Bound to Succeed: or, Mail Order Frank's Chances

Allen Chapman

Bound to Succeed; or, Mail Order Frank's Chances

CHAPTER I

WAKING UP

“Mother, I must do something, and that right quickly.”

It was Frank Newton who was talking. His voice was composed, but determined. His face was calm, but there was a resolute look in his eyes. It told that under the surface some unusual emotion was stirring Frank.

“I don’t see how you can do any more than you are doing now,” responded his mother with an anxious sigh. “Of course it seems hard to get along with so little when we have been used to having so much. But, oh, Frank, when I think of what was once – you away, I knew not where, and my heart breaking to find out – I am grateful and happy, and so very proud of you, my dear, dear boy.”

Frank’s lip quivered at the fervent words spoken. They inspired him with their eloquence. His hand trembled as it rested on his mother’s arm gently and lovingly.

“It’s worth everything to have you talk that way, mother,” he said in quite a husky voice, “and kind words and good opinion just makes me the more resolved to better things.”

“Don’t be ungrateful or complaining, my boy.”

“It’s never that, mother.”

“And don’t be too ambitious, or too reckless. We have a roof to shield us and food to eat, thanks to your busy endeavors. The lawyer gives us hopes that we may recover something from the wreck of our lost fortune. I don’t know of any better outlook for the present, than to wait patiently and see what turns up in the way of an improvement in affairs.”

Frank shook his head, and paced up and down the floor of the best room of the cozy little cottage that was their present home.

“It’s no use, mother,” he said finally. “The lost fortune is a dream, a bubble. We may just as well get down to that. Mr. Beach, the lawyer, gives us hopes, but they are not based on much. At the same time, he takes his fees. We can’t stand that any longer. I told him so, yesterday. I don’t believe there is the least show in the world for our claim. I am sure that Mr. Beach shares my opinion now. No,” continued Frank definitely, “what future there is for us must be worked out by our own independent exertions.”

“It is a bitter wrong then,” spoke his mother. “When your father, Mr. Newton, died, he left me his town property here. When I married a second time, and Mr. Ismond became your stepfather, I had implicit confidence in him at first. He got me to sign the property over to him. Then I saw my mistake. When his tyrannical ways drove you away from home I lost all regard for him.”

“He certainly was very cruel and unjust to me,” murmured Frank, recalling many dark days of his young life.

“When he died,” resumed Frank’s mother, “I was amazed to find that all my rights to the estate were forfeited. It looked very much as though Mr. Ismond had been planning to rob us of everything when death overtook him. A man named Purnell, Gideon Purnell, held the title to our property under mortgage and sale. He sold it to Abner Dorsett, who now holds it. The law says Dorsett was an innocent purchaser, and therefore cannot be disturbed.”

“Innocent!” flashed out Frank. “Oh, what a shame! Why, we know better than that, mother. We are sure that Purnell was his tool and partner. Anyhow, we cannot hold Dorsett to make any restitution. I hope some day, though, to run across this Purnell. If I ever do, I’ll not lose sight of him till I know the truth of the wicked plot that made us paupers. He, and he only, holds the key to the situation.”

“Mr. Dorsett is a bad man,” said the widow. “His actions show he is not just. Else, why does he care to put obstacles in your way when you seek work? I wish we could leave Greenville, Frank. That man terrifies me. He may get you into some trouble. I have seen him prowling around here often. Then, the other day, our poor, faithful dog, Christmas, disappeared. That same night I saw Dorsett crouching under the window yonder. It looks as if he fears something we may know or do, and is lurking around eavesdropping to find out what it is.”

“He will find a trap set for him the next time he comes nosing around here,” declared Frank with a grim-set lip. “Mother, don’t worry your mind any further, I am determined to get steady work and earn more money. I wish, too, we could leave Greenville. If it was any use I would stay and fight Dorsett to the last ditch. It’s no use, and I know it. Let us get out of the sight and memory of the old life. I’m going to strike out new.”

“But how, what at?” inquired Mrs. Ismond doubtfully.

“I don’t know yet, I will before another sun rises, though,” asserted Frank, staunchly. “That is, if good hard thinking can suggest the right way to go about it.”

