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

“But what for – no, that’s all right. I will, I will,” pledged the flagman.

Markham ran down a siding. He was busy about a certain car for a few minutes. As, after interviewing the flagman, Sherry came that way, he discovered Markham seated on top of a locked box car idly kicking his heels against its side.

“Hey, hello,” hailed Sherry – “this the out freights?”

“How should I know?” muttered Markham.

“Oh, I know you. You’re the fellow who trains with young Newton. Of course you’d be here, and of course this is the car. Yes,” decided Sherry, scanning its side. “Sure. Here’s the destination marked in chalk.”

Sherry read the sprawling writing: “7-23, Pleasantville,” marked across the locked door of the car, and pulled out a document.

“That’s the way we do it,” he said in a boastful chuckle, picking up a coupling pin and using it to hammer some tacks through the paper. “There you are. In the name of the law this car seized in transit, ipse dixit, e pluribus unum, according to the statoots therein pervided. Quite a lawyer, hey? Boy, it’s a life sentence to tamper with that car till the judge says move her.”

“It is?” said Markham, tranquilly.

The big braggart swaggered away. Markham jumped down, watched him out of sight, jumped up and cracked his heels together. Then with his handkerchief he rubbed off the destination mark that had deluded old Dorsett’s boisterous and self-important emissary.

Then Markham chuckled as he glanced at the document tacked to the car door. He now moved over to a line of made-up freights on another track. He lingered in their vicinity for over an hour.

When he had seen an engine run on a caboose and then switch to the head of the train, Markham, with a good deal of complacency in his face, started back to join his friends.

As he neared the house where he had left Mrs. Ismond and Frank, he noticed a man leave the place. It was Sherry.

“All right,” announced Markham, breaking in upon his friends a moment later. “I’ve found out what old Dorsett is up to.”

“Yes, so have we,” answered Frank, who stood by the side of his mother, who was looking down dejectedly. “They have just notified us that the car containing our furniture is attached.”

“That so?” said Markham, with a broad smile. “Well, what are you going to do, Frank?”

“We can’t leave Greenville, that’s all,” said Frank, with a sigh. “Mother, I’ll go down to the station and get the money back for our tickets.”

“Hold on,” cried Markham, “you won’t do any such thing. How soon does that train leave, Frank?”

“In half an hour.”

“Well, get your traps together. You’re going to take that train all right.”

“Why, what are you talking about?” demanded Frank, staring at Markham in wonder.

“I mean that fellow who was just here has made a mess of it,” said Markham. “He’s attached a car all right, but not your car.”

“What?”

“No, sir-ree! Your car, my dear Frank, I am happy to tell you, is by this time twenty miles over the county line whirling on its way to Pleasantville. Hip, hip, hurrah!”

“See here, Markham,” said Frank, seriously, seizing his friend’s arm in an endeavor to cure his jubilant antics. “What have you been up to.”

“Me? Nothing,” declared Markham, assuming the vacant bumpkin look he expressed so well when he gave a character delineation. “It’s old Dorsett’s emissary who was up to something – up to the wrong car, see? He has tacked that attachment notice onto a poor innocent old car filled with ballasting cinders. Never mind now. I’ll tell you later. Don’t miss the train, Frank.”

There were hurried good-byes to their kind-hearted neighbor. Frank and Markham, each carrying two satchels, piloted Mrs. Ismond to the railroad station.

Just as the train came in from the south a man drove past the depot platform. He drew up his horse with a jerk. It was Dorsett.

He stared in amazement at the departing trio. Then suddenly, as if suspecting some trick, he got out of his gig and hurried across to the train.

Frank had got his mother to a comfortable seat. The coach window was open.

“You leave at your peril, widow Ismond,” shouted Dorsett. “That stuff of yours is attached. We’ve stopped the freight car, and – ”

“All aboard!” sang out the conductor.

“Hold on, stop – zounds!” yelled Dorsett at the top of his voice.

He was lifted from his feet suddenly. Some one rushing down the platform at cyclone speed had collided with him.

It was Nelson Cady. He was hatless, his hair flying in the wind, his whole appearance that of fearful excitement.

“Say, conductor,” he panted out breathlessly. “Three people just got on the train – where are they? Must see Frank Newton!”

“Hi, there, Nelson,” hailed Frank, waving his hand through the open coach window.

“Oh, jolly!” shouted Nelson, keeping on a run with the moving train. “See Frank!”

Nelson tugged at his pocket. He pulled out a white, fluttering sheet of paper.

