AT HOME ONCE MORE
FRANK found that Bobby Frost had a very nice home indeed, and he
wondered greatly why the boy had ever dreamed of leaving it to go to the
city on a wild-goose chase.
Mrs. Frost was a kindly-looking woman, while her husband was rather
silent and stern, although just and good.
“Yes, Bobby has confessed what you did for him,” said Mrs. Frost, after
the young book agent was introduced. “You were more than kind, and I
shall never forget you.”
“Perhaps a few days in the city would have done him no harm,” came from
her husband. “He would speedily have discovered that to make a fortune
is not so easy. How are you getting along with your book selling?”
“Very well,” answered our hero, and related a few particulars.
“Don’t you ever have folks set the dog on you?” asked Bobby. “I’ve read
about that being done.”
“No; I’ve never met a savage dog yet,” answered Frank. “But, then, you
must remember, I haven’t been at the business very long.”
“Let us hope you never meet a savage dog,” answered Mrs. Frost with a
shudder. “I had an experience once which I will never forget.”
“Why, ma, you never told me about it,” cried Bobby.
“It was when I was a schoolgirl. I was going to school across the fields
when a big hound belonging to Deacon Brown came after me. I ran as hard
as I could, and then got into an apple tree that was standing near.”
“Did the dog tree you?”
“He did, and kept me there nearly an hour. I called as loudly as I
could, and at last the deacon came to the place to learn what was the
matter. He called the dog off and chained him up, and then I came down
out of the tree. But I was so scared I did not get over it for several
days.”
It was nearly dinner time, and Frank was asked by both Mr. and Mrs.
Frost to remain to the meal.
“Oh, yes, you must stay,” put in Bobby. “And you must show my folks your
books. Ma, he says he has a set of famous novels that you might like,”
he went on, to his parent.
“Yes, I should like to look at your books,” answered Mrs. Frost.
In Frank’s honor the dinner was made quite an elaborate one, and it is
perhaps needless to state that our hero did ample justice to all that
was set before him. While eating, he related some of the adventures he
had had on the road while selling books, and even Mr. Frost was
interested in his narrative.
“There are lots of ups and downs in the business, just as in every
venture,” said he. “But so long as you make a good living you need not
complain.”
“On the contrary, I am very well satisfied,” answered Frank.
The meal over, our hero brought out his samples of books, and the whole
family looked them over. The cattle and poultry work particularly
interested Mr. Frost, and he said he would take a volume, especially as
it seemed so up-to-date.
“I have one book, but it is twenty years old,” said he. “I have wished
for a new one for some time.”
“This set of famous novels is really valuable,” came from Mrs. Frost.
“Would you like to have it?” questioned her husband.
“If you think we can afford it. It will give us plenty of good reading
during the long winter.”
“Then I’ll put my name down for a set,” said Mr. Frost, and did so on
the spot. He was bound to show Frank that he appreciated what the young
book agent had done for his son.
Our hero remained at the Frosts’ home for several hours and then left to
see what he could do in the village. Bobby went with him, and as he
begged to carry the case, Frank allowed him to do so.
“Do you expect to be a book agent all your life?” questioned the younger
boy.
“Hardly, Bobby.”
“What do you expect to do later?”
“If I ever get money enough, I’ll open a store and publish books
myself.”
“If you do that, I’ll write to you for a job.”
“All right, Bobby; perhaps I’ll be able to employ you,” said Frank.
After a hard day’s canvassing, our hero obtained two orders for the
health book, and then left by train for home. He reached Claster at nine
o’clock, and found his brother and sister on the point of retiring.
“So you thought you’d come home to-night,” said his mother, as she
kissed him. “I looked for you all afternoon.”
“I stopped to do some business at Oakwood, mother. How is father?”
“He is improving slowly.”
Just then Mr. Hardy came downstairs, and Frank went to meet him.
“Why, father, you walk almost as good as you ever did,” he cried.
“Yes, Frank; but I get tired very soon.”
“How do you feel otherwise?”
“Fairly well.”
“Have you heard anything more of Jabez Garrison or from the railroad
company?”
“Nothing from that rascal, Garrison. The railroad sent their lawyer to
see Mr. Begoin.”
