TROUBLE BREWING
Frank was astonished at the ease and rapidity with which he had dumped
his troublesome visitor clear out of the office.
“Good for you Newton!” hailed an approving chorus of voices.
“Look out for him!”
“No, he’s got all he wants.”
Frank parted the excited ring surrounding the ejected visitor. There lay
the big, brawny fellow, quiet enough now.
“He’s dead,” pronounced one awesome voice.
“No, only stunned,” dissented a second speaker.
“Yes, that is the case,” said Frank.
In falling the man had struck a row of white boulders edging a flower
bed. There was quite a contusion near one temple and he was bleeding at
the nose.
“The man’s hurt,” said Frank. “Some of you help me lift him onto the
grass, some one go for a doctor.”
“No need,” sharply spoke a bystander--“here’s the police.”
“Make way there, what’s the rumpus here, anyhow?” challenged a
stentorian voice.
Frank felt relieved. The speaker was the town marshal. The gathering had
been reported to him and he had hurried to the spot.
The marshal dispersed the crowd. Two assistants brought a litter and
marched off with the insensible man upon it. Frank closed the office
door and barricaded the window as best he could.
Then he accompanied the marshal to the town lock-up. The prisoner was
taken to a cell and a physician was called. By and by the marshal came
back to Frank. He had a wallet, pocket knife and other little articles
in his hand.
“Only stunned, the rest of it is what he’s drank,” he explained. “No
need of worrying, Newton. He’s got over two hundred dollars in this
pocketbook, so we’ll make him meet your bill of damages. What will it
be?”
“Oh, from ten to twenty-five dollars.”
Bob Haven had heard of the trouble and soon joined Frank, and helped him
to get things back into order. A carpenter was called on to repair
window and door.
“Sort of queer--the fellow making a break on you this way,” suggested
Bob.
“It mystifies me,” confessed Frank.
“You don’t suppose he could be one of your old apple-corer customers, do
you?” inquired Bob.
“Hardly. He acted like a man having some solid grievance. Here’s the
marshal coming. He may have some inkling of the fellow’s motive.”
The marshal looked quite grave as he came down the walk and beckoned
Frank out of the office.
“That man’s name is Halsey,” he said “and he comes from Westboro.
Newton, he makes some pretty serious charges against you. Says he has
been badly swindled.”
“Not by me,” declared Frank. “There must be some mistake.”
“He says not. He claims he sent some money to you and got a worthless
article in return.”
“Let me see the man at once,” urged Frank. “His charge is utterly
unfounded. I am not in business to defraud people, but to make regular
customers of them.”
“We all know that, Newton,” said the marshal in a kindly tone.
Frank readily accompanied the marshal. When they reached the police
station he was taken down stairs into the lock-up.
“Hi, let me out of here, will you?” demanded his recent visitor, noisily
jangling the door of his cell.
“Keep quiet, you,” ordered the marshal. “Here’s the young man who runs
the mail order business here in Pleasantville.”
“Oh, is it,” cried the prisoner, with a savage stare at Frank. “Let me
out, officer. I want about two minutes chance at the miserable
swindler.”
“It will pay you to act with some reason,” warned the marshal. “Now
then, you made the charge to me that you had been swindled.”
“Outrageously,” cried the prisoner.
“Give us the details. Young Newton has the confidence of everybody in
Pleasantville, and we don’t believe he would do a dishonest act.”
“Don’t?” flared up the prisoner. “Why, I’ve got the proofs. I got a
circular a few days ago, saying that I had been selected as the man in
Westboro to receive a full-size hunting-case watch and chain, cut shown,
for eleven dollars, provided I would show it to my neighbors and advise
them to buy.”
“Never sent out such a circular,” asserted Frank.
“I sent the money. The watch came yesterday evening. It was a five-cent
toy watch, tin cases, paper face, no works.”
“Where is the circular you speak of?” asked Frank.
“I left it at home. It was from the United States Mail Order House,
Pleasantville--”
“Oh,” interrupted Frank with sudden enlightenment. Then, turning to the
marshal, he added: “This man probably tells the strict truth, but my
business advertises only as ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’”
“Then there’s two in Pleasantville?” demanded the prisoner.
“I think so, yes,” answered Frank. “I shall soon find out. At any rate,
you have made a mistake in charging me with this swindle. You have
damaged my office, and you must pay for it.”
“Son,” eagerly ejaculated the prisoner, pressing his face close to the
iron bars of his cell door, “you find me the right swindler, and give me
a brief interview with him, and I’ll pay your bill twice over.”
“We’ll let you know in a little time,” said the marshal, moving off.
“And now for the United States Mail Order House,” said Frank to himself,
as he left the village lock-up. “Of course that means--Dale Wacker.”