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“BOOKS! YOU GET RIGHT OUT OF THIS DOORWAY!”–[P. 112.]

THE YOUNG
BOOK AGENT

Or, Frank Hardy’s Road to Success

BY

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

AUTHOR OF “LOST AT SEA,” “NELSON THE NEWSBOY,” “OUT

FOR BUSINESS,” “YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK,” “RAGGED

DICK SERIES,” “TATTERED TOM

SERIES,” ETC.

NEW YORK

STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY

1905

Copyright, 1905

BY

STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY

PREFACE

Many years ago the author of the present volume resolved to write a long series of books describing various phases of village and city life, taking up in their turn the struggles of the bootblacks, the newsboys, the young peddlers, the street musicians—the lives, in fact, of all those who, though young in years, have to face the bitter necessity of earning their own living.

In the present story are described the ups and downs of a boy book agent, who is forced, through the misfortunes of his father, to help provide for the family to which he belongs. He knows nothing of selling books, when he starts, but he acquires a valuable experience rapidly, and in the end gains a modest success which is well deserved.

It is the custom of many persons in ordinary life to sneer at a book agent and show him scant courtesy, forgetting that the agent’s business is a perfectly legitimate one and that he is therefore entitled to due respect so long as he does that which is proper and gentlemanly. A kind word costs nothing, and it often cheers up a heart which would otherwise be all but hopelessly depressed.

After reading this volume it may be thought by some that the hero, Frank Hardy, is above his class in tact, intelligence, and perseverance. This, however, is not true. A book agent, or, in fact, an agent of any kind, must possess all of these qualities in a marked degree, otherwise he will undoubtedly make a failure of the undertaking. As in every other calling, to win success one must first deserve it.

CONTENTS

THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT

CHAPTER I
FRANK AT HOME

Frank Hardy came up the short garden path whistling merrily to himself. He was a tall, good-natured looking boy of sixteen, with dark eyes and dark, curly hair.

“One more week of school and then hurrah for a long vacation in the country!” he murmured to himself as he mounted the piazza steps. “Oh, but won’t we have a dandy time swimming and fishing when we get to Cloverdale!”

His little dog Frisky was at the door to greet him with short, sharp barks of pleasure. Frank caught the animal up and began to coddle him.

“Glad to see me, eh?” he cried. “Frisky, won’t you be glad when we get to the country and you can roam all over the fields?”

For answer the dog barked again and wagged his tail vigorously. Still holding the animal, Frank entered the dining room and passed into the kitchen, where his mother was assisting the servant in the preparation of the evening meal.

“Mother, is father back from Philadelphia yet?” he asked, as he hung up his cap and slipped into the sink pantry to wash his hands.

“Not yet, Frank,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

“He must have quite some business to attend to, to stay away so late. I thought I was late myself.”

“You are late, Frank—it is quarter after six. I expected your father in on the half-past five train, but he must have missed that.”

“Then he won’t be here until nearly eight o’clock. Must I wait for my supper?”

“No; we can have our supper directly. I know you must be hungry.”

“I am, mother. Baseball gives a fellow an appetite, especially if he runs bases and plays in the field, as I did. We played the Hopeville Stars and beat them 12 to 7. I made three runs.”

“You must certainly love the game?”

“I do. Sometimes I wish I could be a professional ball player.”

“I shouldn’t wish you to be that, Frank. I want you to go to college and be a professional man,” added Mrs. Hardy, with a fond smile.

“Oh, I was only talking, mother. But some professional ball players are college men.”

Frank entered the dining room and sat down to the table. He was soon joined by his little brother, Georgie, and his sister, Ruth, who was twelve years of age.

“How do you get along with your lessons?” he asked of Ruth, who had been practicing on the piano in the parlor.

“I think I am doing real well,” returned the sister, who was very fair, with golden hair and bright blue eyes. “Professor Hartman says I will make a good player if I do plenty of practicing. And, oh, I love it so!” added the girl, enthusiastically.

“The one who loves it is the one who is bound to make a good player,” said Frank. “Now, there is Dan Dixon. His folks want him to learn to play the violin, and he takes lessons. But he doesn’t like it at all, and I am sure he will never make a player.”

