Part 24 (1/2)

”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.