A STEP FORWARD
The return trip took three hours. It was just five o’clock when the
wagons drew up in front of the store front building on Cedar Street, in
Greenville.
A man whom Mr. Buckner had hired was sweeping out the place. With his
aid and that of another helper, the big packing cases were stowed in the
main floor room as Frank wanted them.
Frank had just paid off the two outsiders, when the man he had leased
the wagons from drove up in a light vehicle. He was all smiles. He
looked over the horses and turned to Frank.
“Mistah Newton, sah,” he observed, “the mussiful man am kind to his
beast. Ah see dem hosses in good trim, sah, and am obleeged. Sah, you am
a good-luck boy. Like to hire you as my manager, sah, ef I had enough
money. Ha! Ha!”
“Where does the good luck come in, Mr. Johnson?” inquired Frank
smilingly.
“Ah tell you ’bout dat, sah. Logic am logic. Theyfoh, it follows ef I’d
gone up to dat no-good, cheap hauling for de lumbah comp’ny I’d been out
five dollahs, ’cause you paid me seben, ’sides having de hosses worked
to death. Again, sah, de suckamstance am dis: I happened to be in town
when a stranger gen’man came ’long and hiahed me to drive him into de
woods. Got another gen’man from your house. I helped dem get a b’loon
down from a tree, load it on de wagon and took it to de train. One ob de
gen’mans knew you ’ticularly, sah.”
“Yes, Mr. Gregson,” murmured Frank. “Did both leave town?”
“Yes, sah, with the b’loon.”
Frank was sorry he had not seen his entertaining acquaintance before he
went away. Mr. Johnson continued:
“Rar gen’man, dose, ’specially dat professor. What think, sah? He say:
‘How much am dis exertion on youah part worth, Mistah Johnsing?’ and
when I say, ‘Bout eight bits, Mistah Professor,’ he laugh and gib me a
five dollah gold piece. And de other gen’man say to me confimadentially:
‘Mistah Johnsing, please tell young Mistah Newton I shall write to him,
and when I get making a little money I shall do myself de pleashah of
sending him a gold watch and chain, and dat dog of his a gold collah.’
Deed he did, sah.”
Frank laughed pleasantly, believing that “Mistah Johnsing” was romancing
a trifle. Then he said: “I believe our contract on the teams was for
twelve hours’ service, Mr. Johnson?”
“Dat am correct, sah.”
“If you say so, I will give them a good feed and do our moving from the
house to the rooms upstairs here. Of course I will pay your man for the
extra labor.”
“Dat am highly satisfact’ry to me, Mistah Newton.”
The two teams were driven over to the cottage and unhitched in front of
it. Frank rigged up a convenient feed trough, gave the horses their
oats, and invited Boyle to join him at supper.
Frank had talked over the moving question with his mother that morning.
He found that she had put in a busy day. All the pictures were removed
from the walls and neatly encased in newspapers. The books had been
placed in boxes; everything, even to the beds, carried from upstairs.
Notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Ismond spread out an appetizing meal for
the two workers.
“Mother, this really won’t do,” remonstrated Frank seriously.
“What won’t do, my son?” asked his mother, smiling.
“Carrying those heavy things down stairs.”
“But I did not do that--at least not all of it,” the widow hastened to
say. “Your friend, Nelson Cady, happened along about three o’clock.
Nothing would do but he must lend a helping hand. Then his chums found
him out. They were soon in service, too.”
Just as Frank finished his supper there were cheery boyish hails
outside. Nelson and five of his cohorts animatedly demanded that they
become part and parcel in the fun and excitement of moving.
Soon there was a procession carrying various articles to the rooms on
Cedar Street. The wagons took the heavy furniture and such like. Just at
dark the last had left the cottage. Looking back, Frank saw Mr. Dorsett
sneaking into his empty house from the rear.
“He doesn’t look particularly happy, now he has had his own way,”
reflected Frank. “I hope mother doesn’t take the change to heart.”
His first question was along that very line, as the last chair was set
in place in the new family habitation.
“Sad, Frank?” said his mother--“no, indeed! When we were forced from
the old home on the hill a year ago, I was very sorrowful. It is a
positive relief now, though, to get out of the shadow of Mr. Dorsett and
all belonging to him. It is nice, and home-like and cozy here, and I am
sure we shall be very comfortable and happy in our new home.”