Frank took up his cap and walked from the house. He paused to place a silver fifty cent piece on the kitchen dresser. He had earned it before breakfast, cutting a lawn and trimming hedges up at Judge Bascom’s place.

Frank had been doing such odd jobs about town for the past four months. He was courteous, accommodating and energetic. Everybody he worked for liked him, and he never shirked an honest task.

He made out fairly well as a general utility boy about the village. The worst of it was, however, that his good luck came in streaks. One very busy week Frank made over ten dollars. Then the next week all he could get to do was chopping wood at fifty cents a day.

“There is something better in me than that,” Frank resolved. “I’ve got the problem to solve what it is, and I feel that it is up to me to figure it out right now.”

Frank’s face clouded slightly as he crossed the yard and his eye fell on an empty dog house. It made Frank feel lonesome and worried to realize that its former tenant, the dog, Christmas, was missing.

The faithful animal, a veritable chum to Frank, had disappeared one night. Frank had spent two days looking for him with no results.

Christmas was a connecting link between the present and a very vivid section of the past in Frank Newton’s experience. The thought of this instantly sent Frank’s mind drifting among the vital and exciting incidents in that career.

Frank was a peculiar boy. He had great sturdiness of character, what some people call “nerve,” and up to two years before our story begins had led a happy, joyous existence. He had been an active spirit, and always a leader in boyish sports and fun.

It had been a black day for Frank when his mother had married Ismond. Too late Mrs. Newton had learned that she had wedded a fortune-hunter. Too soon Frank discovered that the miserable schemer planned to drive him away from home, so he might more easily rob the lad’s mother of her fortune.

Frank stood Ismond’s abuse just as long as he could. Then he ran away from home.

At first he followed a circus, tired of it, and got a job tending a lemonade stand at an ocean resort. He made all sorts of acquaintances, good and bad. The latter did not demoralize him, but they did harden him. He grew to be a cynical, unhappy boy.

In his wanderings Frank brought up at a town called Pleasantville. This was the home of Bart Stirling, the hero of another volume of this series, “Bart Stirling’s Road to Success,” and of Darry and Bob Haven, whose stirring careers my former readers have followed in the volume entitled, “Working Hard to Win.”

Frank arrived at Pleasantville in the company of two men, who had devised a great fraud upon the meanest but richest man in the place, Colonel Harrington. In disgust of their swindling ways, Frank destroyed the papers they hoped to impose upon the colonel. In escaping from them he was severely crippled and laid up for several weeks.

Soon his money gave out. He was turned away from the village hotel for not paying his board.

He proved a boy of ready resources, however. Bob Haven formed his acquaintance in the midst of one of his original and daring schemes for raising money quickly.

Frank paid up his debts and hung around Pleasantville, living upon his surplus. He was at a stage of his career where he was sick of change and adventures. He longed for home. In the friendship of the Haven boys and Bart Stirling, he began slowly to feel his way back to a natural boyhood plane.

One night a terrible fire burned down the Pleasantville Hotel. It needed just such an incident to rouse up in Frank the latent chivalry and courage of his fine soul. At the risk of his life he saved fourteen inmates penned up in the burning attic of the hotel, by helping them across a plank leading into an adjoining building. He braved death again by going back into the roaring flames to save a little sleeping child.

Frank rescued the child, but at fearful cost. He was dreadfully burned, almost blinded. For weeks he lay at the town hospital, hovering betwixt life and death. When he finally recovered, it was to learn that the town had gone wild over his heroism. In the paper they owned called the Pleasantville Weekly Herald, the Haven boys had given him “a write up” that had thrilled the community.

More than that, Frank’s friends had learned that the name they had known him by, Percy St. Clair, was an assumed one. They accidentally discovered his real name, sent word to his native town, and when the injured hero awoke to health again it was to find his devoted mother at his side, nursing him.

Frank now learned that he was some good in the world, after all. The ovation of the grateful and enthusiastic town folks, the loyal, hearty friendship of such comrades as Bart Stirling and Darry and Bob Haven warmed his heart to some of its old-time cheer and courage. The day he left Pleasantville with his mother for their home at Greenville, Frank Newton stepped over the threshold of a new life.

An episode of Frank’s departure was the acquisition of Christmas. This faithful canine Bart Stirling had adopted when he was homeless. Haven Brothers had later employed him to run the pony press in their amateur job printing office. Frank loved dogs, and Christmas had taken a great fancy to him.

