Frank left the office of the book concern in a happy, hopeful mood. Everything had come out beyond his fondest anticipations. He was glad he had been truthful and honest in the broadest sense of the word.
He went back to the railroad depot and left his suit case in the check room. A return train for Greenville left at two o’clock, but Frank wanted to see the city. Outside of that, he wished to visit one or two large mail order houses.
Frank employed six hours to grand advantage. He came to the depot feeling that the money he had spent was a good investment.
After a light lunch he sat down on a bench in the waiting room. He counted over the little pile of bank notes in his pocketbook with a pleased smile.
“Just think,” he reflected, “I expected to pay Mr. Morton twenty, maybe thirty dollars for those lists and the routing outfit, and here I am going back home with practically all my original capital. Then, too, the collection of those bills at Riverton: why, it just seems as if fortune has picked me out as a special favorite.”
Frank found the train he was to take would not leave for over an hour. It was already made up and standing on its track, but still locked up and unlighted. Frank went outside and strolled up and down the dark platform alongside the train.
He was full of pleasing, engrossing thoughts, and did not notice a large, shrewd-eyed man who had followed him from the waiting room.
Frank was just returning to promenade back from the front end of the train, when a sharp rustle made him turn half around.
Instantly a pair of brawny arms were stretched out towards him. Both of his hands were imprisoned in the grasp of a sprawling fist.
“Hey, keep quiet, or I’ll smash you,” spoke a harsh voice. “Now then, young man, I want that money you’ve got in your pocket.”