Many hands had aided in bestowing the family goods just where Mrs.
Ismond wanted them. There was very little tidying up to do half-an-hour
after Frank had dismissed the teamster, with a dollar for his extra
work.
Then he led a gay procession down the principal village street. They
entered a little ice cream parlor, and Frank “treated”--one ice cream
and a glass of soda water all around.
“I want to see you, Nelson, as early in the morning as I can,” said
Frank, as they separated for the night.
“Business?” inquired Nelson, in a serious way.
“Why, yes. Truth is, I can put some loose change in your pocket, if you
care to undertake a ten-days’ job I have in hand.”
Nelson shook his head dubiously, with a very important air.
“Dunno,” he said calculatingly. “You see, I am expecting a letter any
day now.”
Frank smiled to himself. Nelson had been “expecting a letter” every day
for a year. Every boy in the village knew this, and occasionally guyed
and jollied him about it.
Nelson’s great ambition was to become a cowboy. On one occasion he had
run away from home, bound for far-away Idaho. He got as far as the city,
was nearly starved and half-frozen, and came home meekly the next day.
His father gave him a good, sensible talk. He tried to convince Nelson
that he was too young to undertake the rough life of a cowboy. This
failing, he agreed that if Nelson would get some respectable stockman in
Idaho to ensure him a regular berth for a year, he would let him go west
and pay his fare there.
Since then Nelson had spent nearly all the pocket money he could earn
writing to people in Idaho, from the Governor down. Nobody seemed to
want an inexperienced, home-bred boy to round their stock, however.
Still, Nelson kept on hoping and trying.
“I’ll risk your letter coming before your contract with me is finished,
Nelson,” said Frank kindly. “About this cowboy business, though--take my
advice and that of your good, kind father: don’t waste your best young
years just for the sake of novelty and adventure. No ambitious boy can
afford it.”
“But I have a longing for the wild ranch life,” said Nelson earnestly.
“All right, then do your duty to those at home, earn a good start here,
where you have friends to help you, and begin with a ranch of your own.
When I have made enough money, I would like to run a ranch myself. But I
want to own it. I want to make a business investment--not fun and
frolic--out of it.”
“All right, I’ll be on hand in the morning,” promised Nelson.
“I have been saving a surprise for you, Frank,” said his mother, as he
rejoined her about nine o’clock. “What do you think? Your friend, Mr.
Gregson, insisted on leaving you twenty-five dollars.”
“Oh, that won’t do at all!” cried Frank instantly.
“The professor, who was with him, insisted that it must. Besides, they
left all sorts of kind regards for you.”
Frank’s was a truly grateful heart. It had been a splendid day for him.
He took up a lamp and went downstairs, whistling happily.
“There’s a lot of work to do here,” he said, going from box to box,
flashing the light across the contents. “There must be a million needles
in that packing case. Poor Morton’s apple corer--there’s several
thousands of those. And here’s a great jumble of lawn mower repair
material.”
Frank stood mapping out how he would handle the mass of stuff. About to
leave the room, he set down the lamp and curiously inspected the zinc
box that had apparently been the burned-out hardware man’s safe.
It was filled with papers of various kinds: receipted bills, statements
of accounts and letters. Many of these latter were from mail customers
who had bought the apple corer and were dissatisfied with its operation.
Many of the papers were partly burned away. All were grimed with smoke.
Finally from the very bottom of the box Frank fished up a square
package. Opening this, he found it to be some part of a mail order
office equipment.
Frank’s eye sparkled. There were several sheets of cardboard. On each of
them a colored map of a State of the Union was printed. Each town had a
hole near it. This was to hold minute wooden pegs of different hues,
each color designating “written to,” or “first customer,” or “agent,”
and the like.
At a glance Frank took in the value and utility of this outfit. As he
drew some typewritten sheets from a big manilla envelope, he grew
positively excited at the grand discovery he had made.
“Fifty thousand names!” exclaimed Frank--“possible mail order customers
all over the country! Oh, if this outfit were only mine! Can I get it,
or its duplicate? Why,” he said, in a fervent, deep-drawn breath,
“circumstances seem absolutely pushing me into the mail order
business!”