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CHAPTER XIV
A MEAN ENEMY

“You have invented something yourself?” repeated Frank, with a good deal of curiosity.

“Yes,” nodded Markham.

“What is it?”

“A puzzle.”

“What kind of a puzzle?” pressed Frank.

“I’ll show it to you,” said Markham, fishing in his pocket. “There it is. I don’t suppose it’s much,” he continued in a deprecating way, “though two or three fellows who saw it said it was quite clever.”

Frank inspected the article his companion now handed him with a good deal of interest. It was roughly made of wire. There was a ring linked into a triangle, and the latter linked onto two other rings. The lower one of these had a link connected with a wire square. Lying loose around this link was a larger ring of wire.

“What’s the puzzle?” inquired Frank, looking over the little device.

“To get that big ring over all the other rings, the little square and the triangle.”

“Oh, I see,” said Frank, working at the device industriously, but finally asking: “Can it be done?”

“Readily – look here,” and Markham, taking the puzzle, deftly slipped the ring over all the obstacles, and then worked it back again into its original place.

“I say, that is mighty clever,” declared Frank. “Show me slower, now. The slip over the triangle is the trick, eh? Good! Markham, that thing would sell like hot cakes.”

“Think so?” asked Markham, seriously.

“I certainly do. If I was started in the mail order business, I wouldn’t hesitate to illustrate and advertise it in my catalogue.”

“Well,” said Markham, “that pleases me, for I can show in a small way my appreciation of all your kindness to me. Frank, I give it to you. If it’s worth patenting, all right. I know it’s original. It’s yours, freely.”

“On royalty – yes,” answered Frank. “I’ll have some nicely finished models made when we get to Pleasantville. We’re getting to be great business men, aren’t we, Markham, talking about patents and royalties? How did you come to make the thing, anyhow?”

“Oh, I was for – for a long time in a place where there was lots of wire,” explained Markham lamely. “I had too much leisure. It bored me. I had to find something to work at to kill time.”

The old gloom that Frank did not like came into the boy’s face as he spoke. Frank drifted off into generalizations on his mail order dreams to lead his mind into more pleasant channels.

There was a great confab at the supper table that evening. Frank told his mother all his plans in detail. She had too much confidence in his good judgment to oppose his wishes.

“I will be glad to get anywhere away from a place where I have seen so much sorrow,” she said. “Besides that, the Haven boys and Bart Stirling and their friends are certainly good friends of yours. Has my son ever told you of the lives he saved at the great fire at the Pleasantville hotel?” Mrs. Ismond asked of Markham.

“Oh, pshaw, mother,” said Frank – “don’t go to lionizing me, now.”

His mother was fondly persistent, however, and Markham, with gleaming eyes, was soon reading a treasured newspaper clipping telling of Frank’s heroic exploit, as already related in detail in “Two Boy Publishers.”

“That’s fine,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, “and I’m proud to know your son, Mrs. Ismond.”

The next day Frank wrote a report to Mr. Morton about the collections. He returned the unpaid bills with notations as to the condition of each claim, explaining that he was going to move to a distant town, and naming Mr. Buckner as a reliable man to follow up the collections.

Frank saw their lawyer, Mr. Beach. The attorney stated that their suit against Dorsett would not be tried for over a year. He took Mrs. Ismond’s new address, and promised to look out for her interests.

Then Frank arranged to sell off some of their furniture. It took two days to pack up the rest. Tuesday morning early all arrangements had been completed for their removal. They had engaged a freight car to carry their belongings to Pleasantville.

Frank closed up his business with Nelson Cady and the other boys. The old store building was vacated. Markham was to go with them to Pleasantville.

Mrs. Ismond was to spend the day until train time with an old neighbor. Frank and Markham were also invited there to dinner.

They had just finished the meal. Frank was looking over a time-table and telling of a letter he had received from Darry Haven that morning, when there came a thundering knock at the front door.

“Frank,” said Mrs. Ismond, in quite a startled tone, as her hostess opened the front door, “it is that man, Mr. Dorsett.”

“Is the widow Ismond here?” demanded Dorsett’s gruff tones.

“Mrs. Ismond is here, yes,” replied her friend. “Won’t you come in, sir?”

“No,” sneered Dorsett, “short and sweet is my errand.”

“What do you want of my mother, Mr. Dorsett?” demanded Frank, stepping to the open doorway.

“Oh, you’re here, are you?” snarled Dorsett.

“Frank, do not have any words with him,” spoke Mrs. Ismond, hastening to her son’s side.

Dorsett stood outside. With him was a low-browed fellow whom Frank recognized as a chronic hanger-on about the village justice’s place.

“I’ve come – with my deputy and witness, ma’am,” announced Dorsett, “to inform you that I have learned that you are about to leave town.”

“Yes, that is correct,” answered Mrs. Ismond.

“Very well, then here,” and he produced a legal-looking slip of paper, “is a little bill you will have to settle first.”

“We owe you nothing that I am aware of,” said Mrs. Ismond.

“Mistake,” snapped Dorsett. “When I sued on my claim to your homestead, I entered judgment against you for the costs of court. There’s the amount – fifty-seven dollars.”

“And not satisfied with robbing me of my home and my income, in fact everything I had in the world, you have the heartlessness to press such a claim as this at such a time?” asked Mrs. Ismond bitterly.

“Law is law,” prated the mean old usurer.

“Why have you never mentioned this before?” demanded Frank, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Because, you insolent young snip,” retorted old Dorsett, “I wanted to pay you off for some of your fine airs.”

