Dan Carter And The Money Box Part 10

"That's the limit!" Fred sputtered. "Two claimants for the money. What did you think of him, Dad?"

"I barely know either Mr. Brakschmidt or Mr. Wilson," his father replied.

"Obviously, both can't own the money. Before the real owner of that box is found, I'm afraid we're in for an unpleasant time."

CHAPTER 6 A "Tough" Customer

Dan and Brad were sorely troubled over the problem of establishing the rightful owner of the money box.

After the Cub meeting broke up they went directly to the Holloway home.

Midge, a freckled-faced boy with an easy grin, was in the back yard, helping his father stack wood for the fireplace.

"I'm sure sorry I couldn't get over to Mr. Hatfield's house in time for the meeting," he said regretfully. "I promised Dad a week ago I'd help with this job. What came up anyway?"

"Two claimants have appeared for the money box," Brad disclosed. "We suspect both claims may be fakes."

"The worrisome part is that the news is all over Webster City," Dan added earnestly. "Midge, you didn't tell anyone?"

"Not even my father, Dan. You may ask him!"

Mr. Holloway, a Den "Dad," had listened closely to the conversation.

"Frankly, I'm confused," he said. "What's all this talk about a money box?"

Now that the secret was out, Mr. Hatfield had released the Cubs from their promise not to discuss the matter. He had requested, however, that they provide no information as to the amount of cash found or the type of box.

Accordingly, Dan and Brad disclosed all but a few of the vital facts. "We can't figure out how the story got around so fast," the Den Chief ended.

"Some of the fellows are blaming Babe, but he swears he didn't tell."

"Babe hasn't been in the organization long," Mr. Holloway replied thoughtfully. "He's a dependable kid though. I'd take his word any day."

"If the Cubs didn't tell, it simmers down to this-" Dan remarked. "It must have been that man we saw peeking in at the window."

He and Brad stood around a few minutes watching Midge stack wood. Then, aware that it was getting on toward noon, they decided to make a call or two on church building fund prospects.

"Where do we go first?" Dan asked, consulting a list of names Mr.

Hatfield had given him.

Brad studied the prospects. "How about hitting Atwood Merrimac?" he proposed.

"Who's he, Brad?"

"President of the Merrimac Bakery and one of the richest members of our church. He usually makes fairly large donations, but has the reputation of being a little close."

"We'll go to work on him. What's he down on the list for, Brad?"

"Five hundred dollars. We'll be lucky if we get that much. But he should come across with two or three hundred if we put up a good argument."

"That old wreck of a heating plant ought to be argument enough," Dan returned, pocketing the list. "Well, let's get moving. We ought to make at least one call before lunch time."

The Merrimac residence was six blocks farther on, overlooking a ravine.

Ma.s.sively built of stone and brick, the dwelling was impressive both in structure and size.

Brad and Dan carefully wiped mud from their shoes before ringing the doorbell.

"If a butler comes, don't let him give you that 'Mr. Merrimac is not at home' line," Dan warned. "Just let him know we're here for business and have to see the big boss."

"Even the butler doesn't seem to be on tap," Brad declared, pushing the doorbell b.u.t.ton again.

The boys waited. After ringing repeatedly, they were about to give up in disgust.

"Try just once more," Dan advised, as Brad started away. "I thought I heard footsteps."

This time Brad not only rang the bell, but kept his finger for a long while on the b.u.t.ton.

"That ought to raise the dead," he grinned.

"Maybe it did," Dan chuckled. "At any rate, someone is coming."

Through the door gla.s.s, he made out a shadowy figure in the front hallway.

The man, bent and old, approached the door and then seemed to hesitate.

"What's the matter with him anyhow?" Dan muttered impatiently. "He acts as if he's scared."

Apparently rea.s.sured to see that the two at the door were boys, the elderly man opened it a few inches.

"Good morning, Mr. Merrimac," greeted Brad, doffing his cap.

The old man relaxed somewhat. Though appearing none too pleased to see visitors, he grudgingly opened the door a little wider.

"I guess you didn't hear the bell at first," Dan said pleasantly. "Or maybe it's out of order."

"The bell's in good order," Mr. Merrimac muttered. "So are my ears. I'd have come sooner only-one never knows who's at the door. Since my butler left a week ago, I've had an unpleasant time of it. Only the other night-but never mind. You wanted to see me?"

"We're here in behalf of the church building fund," Brad explained. "Your name is on our list of prospects."

"Seems as if my name is on every list of prospects," the old man retorted. "Seems like every time I turn around it's, 'Mr. Merrimac, will you contribute five dollars for this? Mr. Merrimac, will you donate ten dollars for that?'"

Brad and Dan exchanged an uneasy glance. Obviously, their prospect was not in the best of moods. It might take super salesmanship to gain his pledge.

"May we come in for a few minutes to talk about it?" Brad requested.

"I'm busy this morning. With my butler gone, I have to prepare my own lunch, and I'm no hand at it."