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CHAPTER XXIII
A RIVAL CONCERN

“I call that extraordinary,” declared Bob Haven.

“Certainly a sensational and a puzzling piece of business,” echoed his brother, Darry.

“It is the best news I have had for a long time,” said Frank, buoyantly. “I tell you, fellows, you don’t know what a load it has lifted from my mind.”

“I should think so,” nodded Darry – “to get back all that two hundred dollars, when you had given it up as lost.”

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Frank’s clothing was covered with dust. His eyes looked tired and sleepy. Upon the receipt of the telegram at Essex, he had hitched up the horse promptly and started for Pleasantville.

Darry welcomed him with effusion, and he and Bob at once led Frank into their little editorial sanctum.

There were some quick developments, and now Frank sat, a queerly decorated sheet of paper in his hand. On the table before him was the wallet which had disappeared four days previous with Markham.

“Tell your story all over again, slowly and carefully,” said Frank to Darry. “It’s something to get back that money, but it’s a good deal more to find out what has become of Markham.”

“Well,” said Darry, “it’s just as I told you. Yesterday noon in our mail we found that letter you have. As you see, it has an envelope bearing our name and address printed. We send these out when we solicit business, and I supposed it was some new customer asking an estimate on a printing job. Judge of my surprise, when I found enclosed that letter.”

“Yes,” murmured Frank, “it’s a queer-looking affair.”

“You can see how it was put together. It must have taken hours for its sender to cut all kinds of letters from a printed newspaper, and slowly and patiently paste them onto that blank sheet. Letter by letter he built up those words and sentences.”

Frank once more read over the letter in his hands, which ran:

“tell frAnk newTon Money is beHind coAl BoX, thiRd flooR, YoUr buiLDiNg – mARkHAm.”

“Well,” resumed Darry, “Bob and I went up stairs here at once. None of the offices on the third floor has been occupied for a long time. In the hall is a big box with a slanting cover, to hold fuel for tenants in winter time. Everything was dirty, and plainly across the dusty box cover it showed where someone had recently rested, or been pushed over against the wall. We pulled out the box. Sure enough, in the four-inch space behind the box was your money.”

“Then a hot wire, and here you are,” observed Bob briskly.

“See here, fellows,” said Frank, “I think I can figure this thing out.”

“Go ahead,” encouraged Darry.

“Markham sent that letter. He didn’t write, because he had no pencil. A pencil is usually an easy thing to get, so he must have been shut up somewhere. He found in his pocket a sheet of paper – ”

“Oh, by the way,” here interrupted Darry, “I forgot to explain something. I recognize the sheet of paper as a blank sample I gave Markham, enclosed in that same envelope, stamped, to give to Mr. Dawes up at the novelty works when he went there again. Mr. Dawes asked for a sample of one linen letter paper. If he wanted a lot, he was to write the amount on the sheet, and mail to us.”

“Well,” continued Frank, “somehow Markham made paste – probably out of a piece of bread. He compiled that letter.”

“But how did he get it mailed?” suggested Bob.

“Suppose he was a prisoner, and threw it from a window into the road, chancing its discovery and mailing by some passer-by.”

“That’s so,” nodded Darry. “I believe you are correct in your conclusions, Frank. As to the mailing lists, which Markham also had with him, that’s a later mystery to develop.”

“Now then,” spoke Frank, “I think I can also figure out something else. I believe that Dale Wacker followed Markham. He was probably right on his heels when Markham entered this building. Markham saw him, got scared, and, to evade him, ran up to the third floor. There he found no rooms open to hide in. He was cornered, intimidated, maybe attacked by Wacker. He thought of that two hundred dollars, and dropped it behind the fuel box. Then – ”

Frank paused here, and shook his head in doubt and perplexity.

“Poor Markham,” commented Bob. “It looks likely that he is held a prisoner somewhere. Maybe because his captor knows he threw away that package of money, and won’t let him go free till he tells where. Anyhow, he’s a good one, surmounting all the difficulties of his situation and getting that letter to you.”

“I suppose you will take up the mail order business actively again, now you are in funds?” suggested Darry.

“Surely,” said Frank. “Here, take the money and hurry up the catalogue.”

Frank felt immensely relieved as he proceeded to his office. His mind, however, was full of plans looking to the discovery of Markham’s place of captivity.

