AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
“If Markham were only here!”
Frank Newton said this, with a sigh in a fervent way. His mother had
some household duties to attend to, and had asked to be spared from the
office for the rest of that afternoon. Frank had accompanied her as far
as the neat, convenient cottage they now claimed as home.
“Yes, Frank,” she said, in quite a sad tone, “it is a pity he is not
here to share our good fortune, just as he did your first hard efforts
to establish business.”
“That business is certainly a winner now,” said Frank. “Mother, I feel
it my duty to take a day off, or even two, if necessary.”
“To look for a trace of Markham?”
“Yes.”
“That would be only right, Frank.”
“It shall be to-morrow,” said Frank. “Good-bye till supper time.”
Frank walked slowly back to the office reviewing the immediate past of
the mail order business, and speculating as to the demands and prospects
of the future.
“Sense and system” had worked wonders in the past few days. With the
recovery of the missing money Frank had been enabled to take up his old
plans afresh.
The catalogues were rushed to a finish. He paid up all the small
accumulated bills, and ordered fresh supplies from the city. He put
himself in touch with attractive novelty markets, and there was scarcely
a mail that did not bring a proposal to have him advertise and sell some
catchy mail order specialty.
Haven Brothers increased their advertising for him. Then Frank had
conceived a clever follow-up system for both prospective and old
customers. He took care to sell just what he had advertised, and there
were no complaints.
The wire puzzle was still the leading seller of his list, but the
apple-corer, strengthened by the special notices Markham had suggested,
was beginning to take hold, too.
Things looked very fair and prosperous for Frank that afternoon. The
only depressing feature was the continued absence of Markham and the
mystery surrounding it.
Frank had hurried up to get the day off he now promised himself. There
had been so much to do. Even now he was due in the city to talk over a
proposition with a big manufacturer there. This gentleman offered to
furnish Frank free an eight-page illustrated insert for his catalogue
and special buying terms, if he would push the goods actively.
The loss of the mailing lists had been severely felt at first. Mrs.
Ismond’s bright wits, however, had quite solved that difficulty. She
continued to send out circulars from the country papers that were
exchanges on the Pleasantville _Herald_ list.
“The business is growing fast,” reflected Frank. “Those who buy once,
very often write for some article I haven’t got in stock. Why not run a
special purchasing department? It looks very much as if this business
will some day run into a great big mail order house, selling everything
and having a warehouse of its own. Hold on, son--what’s the hurry?”
A bareheaded, wild-eyed youngster turning a corner had bolted into Frank
with considerable force. Frank grabbed him quickly and swung to a
rebound poise, or both might have measured their length on the walk.
“The very--fellow I--was after!” panted the urchin in a gasp.
“That so?” said Frank.
“Yes. Say, the fellows all like you.”
“I’m glad. Thanks,” smiled Frank.
“And sent me--to hunt you--and come back.”
“Back where, son?”
“Office--mail order house. Riot!”
“Why, what do you mean?” inquired Frank, quickening his steps.
“Big fellow from the country. Been drinking. Smashed one of your
windows. Went away. Came back and smashed in the door. Says he’ll wreck
the place.”
“Why, what for?” demanded Frank, now walking still faster.
“Says he’s a customer of yours. Says you swindled him. Says he’ll wipe
you out. That’s it--run.”
Frank was not only puzzled, but quite startled. He broke into a run. As
he turned into the street where the office was located, he heard a
mingled chorus of yells and cries.
A crowd made up mostly of boys filled the lawn space in front of the
office. A glance showed to Frank the lower sash of the big front window
in ruins.
The showcase outside lay tipped over on the ground. The office door,
with an upper panel slivered, hung on one hinge. From inside the place
there came slamming, crashing sounds.
Frank realized that something serious was happening. He could not
imagine what it could be. He was not the boy, however, to remain
inactive while a wanton destruction of the little personal property he
owned was going on.
“Here he is!” cried an eager voice.
“Say, Newton, don’t go in there. The man’s wild, crazy. He’ll half kill
you.”
“We shall see about that,” retorted Frank, grimly.
He parted the excited crowd and sprang past the threshold of the
dismantled door. His eyes flashed as he took a glance about the place.
A waste basket had been kicked to the other side of the room, littering
the place from end to end. A file cabinet had been upset against his
desk. Packages of circulars ready for the mail had been hurled pell-mell
against a partition.
The author of all this reckless riot was just now pulling at some
temporary shelves crossing a corner of the room, holding boxes of
envelopes. All came down with a crash as Frank shouted sternly:
“Stop that--what are you doing?”
“Huh!” growled the worker of all this mischief. “I’m cleaning out this
place.”
He was a husky, big-boned farmer-looking man of middle age.
Frank saw that he had a wicked eye. He also discerned that the fellow
had been drinking heavily.
The stranger put his foot across a wicker basket and crushed it to
splinters.
“What--what you got to say about it,” he demanded, facing on Frank.
The big mailing table stood between them. The fellow leaned upon it as
he stared insolently and savagely at Frank.
“I happen to be the proprietor of this place,” remarked Frank.
“Whoop! you are?” yelled the man in a sort of frantic joy. “You’re the
mail order shark, are you? Here’s luck. Better than smashing your traps.
Say, I’m going to eat you!”
The man made a pounce around the table to catch Frank. His big fists
warned the latter. The fellow in his present condition was positively
dangerous, and was four times as big and strong as Frank.
“Hold on,” cried Frank, seeking to temporize, but still keeping his
distance by following the table and keeping its broad surface between
them. “What do you mean by this riot and destruction?”
“Let me get you once, oh, let me just get my hands on you once,” grated
out the man, with a savage crunching of his teeth, “and I’ll tell you
all about it. Won’t come to time, eh? Then--I’ll come to you!”
Now excited, alarmed boyish faces peered in at the door and window.
“Run for it, Newton,” advised a quick voice.
“Call the police--there’ll be murder done here soon,” gasped another
voice.
The stranger had sprung to the top of the table, poised to next spring
upon Frank and put a stop to his retreating tactics.
He staggered as he tried to hold his footing. Frank acted quickly.
Jumping to the farther end of the table he seized its edge, gave it a
lift and sent the troublesome intruder sliding off his balance on a
sharp slant.
Crash! the fellow struck the half-shattered front window and went
through it headlong.