Bound To Succeed Part 24

"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 doc.u.ment.

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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.

CHAPTER XVIII

A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR

Frank looked up from his work with an eager flush on his face. Markham, who had gone to the post office, was returning. His light, springy step coming up the walk, and cheery, ringing whistle told Frank that he was the bearer of good news.

"Afternoon mail," sang out Markham, putting the satchel down on Frank's desk. "And she's a cracker-jack!"

"Good," said Frank.

"Over thirty letters," continued Markham gaily. "Stamps in some, coin in others. My finger tips just itched to feel those letters, Frank. I just had to do it. Oh, if this suspense keeps up I'll be rifling the mails next."

Frank slitted all the letters in turn. Four postal cards asking for catalogues were promptly disposed of. The first of the letters was from a country newspaper offering reduced terms for advertising.

There was an application for an agency. No. 3 wanted to be hired in the office--could count money and put on postage stamps fast.

Frank was not given to being very demonstrative on any occasion. As, however, he now began to stare at the next letter he opened and almost uttered a shout, Markham knew that something very much out of the ordinary had come up.

"What is it, Frank?" he questioned eagerly.

"Markham," said Frank, quite unnerved with excitement, "it's a big, big order."