The letter had been mailed at Hazelhurst, a mining town about thirty miles distant. Frank noted this fact, determining to make that town the starting point of his investigations, as soon as he got present pressing business in such a shape that he might leave the office in charge of his mother for a day or two.

Mrs. Ismond was very happy over Frank’s return, and greatly pleased over the recovery of the missing money. She had quite an encouraging report to make concerning orders received during that day and the one preceding.

“Oh, by the way, Frank,” she said, suddenly recollecting something, “here is a letter addressed to you marked ‘personal.’ I found it pushed under the office door this morning.”

“It’s from Stet,” said Frank, glancing at the enclosure, which interested him very much.

“On account of our strained relations,” wrote Stet, “being ordered from your premises and kicked out of Haven Bros., I have wormed myself into the confidence of Dale Wacker. He has rented a room in the Main Street Block, and started into the mail order business. An old fellow is sending out circulars for him, and they have got a bunch of printed matter from the Eagle Job Print, and he ordered one thousand watches from the city last night.”

CHAPTER XXIV
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR

“If Markham were only here!”

Frank Newton said this, with a sigh in a fervent way. His mother had some household duties to attend to, and had asked to be spared from the office for the rest of that afternoon. Frank had accompanied her as far as the neat, convenient cottage they now claimed as home.

“Yes, Frank,” she said, in quite a sad tone, “it is a pity he is not here to share our good fortune, just as he did your first hard efforts to establish business.”

“That business is certainly a winner now,” said Frank. “Mother, I feel it my duty to take a day off, or even two, if necessary.”

“To look for a trace of Markham?”

“Yes.”

“That would be only right, Frank.”

“It shall be to-morrow,” said Frank. “Good-bye till supper time.”

Frank walked slowly back to the office reviewing the immediate past of the mail order business, and speculating as to the demands and prospects of the future.

“Sense and system” had worked wonders in the past few days. With the recovery of the missing money Frank had been enabled to take up his old plans afresh.

The catalogues were rushed to a finish. He paid up all the small accumulated bills, and ordered fresh supplies from the city. He put himself in touch with attractive novelty markets, and there was scarcely a mail that did not bring a proposal to have him advertise and sell some catchy mail order specialty.

Haven Brothers increased their advertising for him. Then Frank had conceived a clever follow-up system for both prospective and old customers. He took care to sell just what he had advertised, and there were no complaints.

The wire puzzle was still the leading seller of his list, but the apple-corer, strengthened by the special notices Markham had suggested, was beginning to take hold, too.

Things looked very fair and prosperous for Frank that afternoon. The only depressing feature was the continued absence of Markham and the mystery surrounding it.

Frank had hurried up to get the day off he now promised himself. There had been so much to do. Even now he was due in the city to talk over a proposition with a big manufacturer there. This gentleman offered to furnish Frank free an eight-page illustrated insert for his catalogue and special buying terms, if he would push the goods actively.

The loss of the mailing lists had been severely felt at first. Mrs. Ismond’s bright wits, however, had quite solved that difficulty. She continued to send out circulars from the country papers that were exchanges on the Pleasantville Herald list.

“The business is growing fast,” reflected Frank. “Those who buy once, very often write for some article I haven’t got in stock. Why not run a special purchasing department? It looks very much as if this business will some day run into a great big mail order house, selling everything and having a warehouse of its own. Hold on, son – what’s the hurry?”

A bareheaded, wild-eyed youngster turning a corner had bolted into Frank with considerable force. Frank grabbed him quickly and swung to a rebound poise, or both might have measured their length on the walk.

“The very – fellow I – was after!” panted the urchin in a gasp.

“That so?” said Frank.

“Yes. Say, the fellows all like you.”

“I’m glad. Thanks,” smiled Frank.

“And sent me – to hunt you – and come back.”

“Back where, son?”

“Office – mail order house. Riot!”

“Why, what do you mean?” inquired Frank, quickening his steps.

“Big fellow from the country. Been drinking. Smashed one of your windows. Went away. Came back and smashed in the door. Says he’ll wreck the place.”

“Why, what for?” demanded Frank, now walking still faster.

“Says he’s a customer of yours. Says you swindled him. Says he’ll wipe you out. That’s it – run.”

Frank was not only puzzled, but quite startled. He broke into a run. As he turned into the street where the office was located, he heard a mingled chorus of yells and cries.