“And what was the result?”
“He told them that I would accept two thousand dollars. Their lawyer
offered twelve hundred.”
“He didn’t accept it, did he?”
“No; he told the railroad man it must be two thousand, or we would bring
suit.”
“And Mr. Begoin thinks you will get it?”
“He does.”
“I hope you do, father.”
“Yes. As I have said in my letter to you, it will be a big lift.”
“Have you any idea what you will do when you get well?”
“Not exactly. It depends on how much money I can get together. I’ll have
a big doctor’s bill to pay, remember. And I don’t think my foot will
ever be as strong as it once was.”
Ruth and little Georgie wanted to see Frank, and he told them of what
luck he had had since he had been home before.
“Oh, isn’t it just splendid!” cried Ruth.
“I’m going to be a book agent when I’m as big as Frank,” came from our
hero’s little brother.
“And how are you getting along in school?” asked Frank.
“My card averaged ninety-four last month,” said Ruth.
“I’m next to the top of the class,” said little Georgie.
“That’s good. Get all the education you can, for that is what
counts—I’ve found that out.”
“Frank, you must find some way of going to high school this winter,”
said Mrs. Hardy.
“Oh, if I can’t go this winter I’ll go next,” he replied. “Wait till
father gets into business again.”
It was not until the next day that he told his folks how well he had
done by selling both new and old books, and of how he had obtained a
hundred dollars from the Windhams. They were both astonished and
gratified.
“Why, Frank, you are surely making a fortune!” cried his father. “I
never dreamed you would do half so well.”
“It beats tending the feed store, doesn’t it, father?”
“Indeed it does. No feed store in Claster could make as much money as
you’ve been making.”
“I’m going to put the money in the savings’ bank.”
“Yes; that’s an excellent idea, for then it will be drawing interest.”
“But I am going to give mother half of it,” went on our hero.
“Oh, Frank, I didn’t expect this,” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy.
“But I earned the money for you and father, mother,” he answered.
He insisted upon giving his mother the money, and she put it away, to be
used as occasion required.
The next morning Frank was busy sending out orders for books, and
writing Mr. Vincent a letter concerning some old books he had purchased.
When he went downtown to post the letters he stopped at a grocery store
for some coffee and sugar.
“They tell me you are trying to sell books, Frank,” said the shopkeeper,
as he weighed out the coffee.
“Yes, Mr. Glasby.”
“That’s rather a poor business to be in, ain’t it?” And Mr. Glasby eyed
Frank sharply through his spectacles.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’d do better to stay home and help your folks, or get a steady job
in Claster.”
“What do you think a steady job would pay me?” asked Frank.
“Oh, maybe four or five dollars a week. And even if it was only three it
might help your mother a good bit.”
“I can make more money selling books.”
“More than four or five dollars a week!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not every week,” was the storekeeper’s comment.
“Yes, sir, every week—and more than twice five dollars, too,” went on
Frank, with just a bit of triumph in his tone.
“You don’t say so! Maybe you’re joking me?”
“No, sir; I am telling you the truth.”
“Do you mean to say you can make ten dollars a week steady selling
books?”
“I have made more than that since I started. Of course, some weeks I
fell behind a little, but the average is above that figure, and some
weeks I made big money.”
“How big?” asked Mr. Glasby, faintly.
“I cleared fifty-six dollars one week, and forty-eight dollars another
week.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it does beat all! I thought book selling was worse than fiddling
for a living.”
“It’s all in the way you go at it. Some fiddlers and some book agents
don’t make their salt, but others make money. I’ve heard of one
violinist in New York who gets five hundred dollars a night.”
“That’s a fairy tale, Frank.”
“I don’t think so. He is known as a very celebrated artist.”
“Humph! Well, do you expect to make five hundred dollars a day selling
books?”
“I do not. But I expect to make a good deal more than four or five
dollars per week at it, Mr. Glasby.”
“I’ve heard tell that some famous men were once book agents.”
“And it is true.”
“Well, I wish you success, Frank. But I never would have believed it,
never! Bring your books around here some day and maybe I’ll buy one from
you.”
“Thank you; I’ll bring the samples the next time I come,” answered our
hero, and walked from the store with his purchases.
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