“That is true in all things,” came from Mrs. Hardy, as she sat down to pour the tea. “If one wants to do well at anything, one’s heart must be in the work. I once knew a girl whose family wanted her to learn how to paint. She hadn’t any talent for it, and though she took lessons for two years she never drew or painted anything really worth showing.”

“I know what I like real well,” came from little Georgie. “I’m going to keep a candy store when I grow up. I like that real well.”

“Good for you, Georgie!” laughed Frank. “Only don’t eat up all the stock yourself.”

“Will you buy from me when I keep the store?” continued the little fellow.

“To be sure, I will—or, maybe, I’ll be a salesman for you—and Ruth can be the cashier.”

“What’s a cashier?”

“The one who takes in the money.”

“No, I want to take in the money myself,” came from Georgie, promptly.

Thus the talking went on, and while it is in progress and the family are waiting for the return of Mr. Hardy from his business trip, let me take the opportunity of introducing them more specifically than I have already done.

The Hardy family were six in number, Mr. Thomas Hardy and his wife; Mark, who was three years older than Frank, and the children already introduced.

Mr. Hardy was a flour and feed dealer, and at one time had had the principal store in that line in Claster, the town in which the family resided. He had made considerable money, and the family were counted well to do. But during the past two years two rivals with capital had come into the field, and trade with the flour and feed merchant had consequently fallen off greatly.

Mr. Hardy had expected to send his oldest son, Mark, to college, but the youth had begged to be allowed to take an ocean trip, and had at last been allowed to ship on a voyage to South America. He was to return home in seven or eight months, but during the past three months nothing had been heard of him.

Frank, Ruth, and little Georgie all attended the same school in Claster, Georgie being in the kindergarten, and Ruth in one of the grammar grades. Frank was in the graduating class, and after a vacation in the country, expected to prepare himself for high school. He was just now deep in his final examinations at the grammar school, and so far had done well, much to his parents’ satisfaction.

“Mother, what took father to Philadelphia?” asked Frank, after a spell of silence, during which he had devoted himself to the viands set before him.

At this question a shade of anxiety crossed Mrs. Hardy’s face.

“He went on very important business, Frank. I cannot explain to you exactly what it was. He was to see Mr. Garrison, the man he used to buy flour from.”

“Jabez Garrison?”

“Yes.”

“I never liked that man, mother; did you?”

“I really can’t say, Frank—I never had much to do with him.”

“I saw him at the store several times—doing business with father. He somehow put me in mind of a snake.”

“Oh, Frank!” burst in Ruth.

“A man don’t look like a snake,” was little Georgie’s sober comment.

“That is not a very complimentary thing to say, Frank,” said Mrs. Hardy, somewhat severely.

“I can’t help it, mother. He has such an oily, smooth manner about him.”

“Your father has spoken of him as a very good friend in business. I believe he gave your father prices which were better than he could get elsewhere.”

“Well, he didn’t look it. If I were father, I’d keep my eyes on him.”

“He went to Philadelphia to make inquiries about Mr. Garrison. I cannot tell you more than that just now.”

“Didn’t father loan him some money?”

“Not exactly that; but he went his security when Mr. Garrison was made treasurer of a certain benevolent order in Philadelphia.”

“How much security?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“That’s a big sum of money.”

“Yes, Frank—but I was told that it was more a matter of form than anything else.”

“I don’t see it, mother. If Jabez Garrison had a lot of money to handle, he could steal it if he wanted to.”

“Frank, you are certainly not in love with Mr. Garrison. Did he ever say anything to you?”

“Not a word. Only I don’t like his looks, that’s all.”

Further talk on this subject was cut off by Ruth, who chanced to look out of the bay window of the dining room.

“There goes the hospital ambulance,” she cried. “Somebody must be hurt.”

Frank, filled with curiosity, leaped up and ran to the front door, and then down to the gate.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked of a boy who was running past.

“Big accident on the railroad, down at Barber’s Cut,” answered the boy. “Freight train ran into the Philadelphia local, and about a dozen passengers have been killed or hurt.”