“Well, Mr. Dorsett,” said Mrs. Ismond, “I shall contest this unjust claim.”

“All right,” jeered Dorsett, retreating down the steps, and beckoning to his companion, “then within thirty minutes I’ll put an embargo on your leaving the county until I have my money, according to law.”

Mrs. Ismond sunk to a chair quite pale and distressed.

“Frank,” she gasped in a frightened way, “what is he going to do?”

“Some mean trick, be sure of that,” said Frank. “Mother, I’ll stay here ten years but I will never pay that outrageous claim.”

“Be assured I would never let you,” replied his mother, firmly.

“I wish I knew what he was up to?” murmured Frank in a troubled way.

“Leave that for me to find out for you,” said Markham briskly, bolting from the house like a shot.

CHAPTER XV
A PIECE OF CHALK

Frank Newton had said that Markham was a first-class peddler. If he had followed his young friend as he darted from the house, he would also have noted him quite a proficient amateur detective.

Markham looked down the street after the retreating figures of old Dorsett and his companion. He saw they were bound for the business centre of the town. He cut down an alley, and heading them off allowed them to pass him by and quietly followed on their trail.

When they went up into a building occupied as offices for a justice of the peace and lawyers, Markham in a few moments trailed after them.

Loitering about the hall, he could watch them conversing with a village magistrate at his desk. The latter consulted a copy of the statutes, expounded some point under discussion, and finally filled out several legal blanks.

Markham was industriously reading the notices tacked to the justice’s bulletin board outside of his office door, as Dorsett came out of the room.

“Hold on, Sherry,” he said to his companion. “I’ll settle with you now.”

“All right, governor,” bobbed the man.

“You are deputized to serve these papers. Don’t get them mixed. Got any tacks?”

“I’ll get some all right.”

“Very well. When you have disposed of the first two documents, serve the last one on Mrs. Ismond, see?”

“Sure, I see, governor – ah, and glad to see this five-dollar bill. First one I’ve seen, in fact, for an age.”

“When you’re all through, report to me.”

“I will, governor.”

They kept together till they reached the street. Arrived there, Dorsett went one way, his hireling another.

Markham put after the latter, who was so elated over the possession of money that he chuckled and swung along the street with a great air of importance and enjoyment.

The man Sherry went straight to the railway depot. Markham, looking in through one of its windows, saw him approach the station agent. To him Sherry read one of the documents and came out again.

The second day of Markham’s residence in Greenville, he had done quite an heroic act. It had made the railroad men his friends. One of their number had celebrated pay day too freely. He had stumbled across a track.

Markham had run at the top of his speed, and had even risked life and limb to reach him in time to drag him out of the way of a freight train backing down upon him.

“Mr. Young,” said Markham, running into the depot by one side door as Sherry left it by another, “you remember me?”

“Sure, I do. How are you?” said the depot master heartily.

“I’m worried to death to find out what that man who was just here is up to,” said Markham, hurriedly.

“Up to? Down to, you mean,” flared out Young. “He’s served a paper on me as the representative of the railway company, notifying me that we are to hold the car containing Mrs. Ismond’s furniture until the matter of a debt she owes old Dorsett is settled in court.”

“Mrs. Ismond does not rightfully owe him a cent,” asserted Markham. “It’s a mean, malicious trick of the old reprobate to persecute my friend, Frank Newton. Can they stop the car?”

The station agent shrugged his shoulders dubiously.

“They won’t get any help from me,” he said. “That man asked me where the car was. I told him to find out – I wasn’t hunting for it. I’d like nothing better than to delay him for two hours. By five o’clock the north freights will have left the yards. Once out of the county, that furniture would be safe.”

“Thank you,” said Markham. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He ran out of the depot forthwith. Sherry had crossed the road. Markham saw him coming out of one of the taverns lining the street in that immediate vicinity.

Sherry had one or two men with him with whom he had evidently been treating. They walked along with him until they reached another haunt of the same class, and went in there.

Markham got in a doorway near the entrance to the place. In a few minutes Sherry came out to the street.

He had his hat stuck back and his head up by this time, and was officious and blatant in his manner.

“I’d like to stay with you, boys,” he announced. “Join you later. Got a big responsibility on my shoulders just now.”

“That so?” smirked one of the hangers on.

“You bet. See that paper?” and Sherry produced a document.

“We see it.”

“I can tie up the whole railroad system here if I want to,” he bragged.

Markham hurried off in the direction of the freight tracks. There was a wide crossing where the sidings began. A flagman guarded this. Markham ran up to him. This man, as he knew, was a brother of the railroader he had saved from being run over by the freight train.

“Mr. Boyce,” said Markham, “will you do me a favor?”

“Sure, will I,” cried the flagman. “We’re a whole family of friends to you, boy.”

“All right. Have you got a piece of chalk – the kind they use for marking on the cars?”

“Dozens of it. Here’s a handful, my hearty,” and the flagman darted into the little shanty and out again with a fistful of great chunks of chalk.

“All right,” said Markham, selecting a piece. “Now then, do you see that man coming down the track?”

“Yes,” nodded the flagman.

“He will ask you about the out freights, maybe about some particular car. It’s the car holding Frank Newton’s furniture that he’s after – their household goods they’re shipping to Pleasantville.”

“Aha,” nodded Boyce.

“I will be in sight,” went on Markham, rapidly. “Point me out to him. Say I can tell him, will you?”

“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.