“Frank, Frank,” his excited tones rang out after the vanishing train – “I’ve got my letter at last!”

CHAPTER XVI

“FRANK’S MAIL ORDER HOUSE”

“Gentlemen, you embarrass me.”

“Hear! hear!”

“I may say, I am overwhelmed – overpowered – ”

“Good! Get over it, and give us a speech.”

“No, a toast first. ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’ Stet, fill up the sparking glasses once more.”

“Hip, hurrah! Success to Frank Newton and his new business venture.”

A merry friendly party was gathered about a long folding table in the middle of a spacious room. There were seven of them, and they were having a jolly good time. An acceptable lunch graced the banqueting board. Attired in a neat waiter’s apron and entering heart and soul into the enjoyment of the occasion, Stet, general utility boy for Haven Bros., helped the guests from a great pail of ice cold lemonade, and made himself generally useful about the table.

This was Pleasantville, where Frank Newton, his mother, and Markham had arrived just one week previous. The room in which Frank’s friends were giving him a welcome was located on the lower floor of the old building that Haven Bros. had transformed into a print shop in their early amateur publishing career.

Long since the firm of Haven Bros. had risen to the dignity of occupying quarters right next to the Eagle, on the main street of the village.

They had a lease of the old quarters, however. When Frank came again upon the scene a joint committee of his loyal friends had met in executive session to see what they could do to put him on his feet.

This old structure stood back from the street, but had a pleasing lawn and flower beds on either side of the broad walk approaching it. The building was just off the principal Pleasantville thoroughfare.

There were two large rooms on the lower floor and a spacious store room above. The Havens and Bart Stirling had fitted up one of the lower rooms as an office. Bob Haven had donated a desk and several chairs. His brother Darry had put in a table and a file cabinet. Bart had furnished a neat rug. That evening they had gone to the cottage which Mrs. Ismond had rented, and had led Frank over to this little surprise party, comprising themselves, Jim Dunlap, an old printer, and Baker Mills, also an employe of the Herald.

Markham was somewhat reticent at first, but he soon warmed up in response to the free and hearty spirits surrounding him.

He was immensely interested as the crowd began to chat on experiences. The story of how Bart Stirling had risen from a “sub” in a little express office to assistant manager of a large office, as already related in “The Young Express Agent,” was particularly fine to his way of thinking.

The career of the Havens was quite as remarkable. They now ran the leading weekly newspaper in Pleasantville, and had a job printing business that employed two men besides themselves.

Stet, the boy they had rescued from hard usage and extortion at the hands of their rival, Jasper Mackey, publisher of the Pleasantville Eagle, had become a valued fixture with them.

Mrs. Haven, who furnished fashion plates for some city magazines, got up an original pen and ink sketch for the Herald each week. The Haven boys were generally conceded to get out the most readable weekly newspaper in that section of the state.

“I declare,” said Frank, with a grateful and a gratified look about the place, “you fellows have just about equipped me for business.”

“Oh, not yet,” said Bob Haven. “My sister is away for a month, and I have arranged to loan you her typewriter till you can afford to get one of your own.”

“Say,” broke in Markham, eagerly, “I’m just at home on that machine.”

“Good for you,” approved Bob. “Then there’s a painter, here owes us a bill for printing he never could pay in cash. He’s painting a neat gold-lettered sign for the front of your place. ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’”

“Yes,” put in Darry, “and I’ve dug out of storage an upright showcase we took for a debt. It’s got twelve glass shelves. Set it up at the edge of the walk with samples of the various articles you are going to sell, and I’ll warrant many farmer groups coming to town will drop in to look around and invest.”

“This is simply immense,” said Frank. “I’m just bursting with vanity, or self-importance, or ambition, or something of that sort.”

He briefly outlined his plans to his friends. Frank had only that day held a two hours’ consultation with John Dawes, who owned the novelty works at the edge of the town.

Dawes made a specialty of manufacturing light hardware specialties. His own list embraced over two hundred articles, ranging from pocket rules to tool chests. He supplied a great many mail order people all over the country, and told Frank he would be glad to encourage a local institution.

“He has given me as low a rate as any customer he has on his books, he says,” reported Frank. “Besides that, being directly on the spot, I save the freight charges, you see.”

“Good,” said Bart Stirling, “you’ve struck the right location, sure.”