“The Philadelphia local!” echoed Frank, and for the moment his heart almost stopped beating. “Can father have been on that train?”

He ran back into the house and told his mother the news. Mrs. Hardy was almost prostrated, but quickly recovered.

“I will go down and see if your father is in that wreck,” she said. “Frank, you can go along.” And a moment later they set out for the scene of the disaster.

CHAPTER II
DOWN AT THE WRECK

Claster was a thriving town of four thousand inhabitants, with several churches and schools, a bank, two weekly newspapers, and six blocks of stores. There was a neat railroad station at which two score of trains stopped daily, bound either north or south, for the line ran from Philadelphia to Jersey City.

Barber’s Cut was a nasty curve on the line, just south of the town. Here there was a rocky hill, and in one spot the cut was twenty feet deep. At the end of the cut was a hollow where a railroad bridge crossed Claster Creek.

Frank and his mother found a great many of the townspeople hurrying to the scene of the wreck. All sorts of rumors were afloat, and it was said the passenger cars were on fire, and the helpless inmates were being roasted alive. The local fire department was called out, but fortunately the fire was confined to a freight car loaded with unfinished wagon wheels, so but comparatively little damage was done through the conflagration.

The rumor that a dozen passengers had been killed or hurt was false. But four people on the passenger train had been injured, and only one severely—this man having several ribs crushed in and an arm broken.

“I don’t see anything of father,” said Frank, after he and his mother had looked at three of the injured persons. “I guess he wasn’t on this train after all.”

“It is very fortunate.”

“Your father was on this train,” said a man standing near. “I was talking to him just a short while before the smash-up occurred.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Hardy. “Then where is he now?”

“There he is!” burst out Frank, and pointed to a form which four men were carrying from a wrecked car. “Mother, he is—is hurt. You had better go back and I’ll—I’ll tend to him.” Frank found he could scarcely speak, he was so agitated.

“My husband!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and ran forward with Frank at her side. “Oh, tell me, he is not—not dead?”

“No, ma’am, he isn’t dead,” came promptly from one of the men. “He got his foot crushed, and he’s fainted, that’s all.”

“Thank Heaven it is no worse!” murmured Mrs. Hardy, and when the men laid her husband on the grass above the cut, she knelt beside him, and sent Frank down to the creek for some water with which to wash Mr. Hardy’s face, for it was covered with dust and dirt.

As Frank ran down to the creek for the water he saw something shiny lying in the grass. He picked the object up, and was surprised to learn that it was a silver spectacle case, containing a fine pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Somebody dropped those in the excitement,” he reasoned. “I’ll have to look for the owner later;” and he shoved the case into his pocket.

Of the four that had been hurt two were removed to the hospital and the others were taken to their homes. Mr. Hardy was carried to his residence, and there his physician and his family did all they could to make him comfortable.

“The foot is in rather bad shape,” said Doctor Basswood. “Yet I feel certain I can bring it around so you can walk on it as before. But it will take time.”

“How much time, doctor?” questioned Mr. Hardy, faintly.

“Four or five months, and perhaps longer. But that is much better than having your foot amputated.”

“True. But I can’t afford to lay around the house for six months.”

At this the physician shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s the best I can do, Mr. Hardy.”

“Oh, it is not your fault, doctor. But——” Mr. Hardy paused.

“You are thinking of your store?”

“Yes.”

“It is a pity your son, Frank, isn’t older. He might be able to run it for you.”

“Unfortunately, Frank knows little or nothing about the business. I have kept him at school.”

“Perhaps you can get a good man to run it for you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”

“What do you do when you go away, as you did to-day?”

“I lock the place up, and leave a slate out for orders. Trade is not as brisk as it used to be.”

“You mean as it was before Benning and Jack Peterson started in the business?”

“That’s it. The town can’t support three flour and feed stores.”

“Won’t your old customers stick by you?”

“A few of them do; but both Benning and Peterson are doing their best to get the trade away from me. They offer all sorts of inducements, and sometimes sell at less than the goods cost, just to get a customer.”

“Nobody in business can afford to do that very long.”

