A NEST EGG
“Quick, grab the pole!” shouted Frank.
As he spoke he thrust a long scantling down into the cistern.
“Reach for my hand--grab it. You’ll be drowned,” continued Frank.
“Don’t bother--I’m all safe,” came up Markham’s hollow tones. “There’s
only about three feet of water here.”
“How did you ever come to slip in?” asked Frank.
“Say,” spoke Markham, not replying to the direct inquiry, “while I’m in
here I may as well see if everything is sound and straight with the
cistern.”
Frank saw him flare a match. Some curious thoughts were running through
Frank’s mind as to the strange actions of his companion and helper.
Before he could analyze them, however, Frank saw Bob Haven turn in at
the gate. He had a package under his arm. Bob stood still for a moment
to gaze after the person who had just preceded him.
This latter was a young man, dressed loudly in brand new clothes, waving
a slender cane with a dandified air, his whole bearing suggesting a
person trying to look important and attract attention. This was the
fellow the sight of whom had apparently induced Markham to plunge out of
sight into the cistern.
Bob Haven stared hard after the receding figure of the stranger.
“Well, well!” he was saying as he approached Frank.
“What’s the matter, Bob?” inquired Frank.
“Did you see that fellow just passed by?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I did once--thoroughly. Heard he was in town. The nerve, now!”
“Who is he?”
“He’s bad all through. Name is Dale Wacker. When Bart Stirling first
took his father’s place as express agent here, that fellow’s uncle
plotted to down him. Worse than that, he stole a lot of stuff from the
express people. The police were after him. Dale, his nephew, was mixed
up in it, and had to leave town. Heard he was in jail somewhere for some
new exploits. Came back yesterday, I learned. Seemed to have plenty of
money and tried to cut a figure showing it. Says he’s a travelling man
now, and earning untold wealth. Guess he’s on the way to the depot now,
to find new victims to swindle where he isn’t so well known as he is
here. I say, who’s in there, anyhow?”
As Bob spoke, Markham came climbing up the scantling out of the cistern.
He was wet to the knees and looked troubled of face.
Frank noticed that he glanced anxiously in the direction of the street.
“Better go and get on dry clothes,” suggested Frank.
“Oh, this job won’t take us long to finish, now,” answered Markham.
“Well, I’ve got some printing to deliver,” said Bob. “Come over to the
house after supper, fellows.”
“All right,” acquiesced Frank, but Markham said nothing. He acted
subdued and worried until the cistern was finished. He stuck closely to
the house after the work was done, and made some excuse for not going
over to visit Bob and Darry after supper.
Frank was slightly disturbed at these actions--secretly he feared that a
sight of the fellow Bob had called Dale Wacker had caused Markham to get
out of sight. Frank wished he knew why.
Frank found his mother and Markham both reading when he came home, about
nine o’clock. He kept his eye on the latter as he remarked to his mother
that Darry had read to him a little news item he had gathered in for the
_Herald_ late that afternoon.
It was about a fellow named Dale Wacker, Frank narrated. It seemed he
was on his way to the railroad depot, when an old German peddler to whom
he had owed money for over two years recognized and hailed him.
The peddler gave Wacker a great scoring and demanded his money. A crowd
gathered, and Wacker started on his way at a fast walk. The peddler
whipped up his horse to keep pace with him, whilst administering a
continuous tongue-lashing.
The sorry nag did not keep up with the procession as Wacker broke into a
run. Seizing a basket of eggs, the peddler jumped down from the wagon.
He was a big, fat, unwieldly person, but he pursued the fugitive
vigorously.
The crowd hooted and yelled as the German began to pelt the eggs after
the fugitive. Two eggs struck Wacker in the middle of the back. One
shied off his hat and broke on the back of his head. Bespattered and
hatless, the fellow reached the depot just in time to grab the platform
rail of the last car on a departing train.
“Oh, got out of town, did he?” asked Markham quite eagerly.
“Yes, it seems so--faster than he had calculated on,” responded Frank.
“Won’t be likely to come back again after that reception, eh?” said
Markham.
“I should think not. He’ll be afraid of something worse.”
Markham brightened up. He acted like a different person at once. He
laughed, told some funny stories, was his natural self once more, and
Frank was very glad of it.