A crowd made up mostly of boys filled the lawn space in front of the office. A glance showed to Frank the lower sash of the big front window in ruins.

The showcase outside lay tipped over on the ground. The office door, with an upper panel slivered, hung on one hinge. From inside the place there came slamming, crashing sounds.

Frank realized that something serious was happening. He could not imagine what it could be. He was not the boy, however, to remain inactive while a wanton destruction of the little personal property he owned was going on.

“Here he is!” cried an eager voice.

“Say, Newton, don’t go in there. The man’s wild, crazy. He’ll half kill you.”

“We shall see about that,” retorted Frank, grimly.

He parted the excited crowd and sprang past the threshold of the dismantled door. His eyes flashed as he took a glance about the place.

A waste basket had been kicked to the other side of the room, littering the place from end to end. A file cabinet had been upset against his desk. Packages of circulars ready for the mail had been hurled pell-mell against a partition.

The author of all this reckless riot was just now pulling at some temporary shelves crossing a corner of the room, holding boxes of envelopes. All came down with a crash as Frank shouted sternly:

“Stop that – what are you doing?”

“Huh!” growled the worker of all this mischief. “I’m cleaning out this place.”

He was a husky, big-boned farmer-looking man of middle age.

Frank saw that he had a wicked eye. He also discerned that the fellow had been drinking heavily.

The stranger put his foot across a wicker basket and crushed it to splinters.

“What – what you got to say about it,” he demanded, facing on Frank.

The big mailing table stood between them. The fellow leaned upon it as he stared insolently and savagely at Frank.

“I happen to be the proprietor of this place,” remarked Frank.

“Whoop! you are?” yelled the man in a sort of frantic joy. “You’re the mail order shark, are you? Here’s luck. Better than smashing your traps. Say, I’m going to eat you!”

The man made a pounce around the table to catch Frank. His big fists warned the latter. The fellow in his present condition was positively dangerous, and was four times as big and strong as Frank.

“Hold on,” cried Frank, seeking to temporize, but still keeping his distance by following the table and keeping its broad surface between them. “What do you mean by this riot and destruction?”

“Let me get you once, oh, let me just get my hands on you once,” grated out the man, with a savage crunching of his teeth, “and I’ll tell you all about it. Won’t come to time, eh? Then – I’ll come to you!”

Now excited, alarmed boyish faces peered in at the door and window.

“Run for it, Newton,” advised a quick voice.

“Call the police – there’ll be murder done here soon,” gasped another voice.

The stranger had sprung to the top of the table, poised to next spring upon Frank and put a stop to his retreating tactics.

He staggered as he tried to hold his footing. Frank acted quickly.

Jumping to the farther end of the table he seized its edge, gave it a lift and sent the troublesome intruder sliding off his balance on a sharp slant.

Crash! the fellow struck the half-shattered front window and went through it headlong.

CHAPTER XXV
TROUBLE BREWING

Frank was astonished at the ease and rapidity with which he had dumped his troublesome visitor clear out of the office.

“Good for you Newton!” hailed an approving chorus of voices.

“Look out for him!”

“No, he’s got all he wants.”

Frank parted the excited ring surrounding the ejected visitor. There lay the big, brawny fellow, quiet enough now.

“He’s dead,” pronounced one awesome voice.

“No, only stunned,” dissented a second speaker.

“Yes, that is the case,” said Frank.

In falling the man had struck a row of white boulders edging a flower bed. There was quite a contusion near one temple and he was bleeding at the nose.

“The man’s hurt,” said Frank. “Some of you help me lift him onto the grass, some one go for a doctor.”

“No need,” sharply spoke a bystander – “here’s the police.”

“Make way there, what’s the rumpus here, anyhow?” challenged a stentorian voice.

Frank felt relieved. The speaker was the town marshal. The gathering had been reported to him and he had hurried to the spot.

The marshal dispersed the crowd. Two assistants brought a litter and marched off with the insensible man upon it. Frank closed the office door and barricaded the window as best he could.

Then he accompanied the marshal to the town lock-up. The prisoner was taken to a cell and a physician was called. By and by the marshal came back to Frank. He had a wallet, pocket knife and other little articles in his hand.