“Mr. Dawes is going to make my apple corer and a puzzle belonging to Markham,” said Frank. “Then I have made arrangements with a dozen large city supply houses. I am going to push that harmless comical novelty, the false moustache wrinkle. I have also ordered quite a line of cheap jewelry, especially initial cuff buttons and friendship and birthday rings. I can sell at one dollar and a half a solid gold birthday ring that retailers everywhere mark at three dollars as a minimum price. Soon as I get onto all the ropes, I intend to reach out for class and fraternity emblem trade, selling on sample, and having the goods made by a city jewelry manufacturer.”

“That’s it,” suddenly broke in Bob Haven to Markham, who had carelessly slipped on one of the false moustaches in question. “Heard about your talent as an entertainer.”

“Yes, give us a round, Markham,” suggested Bart.

Markham got up on a chair, put on Stet’s cap, applied goatee and false teeth, and soon had the audience screaming with hilarity over a very creatable representation of a stranded actor giving a monologue in a country grocery store.

The party broke up with congratulatory hand shakes and all kind of good wishes for the success of Frank’s new business enterprise.

When Bart and the others had gone, Frank and Markham looked about their business quarters with a proud air of satisfaction and comfort.

“I tell you, Frank, those fellows are royal good friends of yours,” spoke Markham.

“Yes,” said Frank with real emotion, “they have indeed given me the lift they promised me. We are of poor business material, indeed, if we cannot make this fine beginning lead to a grand success. Now then, for a genuine start in the morning. If you will act as typewriter till we can afford to hire one, I will fold a batch of our first circulars.”

“Sure, I will,” said Markham readily.

Bob Haven had brought a thousand circulars just off the press. Haven Bros. were to do all the printing for the mail order business. Mrs. Haven had made several sketches, little inch squares, showing the false moustache outfit, the wire puzzle, the initial jewelry and several other minor specialties. Below followed a list of nearly fifty articles, of which Frank had a small stock on hand and could replenish on short order from city supply houses with which he had made a definite arrangement.

The two boys spread out one of the mailing lists Frank had got from the salvage stock. Four boxes containing a thousand envelopes were placed ready beside the printed circulars. Frank put out the lights and locked the office door with the care of a miser securing his treasure.

Markham routed Frank out of bed at five o’clock the next morning. They arrived at the office by six. Somewhere Markham had learned the typewriter perfectly. By four o’clock in the afternoon the thousand circulars were all folded, and the thousand envelopes all addressed and stamped.

“Why, hello, my young friends,” hailed the village postmaster cheerily, as this big mail was deposited on the stamp table. “If you keep this up, you’ll soon have this promoted to a second-class post office.”

Frank wound up the day’s labor by polishing up the show case Darry Haven had sent around that afternoon. They fitted up its glass shelves with samples of the goods they advertised. They got a staunch iron standard to support the case, and screwed this securely to the walk just at the edge of the street.

“We’ll work to-morrow morning on our catalogue and the advertising Darry Haven is going to place for us,” said Frank, as they left for home that evening.

“Don’t go in too deep at first, Frank,” suggested Markham.

“No, I have formulated a definite system,” declared Frank, “and I shall try to stick to it. You see, I left Greenville with about two hundred dollars. It has taken about fifty of that to get mother settled here, and incidental expenses. Then I have your twenty-five dollars you insist on leaving in trust with me. I have put fifty dollars aside for preliminary printing and some advertising in county papers Darry is going to get cheap for me. If returns are favorable I shall print a small catalogue, and put just half of our profits back into circularizing and advertising as fast as the money comes in.”

They had barely settled down to work the next morning when two schoolboys put in an appearance. One wanted to buy a “Twelve Tools in One” specialty as marked in the show case at twenty-five cents. The other produced a dime for a set of the false teeth.

“Profits fifteen cents and a-half to date,” cried Markham gaily, as their first customers departed. “Those little fellows will spread our fame.”

“When we get into full running order this local trade will be a nuisance to us,” declared Markham towards noon.

In fact, he was kept on the jump attending to local customers all the morning. A raw young farmer had come in to blushingly buy a friendship ring. Several curious townspeople strolled to the office door, and out of good nature invested in various knickknacks displayed. One boy bought a false moustache, and within an hour twenty others visited the place clamoring for duplicates.

“About to-morrow the answers to our circulars will begin to come in,” observed Markham. “That will be the real test of the merit of this business.”

“We will close up for the afternoon,” said Frank. “There’s a lot of little things to do about the house and lot mother has rented. I promised she should have our help for half a day.”

After dinner Frank and Markham put on some old clothes and set briskly at work. They mended the back stoop of the cottage, propped up a fence, raked the yard and got the wood shed in order.

