trust him with a single tub of butter,” he told himself. “I don’t believe he’d ever send a cent back for it. That company may be nothing but a fake concern.” And in that latter surmise the young book agent hit the nail on the head. He was destined to meet Gabe Flecker again, and in a most unexpected manner.