“Only stunned, the rest of it is what he’s drank,” he explained. “No need of worrying, Newton. He’s got over two hundred dollars in this pocketbook, so we’ll make him meet your bill of damages. What will it be?”

“Oh, from ten to twenty-five dollars.”

Bob Haven had heard of the trouble and soon joined Frank, and helped him to get things back into order. A carpenter was called on to repair window and door.

“Sort of queer – the fellow making a break on you this way,” suggested Bob.

“It mystifies me,” confessed Frank.

“You don’t suppose he could be one of your old apple-corer customers, do you?” inquired Bob.

“Hardly. He acted like a man having some solid grievance. Here’s the marshal coming. He may have some inkling of the fellow’s motive.”

The marshal looked quite grave as he came down the walk and beckoned Frank out of the office.

“That man’s name is Halsey,” he said “and he comes from Westboro. Newton, he makes some pretty serious charges against you. Says he has been badly swindled.”

“Not by me,” declared Frank. “There must be some mistake.”

“He says not. He claims he sent some money to you and got a worthless article in return.”

“Let me see the man at once,” urged Frank. “His charge is utterly unfounded. I am not in business to defraud people, but to make regular customers of them.”

“We all know that, Newton,” said the marshal in a kindly tone.

Frank readily accompanied the marshal. When they reached the police station he was taken down stairs into the lock-up.

“Hi, let me out of here, will you?” demanded his recent visitor, noisily jangling the door of his cell.

“Keep quiet, you,” ordered the marshal. “Here’s the young man who runs the mail order business here in Pleasantville.”

“Oh, is it,” cried the prisoner, with a savage stare at Frank. “Let me out, officer. I want about two minutes chance at the miserable swindler.”

“It will pay you to act with some reason,” warned the marshal. “Now then, you made the charge to me that you had been swindled.”

“Outrageously,” cried the prisoner.

“Give us the details. Young Newton has the confidence of everybody in Pleasantville, and we don’t believe he would do a dishonest act.”

“Don’t?” flared up the prisoner. “Why, I’ve got the proofs. I got a circular a few days ago, saying that I had been selected as the man in Westboro to receive a full-size hunting-case watch and chain, cut shown, for eleven dollars, provided I would show it to my neighbors and advise them to buy.”

“Never sent out such a circular,” asserted Frank.

“I sent the money. The watch came yesterday evening. It was a five-cent toy watch, tin cases, paper face, no works.”

“Where is the circular you speak of?” asked Frank.

“I left it at home. It was from the United States Mail Order House, Pleasantville – ”

“Oh,” interrupted Frank with sudden enlightenment. Then, turning to the marshal, he added: “This man probably tells the strict truth, but my business advertises only as ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’”

“Then there’s two in Pleasantville?” demanded the prisoner.

“I think so, yes,” answered Frank. “I shall soon find out. At any rate, you have made a mistake in charging me with this swindle. You have damaged my office, and you must pay for it.”

“Son,” eagerly ejaculated the prisoner, pressing his face close to the iron bars of his cell door, “you find me the right swindler, and give me a brief interview with him, and I’ll pay your bill twice over.”

“We’ll let you know in a little time,” said the marshal, moving off.

“And now for the United States Mail Order House,” said Frank to himself, as he left the village lock-up. “Of course that means – Dale Wacker.”

CHAPTER XXVI
MYSTERIOUS STET

Main Street Block was the oldest business building in Pleasantville. It was here, according to Stet’s brief report, that Dale Wacker had gone into the mail order business.

Frank attended to some necessary writing at the office. Then he went to Main Street Block. Downstairs the street floor of the building was occupied by stores that did a good trade. The upper floors, however, were only partly occupied.

Frank went up the dusty stairs to the second story. Here were a photographer, a surveyor, and a tailor.

Frank ascended the last flight of stairs. When he arrived at their top he found a small hallway ending at a door.

“Why,” he said, “this floor is not divided off into offices. Looks as if it had been used for a lodge room. Yes, there is a peep-hole in that door. I’ll knock, anyhow.”

Frank did knock. He heard some fumbling at a dirt-grimed window at one side of the hall. It moved slightly in as if set on hinges.

Then there was dead silence. Again he hammered at the door. A slight snap suddenly sounded. This was caused by the cover to the little circular hole in being shot back.

“What do you want?” sharply demanded the voice of some one behind the hole, invisible for the darkness of the closed in room or entry beyond.