The animal whined and ran after Frank when he set out for the train. Frank drove Christmas back, but it was only to find the loyal dog hidden under the car seat, twenty miles on the homeward trip.

When they reached Greenville, Frank wrote about Christmas to his Pleasantville friends. His letter, however, showed his half-hidden reluctancy towards giving up the faithful old dog. Haven Brothers made Frank a present of Christmas by return mail.

Of all this Frank now thought as he made his way towards the business centre of Greenville.

“Hey there, Frank Newton, the very fellow!”

Frank looked up quickly. A rapid voice had interrupted his reverie. Its owner was a Mr. Buckner, a local insurance agent and real estate man.

Mr. Buckner’s office sided on the street where Frank was walking. From its open window the proprietor beckoned animatedly.

“Want me?” called up Frank.

“Sure, if you can hustle,” retorted Mr. Buckner.

“I can always do that if there’s anything in it,” was the laughing rejoinder.

Frank crossed the street at a bound, darted around to the front of the building, and was up the stairs four steps at a time.

CHAPTER II

A FIVE-DOLLAR JOB

Frank found Mr. Buckner at his desk, tearing out a freshly-written slip from his check book.

“Good – sit down,” said the business man. “Ready in a second. Now then,” he added a minute later, after filling out a receipt blank, “want to make five dollars?”

“A week?” smiled Frank.

“A day – an hour, if you can get the action on this job that quick,” responded Buckner briskly. “See here, Frank,” he continued, consulting his watch, “a certain individual started down that south road yonder in his buggy for Riverton half-an-hour ago.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Frank.

“How soon can he get there?”

“Horse any good?” questioned Frank.

“No, common every-day hack.”

“Well,” calculated Frank, “it’s fifteen miles around by that road. Taking it fairly easy, he’d get to Riverton in about two hours and a-half.”

“Very good,” said Buckner. “Can you do it in less time?”

“On foot?”

“Any way, so you get there.”

“Sure,” said Frank confidently. “I can make it in an hour by crossing the flats.”

“Aha!” observed Buckner, “I see.”

“Direct across the swamp stretch it is barely six miles to Riverton,” went on Frank.

“But there’s no road?”

“Except the trail us boys have blazed out from time to time,” explained Frank, his eyes brightening at the memory of many a famous camping out experience in “the Big Woods.” “I can bike it four miles, wade one, and there’s only an easy mile stretch to come after that.”

“U-um,” muttered Mr. Buckner in a musing tone, half to himself. “I’d rather not excite the suspicions of a certain person already on the road, so your suggestion strikes me very good, Frank. Will you guarantee to get to Riverton first?”

“I will – with time to spare,” promised Frank, readily.

“I rely on you, then. It is quite an important matter. Here is a check for two hundred dollars. It is made payable to James Pryor. He is a fire insurance adjuster at Riverton, with an office over the bank there. You find him out, hand him that check, get him to sign this receipt, and your work is done.”

“That’s easy,” said Frank with a pleasant smile. “It isn’t worth five dollars, though.”

“I’m doing this hiring,” retorted Buckner with a quizzical laugh. “Client’s money, see? By the way, too, do this little commission up trim and neat, and there will be some more work for you from the same party.”

Frank was mightily pleased at his task and the prospects. He stowed the check and receipt in a safe pocket, and started to leave the office.

“My client wants to buy up some salvage from a fire at Riverton,” Mr. Buckner explained.

“I see,” nodded Frank.

“A certain party here has been juggling with the situation. He put in a lot of dummy bids. We learned what his best bid was, and offered the same amount. Just now we got a letter – as he did also – accepting first payment from either of us. By the way, too,” continued Mr. Buckner, with a queer twinkle in his eye, “when you come to find who it is you have helped to outwit, you may experience a decided personal pleasure in the discovery. Report soon as you get back to Greenville, Frank.”

“That will be one o’clock at the latest,” pledged the boy.

He glanced at the clock, and was down the stairs quicker than he had come up them. Frank was back home in a jiffy. He made a brief explanation to his mother. Getting out his bicycle he tied to the handles a pair of long rubber boots. Soon he was sailing down the road to the south.