“They want to drive me out, and each wants to drive out the other. Then the one who is left will make prices to suit himself;” and here Mr. Hardy had to stop talking, for he felt very much exhausted.

In the meantime Frank had been sent down to the drug store for several articles which the doctor had said were needed for the injured man. While he was waiting for the articles a burly and rather pleasant-faced man came in and purchased a handful of cigars.

“Is there an optician in town?” questioned the man of the druggist. “I was in that wreck, and somehow I lost my glasses, and I want to get another pair.”

“The watchmaker across the way keeps spectacles,” answered the druggist. “But if he can fit you or not I don’t know.”

“I’ll try him,” said the man, and started for the door.

“Excuse me,” put in Frank, stepping up. “What sort of spectacles did you drop?”

“Did you find them?”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Mine were in a silver case. They are thick glasses, with a gold frame.”

“Then these must be yours,” and Frank drew the case from his pocket and passed it over.

“They are mine!” cried the burly man, and looked well pleased to have his property returned to him. “Where did you find them?”

“In the grass between the wreck and the creek. I was down at the creek getting some water for my father, who was hurt. I almost stepped on the case.”

“I see. So your father was hurt. Which one was he?”

“He had his foot crushed.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. They took him to your home up the street.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope the hurt isn’t serious?”

“It’s bad enough. But Doctor Basswood says he can save the foot.”

“Well, that’s a great consolation. It’s no fun to have a foot cut off. May I ask your name?”

“Frank Hardy.”

“Mine is Philip Vincent. I am very much obliged for returning the glasses to me.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Vincent. I was going to hunt up the owner as soon as everything was all right at our house.”

“These glasses are a very fine pair, and I prize them exceedingly. Let me reward you for returning them,” and Philip Vincent put his hand in his pocket.

“I don’t want a reward, sir,” said Frank, promptly.

“But I want to show you that I appreciate having them returned,” insisted the burly gentleman.

“It’s all right.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m in the book business in New York. I’ll send you a good boy’s book. How will that suit you?” and the gentleman smiled blandly.

“I must say I never go back on a good story book,” answered Frank, honestly.

“Most boys like to read. I suppose you go to school here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I shan’t forget you,” concluded Philip Vincent, and shaking hands, he left the drug store.

“What a pleasant kind of a man,” thought Frank. “I’d like to see more of him.” And then he wondered what sort of a story book Mr. Vincent would send him.

A little later Frank obtained the articles needed from the druggist, and then he started for home. He did not dream of the disagreeable surprise which was in store for him.

CHAPTER III
DISAGREEABLE NEWS

“How is father feeling?” asked Frank, when he entered the house with his packages under his arm.

“I think he is a little feverish,” answered Mrs. Hardy.

“Does his foot hurt him much?”

“He says not. Doctor Basswood put something on to ease the pain.” Mrs. Hardy paused for a moment. “Your father brought bad news from Philadelphia,” she continued.

“What bad news, mother?”

“It is about Mr. Garrison. He has got into trouble with that benevolent order.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There is a shortage in the funds of the order.”

“For which Jabez Garrison is responsible?”

“So they claim.”

“What does Mr. Garrison say about it?”

“He told your father that it would all be straightened out in a week.”

“Does father believe it?”

“He won’t say. He is much worried, and I don’t wish to ask too many questions for fear it might make your father worse.”

“Didn’t I say Garrison was a snake?” went on Frank. “I am sorry father trusted him.”

“So am I—now. But it can’t be helped.”

“Do you know what father was going to do about it?”

“He said he had intended to go to Philadelphia again next Monday. But of course, he can’t go now.”

“Can’t I go for him?”

“Possibly, although I don’t see what you can do.”

“I could have a talk with Mr. Garrison and also with the other men who are interested in the order.”

“Well, we’ll wait and see how matters turn,” said Mrs. Hardy, with a sigh.

The accident had happened on Saturday, and during Sunday Mr. Hardy was decidedly feverish, so that the doctor had to come and attend him twice. The night to follow was an anxious one for the whole family, but by Monday noon the sufferer felt much better, although, on account of his crushed foot, he did not dare to move.