About four o’clock both started in at the cistern at the side of the house. Its top had settled in, and new boards were required here and there, and a new trough from the house eaves.

Markham was holding a board that Frank was nailing, when some one passing by on the street whistling caused both to look up.

“Don’t let go – the board will spring loose,” warned Frank, turning quickly as the pressure from the board end was suddenly removed – “why, Markham – ”

“Oh, the mischief!” muttered Markham.

In wonderment and consternation at a swift glance Frank noticed a strangely startled expression on his companion’s face.

Then, his eyes fixed steadfastly upon the street, Markham deliberately jumped down into the cistern out of sight.

CHAPTER XVII

A NEST EGG

“Quick, grab the pole!” shouted Frank.

As he spoke he thrust a long scantling down into the cistern.

“Reach for my hand – grab it. You’ll be drowned,” continued Frank.

“Don’t bother – I’m all safe,” came up Markham’s hollow tones. “There’s only about three feet of water here.”

“How did you ever come to slip in?” asked Frank.

“Say,” spoke Markham, not replying to the direct inquiry, “while I’m in here I may as well see if everything is sound and straight with the cistern.”

Frank saw him flare a match. Some curious thoughts were running through Frank’s mind as to the strange actions of his companion and helper.

Before he could analyze them, however, Frank saw Bob Haven turn in at the gate. He had a package under his arm. Bob stood still for a moment to gaze after the person who had just preceded him.

This latter was a young man, dressed loudly in brand new clothes, waving a slender cane with a dandified air, his whole bearing suggesting a person trying to look important and attract attention. This was the fellow the sight of whom had apparently induced Markham to plunge out of sight into the cistern.

Bob Haven stared hard after the receding figure of the stranger.

“Well, well!” he was saying as he approached Frank.

“What’s the matter, Bob?” inquired Frank.

“Did you see that fellow just passed by?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“I did once – thoroughly. Heard he was in town. The nerve, now!”

“Who is he?”

“He’s bad all through. Name is Dale Wacker. When Bart Stirling first took his father’s place as express agent here, that fellow’s uncle plotted to down him. Worse than that, he stole a lot of stuff from the express people. The police were after him. Dale, his nephew, was mixed up in it, and had to leave town. Heard he was in jail somewhere for some new exploits. Came back yesterday, I learned. Seemed to have plenty of money and tried to cut a figure showing it. Says he’s a travelling man now, and earning untold wealth. Guess he’s on the way to the depot now, to find new victims to swindle where he isn’t so well known as he is here. I say, who’s in there, anyhow?”

As Bob spoke, Markham came climbing up the scantling out of the cistern. He was wet to the knees and looked troubled of face.

Frank noticed that he glanced anxiously in the direction of the street.

“Better go and get on dry clothes,” suggested Frank.

“Oh, this job won’t take us long to finish, now,” answered Markham.

“Well, I’ve got some printing to deliver,” said Bob. “Come over to the house after supper, fellows.”

“All right,” acquiesced Frank, but Markham said nothing. He acted subdued and worried until the cistern was finished. He stuck closely to the house after the work was done, and made some excuse for not going over to visit Bob and Darry after supper.

Frank was slightly disturbed at these actions – secretly he feared that a sight of the fellow Bob had called Dale Wacker had caused Markham to get out of sight. Frank wished he knew why.

Frank found his mother and Markham both reading when he came home, about nine o’clock. He kept his eye on the latter as he remarked to his mother that Darry had read to him a little news item he had gathered in for the Herald late that afternoon.

It was about a fellow named Dale Wacker, Frank narrated. It seemed he was on his way to the railroad depot, when an old German peddler to whom he had owed money for over two years recognized and hailed him.

The peddler gave Wacker a great scoring and demanded his money. A crowd gathered, and Wacker started on his way at a fast walk. The peddler whipped up his horse to keep pace with him, whilst administering a continuous tongue-lashing.

The sorry nag did not keep up with the procession as Wacker broke into a run. Seizing a basket of eggs, the peddler jumped down from the wagon. He was a big, fat, unwieldly person, but he pursued the fugitive vigorously.

The crowd hooted and yelled as the German began to pelt the eggs after the fugitive. Two eggs struck Wacker in the middle of the back. One shied off his hat and broke on the back of his head. Bespattered and hatless, the fellow reached the depot just in time to grab the platform rail of the last car on a departing train.

“Oh, got out of town, did he?” asked Markham quite eagerly.

“Yes, it seems so – faster than he had calculated on,” responded Frank.

“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?”