The Big Woods formed a long six-mile barrier between Greenville and Riverton direct. Its centre was practically impassible during wet seasons. It was a dismal, slushy waste. For this reason the only road to Riverton wound in a semi-circle many miles out of the natural course.

Frank entered the woods at a familiar opening near the edge of the town. For two miles there was a hard trodden path, and he made good time on his wheel. For two more, he had to pick a straggling course. Many times he had to dismount from the bicycle and run it past obstacles. However, it was not long before he reached the edge of the flats.

“Capital!” said Frank, after an eager survey of the swampy stretch. “I couldn’t strike it drier. Now then, for a wade.”

Frank ran his bicycle to cover, and drew on the long rubber boots. For a distance of a quarter-of-a-mile he made ready progress by stepping from one dried-up clump of grass or reeds to another. He had to pick his course more particularly, however, as he got to the wet spots. Wading was not difficult, as the water was not deep. Only once did Frank sink above the knees.

“Whew! that was a hot tug,” panted the youth, as he reached the west slope of the flats.

Frank threw himself flat on dry ground and rested for five minutes. Then he arose and removed the rubber boots. He hid these among some bushes and resumed his travels at a lively gait.

Presently Frank was passing the vicinity of a board fence. It reached up fully fifteen feet, and its top was studded with sharp-pointed nails. Frank was not near enough to observe it more than casually. He had no time to make a closer inspection, and, past a reach of timber, it was shut out entirely from his view.

“Hello!” again he exclaimed a few minutes later, and paused this time to look across a ditch. An object of decided curiosity and interest held Frank’s attention. This was a little ragged urchin curled up fast asleep against a clump of dry weeds.

He was barefooted, and up to the knees he was spattered and caked with dry mud. His face was dust-covered, tired-looking and tear-stained. Frank’s sympathy was easily aroused. He voted the little fellow some wretched, homeless lad on a tramp.

By the side of the boy was quite a large bundle. It was enclosed in a newspaper. The breeze blew the sheets aside and the contents were disclosed quite readily to Frank’s view.

“Well!” said Frank, his eyes opening wide, “he’s not a vegetarian, that’s sure.”

The remark was called forth by a sight of a mass of cold cooked meat that might well make Frank stare, on account of its volume and variety. It looked as if the young wayfarer had gathered up a lunch for many days. There were parts of mutton chops, chunks of roast beef, and cuts of pork, flanked by bones and remnants of hash and sausages.

“Hope he’s here when I come back this way,” said Frank. “Looks pretty forelorn. I’d be glad to give him a lift.”

Frank hurried forward now. He soon reached the outskirts of Riverton. Within ten minutes he gained the business centre of the little town. Frank located the bank. He was soon at the door of an office over it bearing the words in gilt letters:

James Pryor, Fire Insurance.

The door was open. Seated behind a wire railing at a desk was a cross-looking old man writing in a book. Frank approached him with the question.

“Is Mr. Pryor in?”

“Eleven,” snapped out the man without looking up from his work.

“You mean he will be here at eleven o’clock?” pursued Frank.

“Yes.”

“I’ll wait for him then,” said Frank, selecting a chair. He felt a trifle disappointed and worried. The “certain other party” was on the road to Riverton. It was part of Frank’s contract to see Pryor before his arrival.

Several people came in and inquired for the insurance man during the next half-hour. Some of them went away saying they would return at eleven o’clock. Some others sat down like Frank, and waited. Frank heard the old clerk explain to one caller that Mr. Pryor was in his private room, but engaged in a most important consultation with a client.

Frank grew restless. He approached the cross-grained clerk again.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, “but I understand that Mr. Pryor is in his private room.”

“What of it? Can’t be disturbed,” snapped out his representative.

Frank retreated. He managed to endure a further tedious wait of a quarter-of-an-hour. Finally he strolled to the window looking down on the street.

“That ‘other party’ is on his way here,” mused Frank anxiously. “Suppose he gets here before eleven o’clock? That gives him an even chance with myself. Oh, the mischief!” exclaimed Frank suddenly. “Now the pot’s in the fire, sure!”

Frank gave a great start, and stared fixedly at a horse and gig that came clattering to a stop just then in front of the bank.