The store had been closed, but before and after school Frank delivered the orders that were left on the slate, and also went to such customers as his father mentioned. Trade was indeed slow, and the boy could readily see that the two rivals of his parent were doing the larger portion of the business. And this was not to be wondered at, since each had a fine location and made a very attractive display. If the truth must be told, Mr. Hardy was a bit old-fashioned in his ways, and he allowed his rivals to go ahead of him without much of a protest.

“I wish I knew all about the store,” thought Frank. “I’d go in for all the business there was.”

A letter had been sent to Jabez Garrison by Mrs. Hardy—the letter being dictated by her husband—but Wednesday passed without any answer being received. On this day Frank returned from school, stating that the final examination was at an end.

“And I received ninety-three per cent. out of a possible hundred,” said he, with just a little pride.

“You have certainly done very well,” answered Mrs. Hardy, and gave him a fond kiss. “Then you are sure of your grammar-school diploma?”

“Of course.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Frank.”

“How is father?”

“No different from what he was this morning. He is very anxious to hear from Mr. Garrison.”

“Then you have no word yet?”

“None whatever.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I.”

“Perhaps I’d better go to Philadelphia for him after all.”

“He says he will wait another day.”

The next day passed and still no word was received.

“Frank, do you think you could talk to Mr. Garrison?” questioned the boy’s father.

“Yes, sir—if you’ll tell me about what you’ll want me to say.”

“I want to find out just how he stands in relation to that benevolent order. If you can’t find out from him I want you to go to Mr. Bardwell Mason, the secretary. Here is his address on a card. I want to know exactly how matters stand.”

“What shall I do if I find Mr. Garrison has used up some money that doesn’t belong to him?”

“Tell him for me that he must straighten out the matter at once. If he does not I shall apply to the authorities for protection.”

“Could the authorities make you pay that ten thousand dollars if Jabez Garrison didn’t pay it?”

“Certainly, if he was in arrears that amount.”

“It’s a big sum of money, father.”

“To lose that amount would ruin me, Frank.”

“Ruin you?”

“Yes. Business is so bad that I need the money to help matters along. If I lose the cash I’ll have to close up or sell out.”

“Then I think you ought to get after Mr. Garrison without delay—or let me get after him.”

“I do not wish to appear too forward—in case everything turns out right, Frank. Mr. Garrison has done me some good turns in business in the past.”

Father and son had a talk lasting the best part of an hour, and then Frank came up to his room to prepare himself for the journey.

The youth had been to Philadelphia several times during the past two years, so he knew he would not feel as strange as though the city was totally new to him.

The wreck on the railroad had been cleared away in a few hours after it occurred, so there was nothing to hinder the trains from going through on time. Frank left home at ten in the morning and promised to be back by eight o’clock in the evening, or else to send a telegram stating why he was detained. If necessary he was to stop over night at a hotel his father mentioned to him.

The day was a bright, clear one in late June, and had our hero not had so much on his mind he would have enjoyed the trip very much. As it was, however, he could not help but think of what was before him, and of just how he should approach Mr. Jabez Garrison when he met that individual.

“I mustn’t say too much,” he reasoned. “And yet it won’t do to say too little. My opinion of it is, that father is altogether too easy on him. A man who can’t act on the square when he is handling money belonging to others doesn’t deserve nice treatment.”

It was some time before noon when Frank reached the Quaker City, as Philadelphia is often called. The ride had made him hungry, but he determined to call on Jabez Garrison before hunting up a restaurant for lunch.

The office of the wholesale flour and feed merchant was on Broad Street, and hither Frank found his way.

“Is Mr. Garrison in?” he asked of the clerk who came forward to meet him.

“What name, please?”

“Frank Hardy. I was sent here by my father, Thomas Hardy, of Claster.”

“I’ll see if Mr. Garrison will see you. He is very busy at present.”

“Tell him it is very important.”

The clerk walked to the rear of the place and entered a private office, closing the door behind him.

Frank heard some strong conversation for several minutes and then the clerk returned.