“Is this the United States Mail Order House?” asked Frank.

“The what?”

Frank repeated the magnificent-sounding name.

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, then, is there a Mr. Wacker here?” persisted Frank.

“No. Nobody but a sick old man. Go away.”

“Hold on,” said Frank, but the wicket went shut with a sudden snap.

“Of course this is the place,” thought Frank. “That’s something to know. Hello – ”

Five steps down the stairs Frank started. Something had struck his shoulder. As he turned he noticed the window being pulled to. Also at his feet the object that had struck him.

It was a little piece of tin – around it was tied a fragment of coarse manilla paper. Frank picked it up. He slipped it into his pocket and descended to the street. Turning the corner he untied the paper. It was scrawled over, and read:

“Keep cool. Be shady. Things working. Important. Midnight.”

Frank had to smile at all this serio-tragic phraseology.

“Stet wrote that,” he said. “Still the dark and mysterious detective! Probably enjoying it. He usually means something though, for all his extravagant ways of mystery. That means he has news to tell me. But where does he expect to see me at midnight? And why midnight?

“Ah! Brr-rr-r! Hist! Good old Stet! He’ll probably do something sensational soon, but meantime I must pursue my investigations.”

These did not result in much. Frank went to the post-office. The postmaster told him that twice a day either Dale Wacker or an old man who was evidently associated with him brought a great many letters to mail. In return they received as many as forty letters a day. They presented a good many money orders, always for the same amount – eleven dollars.

The afternoon was nearly gone by this time. Frank called at the town hall but found that the marshal had gone home to sleep until midnight.

“I will see him bright and early in the morning,” decided Frank. “He can’t make any mistake by assuming that old lodge room to be the headquarters of the United States Mail Order House Swindle. Those fellows are taking some risks. They will be in for a sudden disappearance unless the marshal nabs them soon.”

“Are you going to take a day or two looking up Markham?” his mother asked at the tea table.

“I can’t to-morrow, mother,” continued Frank – “other important business. I hope to get the day following, though.”

Frank put in an hour on a small set of books he kept at home covering the mail order business. Then he went to bed.

Something disturbed him about two hours later, for, almost wide awake, he counted the strokes of the town bell. It was just twelve o’clock.

“Midnight, eh?” mused Frank. “That was Stet’s dark and deadly hour. I say – if it isn’t Stet on hand!”

Some pebbles struck the upper closed sash of the room in which Frank slept. Beyond the wire screen covering the lower half of the window Frank made out a form moving to and fro.

“Hist!” sounded out.

“Yes, Stet,” said Frank, slipping out of bed, “I hear you. Well?”

“It’s me,” said Stet. “Lift up the screen, will you?”

“Oh, want to come in!”

“I don’t, but I do want to give you something.”

“Why, what is this?” asked Frank, as lifting the screen Stet shoved a round package into his hand.

“It’s your missing mailing lists.”

“And where did you get them?”

“Dale Wacker has been using them ever since he started in business,” explained Stet. “Where he got them is easy to guess.”

“From Markham, of course.”

“That’s it. This was my first chance to get away from them. Say, there’s Wacker and his partner. They’re up to the worst swindle you ever heard of. They’ve taken in a big lot of money. They’re booked to leave to-morrow, so I sneaked the lists out of the outfit. I’m not going back to them.”

“Why, then – ”

“I’m going down to Hazelhurst,” proceeded Stet.

Frank was surprised that Stet should mention the very place he had most in his mind.

“To Hazelhurst?” he repeated curiously.

“Yes. From something I heard Wacker say to his partner, I am pretty sure that Wacker has got Markham hidden away or a prisoner somewhere around Hazelhurst.”

“Why, Stet,” said Frank, “I have thought that, too. I was going there myself to-morrow, only some important business hinders me.”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” suggested Stet; “let me see what I can find at Hazelhurst. There’s going to be a big blow-up with Wacker & Co. to-morrow. As I have sort of been in with them, maybe it would be best for me to keep out of the way so I won’t get hit with any of the pieces.”

“What do you mean by a blow up, Stet?” inquired Frank.

“’Splosion.”

“Indeed?”

“Sure thing! Say about ten o’clock to-morrow morning you hang around Main Street Block, and see what a telegram I sent to-day is going to fetch the United States Mail Order House.”