Frank recognized the vehicle and its driver. As he did so, he as quickly guessed that this new arrival must be the “certain party” alluded to by Mr. Buckner.

The new comer was Abner Dorsett, the man who had helped to swindle Frank’s mother out of her fortune.

CHAPTER III

A BUSINESS CALL

Frank watched Dorsett dismount from the gig and tie his horse. He realized that he would be up into the insurance man’s office in a few minutes.

“I must do something, and quickly,” thought Frank. “The second that man sees me he will suspect my mission here. He is a person of substance, and will carry weight. I shall be left if he gets into action first.”

Frank reflected rapidly. The old clerk, as he had already found out, was unapproachable. Frank was seized with a wild impulse to leap over the wire railing and rush past the clerk to the door of Mr. Pryor’s private office.

“Maybe it’s locked, though,” said Frank. “No, I won’t do that. I don’t see that I can do much of anything, except to wait and take my chance of getting the check into Mr. Pryor’s hands before Mr. Dorsett guesses what’s up.”

Frank glanced at the clock. It showed ten minutes to eleven. He went out into the hall and drew back into the shelter of a big fuel box there.

Dorsett came up the stairs, buggy whip in hand. He bustled into the office in his usual self-important way. Frank noticed that the old clerk sat down on him promptly. He was not one bit impressed with the bombastic visitor from Greenville.

Dorsett scowled as the clerk pointed to the clock, and impatiently fumbling the whip, sat down with the others in the office to await the royal pleasure of its closeted proprietor.

Frank did a lot of thinking. He planned all kinds of wild dashes when the door of that private office should open. Then, happening to stroll down the hall, a new idea was suggested to him.

“Would it win?” Frank breathlessly asked himself.

He had come out on a little landing. This was that platform of stairs running down into the rear of the lot that the bank and the insurance office occupied.

Six feet away from it to the left were two windows. They were both open. The low hum of voices reached Frank’s ears. Judging from the situation of the apartment beyond, Frank was sure that he had located the insurance man’s private room.

“I wonder if I dare?” he challenged himself. “I wonder if it would work?”

His eyes snapped and his fingers tingled. Then Frank studied the outlook more carefully. He calculated first his chances of getting to the first window. He also planned just what he would say in the way of explanation and apology once he reached it.

Two feet away from the platform a lightning rod ran straight up the building. Frank seized this. He fearlessly swung himself free of the platform, bracing his toes on a protending joint of the rod.

At the side of the nearest window, top and bottom, were two hinge standards. They had been imbedded in the solid masonry when the place was built to hold iron shutters, if such were ever needed. The bank floor below was guarded with these, but none had been put in place on the upper story.

Frank swung one hand free, and bending to a rather risky angle hooked a forefinger around the upper one of these standards. At the same time he gave his body a swing clear of his footing.

He aimed to land his feet on the sill of the nearest window. In this Frank succeeded. There was no time, however, to chance losing the foothold thus gained. He promptly slid his free hand down under the frame of the raised window. He got a firm clutch. Relaxing his hold of the hinge standard, he stooped.

The next moment, on a decidedly reckless and awkward balance, Frank tumbled rather than dropped inside of the room that was his objective point of assault.

“Hello! what’s this?” instantly hailed him.

Frank nimbly gained an upright position. He faced two men who, seated at a table covered with papers, began to push back their chairs in a somewhat startled way. They stared hard at the intruder.

Frank promptly doffed his cap. He made his most courteous bow.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a rather flustrated way, “but which is Mr. Pryor, please?”

“I am Pryor,” answered one of the twain, and Frank saw from the gathering frown on the speaker’s face that a storm was brewing unless he headed it off summarily.

“I must beg your pardon, Mr. Pryor,” said Frank, “but it is a matter of some business importance. I have been waiting for over an hour to see you. It won’t take but a moment, sir,” and Frank swiftly produced the check and the receipt entrusted to him by Mr. Buckner. Before Pryor realized it, they were thrust into his hands and he was looking at them.

“Oh, this can wait,” he said pettishly. “I don’t like this kind of an intrusion, young man.”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Pryor,” interrupted Frank in a gentle, polite tone, “but I am only a paid messenger, and I promised Mr. Buckner to be back with that receipt at a certain time.”