On the afternoon of the following day Frank was riding toward the hotel when he heard a loud call from a side road, and looking in that direction he saw Samuel Windham waving a hand to him. He leaped from his bicycle, and waited for the young farmer to come up.

“I was going up to the hotel to see you,” said Windham.

“Anything wrong about that money?” questioned Frank, quickly.

“No, only if you don’t mind, I’d like to look through those books with you.”

“Not at all. Come on,” was our hero’s reply.

He rode along slowly, and the young farmer walked by his side. When the hotel was reached our hero led the way to his room and brought out the package of books.

“I know you must have looked over ’em pretty carefully,” said Samuel Windham. “But Millie wanted me to make certain that all of the bills had been found.”

“I’d like to see you find half a dozen more, Mr. Windham.”

“Thank you; but I’d think I was lucky to find just one.”

Half an hour was spent over the books, but no more bank bills were brought to light.

“I reckon we have all of them, Mr. Hardy.”

“I think so myself. Still, there was no harm in another look.”

“My wife and I talked this matter over this morning,” went on Samuel Windham.

“How is she?”

“Much better. Such good news acts better on her than medicine. As I was saying, we talked this matter over this morning. We want you to understand that we appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

“It ain’t many book agents would be so honest.”

“I think book agents are about as honest as other folks.”

“Oh, yes, so do I—but I mean most men wouldn’t be so honest when they had such a good chance to pocket fourteen hundred dollars. We want to reward you, Mr. Hardy.”

“I told you before, I wasn’t looking for a reward.”

“I know that, but my wife and I would feel better if you’d accept what we want to give you. Here it is.”

As Samuel Windham spoke he brought forth a large wallet, and drew out one of the hundred-dollar bills.

“What, do you want me to accept a hundred dollars!” cried Frank.

“That’s it. Take it with our best wishes.”

“It’s altogether too much, Mr. Windham.”

“No, it ain’t. We want you to take it. My wife says to me, ‘Don’t you dare to bring it back, Samuel. You just tell him he’s got to take it from me,’ so there you are.”

Frank hesitated, but he saw that the young farmer was in earnest.

“Very well,” he said, at last. “I’ll take the money. But on one condition, that you let me send you a complimentary set of those famous novels I mentioned to you, along with a bookshelf to keep them on.”

“Well, I shan’t stop you from sending us a present, Mr. Hardy. But you haven’t got to do it if you don’t want to,” answered Samuel Windham, and a little later he took his departure, after our hero had thanked him warmly for the reward.

It must be confessed that the young book agent felt highly elated when he stowed the hundred-dollar bill away in his pocketbook.

“Old books seem to be bringing me in more money than new books,” he thought. “But I can’t expect to have such luck as this all the time.”

He lost no time in sending for the set of novels, stating he would pay cash for them, and also requested Mr. Vincent’s head clerk to send a nice bookshelf with the books. It may be added here that when the books and the shelf came, the Windhams were very proud of the gift.

The next few days were quiet ones for the young book agent. Try his best he could obtain but few orders, and by the end of the week he resolved to try a new locality on the following Monday.

Frank attended a neighboring church on Sunday morning, and in the afternoon went out for a short walk along the river.

He was on his way back when he passed a man who was driving furiously along in a buggy. The person was Mr. Sinclair Basswood.

“Hi! hi! stop!” called out the ex-mayor, as he caught sight of Frank.

“What is it, Mr. Basswood?” questioned Frank, as he walked to the side of the buggy.

“You were right, young man, and I was a fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember about that autograph?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I was taken in nicely.”

“Did the fellow swindle you?”

“He did. I have just been over to Riverview and there I met the banker with whom I have occasionally done business. I am out just sixty-five dollars.”

“What did the rascal do?”

“Turned my autograph into the signature on a check, and what is more, he got the banker to cash the check.”

“Can’t you prove it was a swindle?”

“It will do me no good. The signature is mine, and I’ve got to stand the loss,” fumed the ex-mayor from New Jersey.

“Can’t you catch Gabe Flecker—if that’s his real name?”

“I wish I could, but he seems to have disappeared.”

“It isn’t likely he’d stay around these parts after such a swindle as that,” continued Frank. “He may be hundreds of miles away by this time.”

“I have notified the police. Perhaps they will catch him for me. I’d give fifty dollars just to lay my hands on the rascal.”

“Why not offer a reward?”

“I’ll do it,” answered Sinclair Basswood, promptly.

He was as good as his word, and early on Monday morning Frank saw a notice in the post office offering a reward of fifty dollars for the capture of “One Gabe Flecker, a fugitive from justice.”

By Monday night the young book agent had moved on to a town I shall call Brentwood. This was quite a trading center, with a population of six hundred souls and a good surrounding territory of farms.

Strange as it may seem, our hero found the hotel full and so had to apply to a private boarding-house for accommodations.

“I think I can let you have a room,” said Miss Littell, to whom he was directed. “It is a small room, but comfortably furnished.”

“Can I see it?” asked Frank.

“Oh, yes.”

The room proved to be acceptable, and after some little conversation our hero engaged it for the week, the terms being five dollars in advance, for a room, with breakfast, and dinner in the evening.

“May I ask what your business it?” questioned Miss Littell, after Frank had settled with her.

“I sell books for a living.”

“Indeed!” The landlady appeared much surprised. “How strange!”

“Strange that I sell books?”

“Oh, no, not that. But that two of you should come to me in the same week.”

“Do you mean that you have another book agent here?” questioned Frank, with interest.

“Yes, a Mr. Grant Deems, from Pittsburgh.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Saturday night. He is going to stay until next Sunday.”

“That is odd,” said Frank. “Do you know what he is selling?” he went on, wondering if the stranger could be a rival.

“No, he didn’t show me his books.”

“Perhaps the place is big enough for two agents at a time. But I’d rather have the field to myself.”

“I trust that you have no trouble with Mr. Deems, Mr. Hardy.”

“I’m sure I’m not looking for trouble,” returned Frank.

That evening Frank met Grant Deems at the supper table. He proved to be a tall, lank individual of thirty or more years of age. He had a hard voice and very insistent manner.

“What, are you a book agent?” he said, looking Frank over. “Why, you are nothing but a boy!”

“Nevertheless I sell books,” answered our hero. He did not like the manner in which he was addressed.

“What books are you trying to sell?”

“Those issued by Mr. Philip Vincent, of New York.”

“Pooh! And do you think they are of much account?” sniffed Grant Deems.

“I do.”

“Then you have never seen the line I carry, Mr. Hardy.”

“What house do you represent?”

“The Landon-Bolling Publishing Company, of Washington.”

Now, our hero had heard of the publishing house mentioned, and knew their books were far inferior to those issued by Mr. Vincent. The copyrights were old, the paper and binding poor, and the covers far from lasting.

“I prefer Mr. Vincent’s books,” said Frank, quietly.

“Naturally—since you work for him.”

“No, because I think they are the best books on the market for the price.”

“They can’t hold a candle to our publications. We have you beat to death on our whole line,” went on Grant Deems, insistently.

“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Frank.

“Oh, pshaw!”

Frank was about to make a further reply, but thought better of it, and changed the subject by asking Miss Littell about her little dog that was running around the room. The landlady was grateful for the change, and gave him a look of thanks. After that Grant Deems said nothing more, but finished his meal and went out of the dining room.

“Evidently he is not very friendly,” said the landlady to our hero, after the rival book agent had gone.

“It would seem so,” answered Frank. “But I don’t care. If he lets me alone, I’ll let him alone.”