“Poor fellow,” he mused. “He’s got some harrowing secret on his mind,
that’s sure, and he doesn’t want to meet certain people for some reason
or other, and this Dale Wacker is one of them. Well, he’s been true blue
to me, and I won’t worry him by asking about this mystery. It will come
out some time, and if he’s in danger of trouble I’ll stick to him like
a brother, for I know he hasn’t got a grain of real badness in his
nature.”
With the morning all of Markham’s recent disquietude seemed to have
entirely disappeared. When they got down to the office he kept a close
watch until nine o’clock.
“Mail’s in, Frank,” he announced at last, putting on his cap.
“All right,” nodded Frank, keeping on with his writing.
“Fatal hour approaches. We shall soon know our doom,” continued Markham
in a mock-alarm way.
He picked up a new canvas mail satchel marked “F. M. O. H.,” and started
for the door.
“See here,” hailed Frank, “don’t you think you can about carry all of
our first morning’s mail in some modest pocket?”
“Don’t care if I can. Big mail satchel makes a good business impression,
see?” and Markham darted off, wondering if Frank’s heart was beating as
fast as his own over the suspense attached to their first mail results.
Frank was indeed anxious, but he tried to go on with his writing. All the
same his nerves were on keen edge and his hand was a trifle unsteady, as
Markham returned from the post office and placed the satchel on the desk
before him.
“Eight letters,” said Frank, drawing out the mail in the satchel. “That
isn’t so bad. Well, let us see what our correspondents have to say.”
Frank cut open the end of the first missive, and Markham watched him
like a ferret.
“No money in this one,” reported Frank, the enclosure in hand. “Well,
well, listen to this now! ‘You are a frod. I bot an apple corer last
munth, and it was no good. You out to be persecuted.’”
Frank was quite disappointed, and Markham gulped several times as each
succeeding letter produced no money or stamps. Two people asked for a
catalogue. One correspondent wanted a “Twelve Tools in One” sent to him,
and if found satisfactory would remit forthwith.
Another correspondent sent an order for a ring, and wanted it “charged.”
Then there was a man who asked if they could furnish him with a cheap
second-hand thrasher for his farm.
One client wrote that if they would send him samples of their entire
list, he would show the goods in his town and possibly get them lots of
customers.
“Ah,” said Frank, feeling of the last letter, “here is something
tangible, sure, Markham. I can feel the coin.”
“Maybe it’s a cent,” suggested Markham, with a slight tinge of sarcasm.
“No, a ten-cent piece, sure enough,” declared Frank. “For your puzzle,
Markham, too.”
“Yes,” put in Markham, picking up the coin that Frank had placed on his
desk, “but the dime is--lead!”
Frank pulled a dismal face. Markham looked actually mad. Then their
glances met. They broke into a hearty laugh mutually.
“Humph!” commented Markham.
“Amusing, isn’t it?” asked Frank, trying hard to keep up his courage.
“Oh, well, there’s the afternoon mail,” suggested Markham, getting up
and beginning to fold some more circulars. “Who expected any mail of
consequence this morning, anyhow?”
Frank resumed his task of working on the catalogue. He whistled a cheery
bar or two, felt too serious to keep it up, and went on with his work in
a half-hearted way.
“This Frank’s Mail Order House?” demanded a brisk voice, half an hour
later.
“Don’t you know it is?” challenged Frank, arising to welcome Ned Davis,
a bright young fellow, who was the messenger of the local bank.
“All right,” chirped Ned. “Got a letter this morning from a correspondent
at Bayview. Enclosure. Man running a small store there asks us if Frank’s
Mail Order House is a reliable concern. If so, instructs us to place this
order with you.”
Ned importantly spread out quite a voluminous order list before Frank.
“Accompanied with the cash,” added Ned, and set down a crisp,
encouraging-looking five-dollar bill beside the document.
“Oh!” ejaculated Markham, almost falling off his chair with surprise.
“Ned,” said Frank, with a touch of genuine feeling, “thank you.”
“That’s all right,” responded Ned. “We’re simply working to get your
bank account when it runs up into the thousands, see?”
“Will it ever, I wonder?” murmured Frank.
“Isn’t that a nest egg?” challenged the practical young financier.