“Mr. Garrison is very sorry, but just now he cannot see you, as he has an important account to look after. He says if you will call at three o’clock this afternoon he will see you, and explain everything to your father’s entire satisfaction.”

“At three o’clock,” repeated Frank.

“That’s it. Just now he has got to look after an account that is worth something like fifteen thousand dollars to him.”

“All right then. I’ll call at three o’clock sharp,” said our hero, and left the place.

The statement the clerk had made was rather reassuring, for if Jabez Garrison had an account of fifteen thousand dollars coming to him he certainly could not be in a very bad condition financially.

“Perhaps this unpleasantness will all blow over after all,” thought Frank. “Father may be right, and I may be misjudging this man.”

He found a restaurant that suited him, and as he had a long time to wait, took his leisure in eating. Then he visited several department stores, spending a full hour in the picture and book departments. Books particularly interested him, and as he had a quarter to spend he let it go in the purchase of a volume which was slightly soiled, and therefore sold to him at one-third of its real value.

“I wouldn’t mind owning a bookstore of my own,” he said to himself, as he set out once again for Jabez Garrison’s offices. “It’s a business that would just suit me. I wonder if Mr. Philip Vincent has a place as large as that department I just visited?” And then he wondered when the gentleman from New York intended to send the book he had promised.

When Frank arrived at the flour dealer’s offices the clerk met him with rather a troubled look on his face.

“Mr. Garrison isn’t here,” he said. “He went out about two hours ago, and I can’t say how soon he’ll be back.”

CHAPTER IV
THE HUNT FOR A MISSING MAN

On entering the offices Frank had glanced at a clock on the wall and found it was five minutes past three.

“You don’t know how soon he will be back?” he queried.

“No.”

“If you will remember, I had an appointment at three sharp.”

“I remember it very well.” The clerk hesitated. “Would you mind telling me what your business was with Mr. Garrison?”

“It was a private matter.”

“Relating to money matters?”

“In a way, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I have reasons. Perhaps you had better sit down and wait for him.”

“That is what I intend to do. If necessary, I’ll wait for him until you shut up,” added our hero, as he dropped into a chair.

“Then you are bound to see him.”

“I am.”

The clerk said no more, but turned to a set of books and began to write. Frank remained silent for perhaps ten minutes.

“Did Mr. Garrison say where he was going?” he asked.

“Out to collect a bill.”

“Near by?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did he go out alone?”

“Yes.”

There was another spell of silence, and then the outer door opened quickly, and two well-dressed men stepped in.

“We wish to see Mr. Garrison,” said one, while he looked about to see if that individual was in sight.

“Sorry, sir; but he’s out,” said the clerk.

“When will he be back?” put in the second man.

“I can’t say.”

The two men exchanged glances, and one uttered a low whistle.

“Reckon we’re too late,” muttered the latter of the pair.

“It looks like it, Mason,” was the answer.

“What’s to do next?”

“Find him—if we can—and do it right away.”

“But it’s like looking for a pin in a haystack.”

“That’s true, too.” The man turned again to the clerk. “You are sure you don’t know where to find Mr. Garrison?”

“I haven’t the least idea where he has gone to.”

The other man had walked to the rear and glanced into the private office.

“Did Mr. Garrison have a satchel with him when he left?” he asked.

“He has a dress-suit case with him.”

“Humph!”

Frank listened to the talk with close attention. Then he arose and turned to the man who had been addressed as Mason.

“Excuse me, sir, but is your name Bardwell Mason?” he questioned.

“It is. Who are you?”

“I am Frank Hardy. My father is Thomas Hardy, of Claster.”

“Phew! Then you are after Garrison, too, eh?”

“I wish to see him. He was here this morning and promised to see me at three o’clock. It is now half-past three.”

“When did you call this morning?”

“About half-past eleven.”

“And you had a talk with him?”

“No, sir; I sent my name into the private office by this clerk.”

“Of course you want to see him about this security business.”

“Yes, sir. My father told me that if I couldn’t get any satisfaction here I should call upon you.”

Bardwell Mason nodded. Then he bent forward and lowered his voice.

“I’m afraid the fat’s in the fire here,” he whispered.