[CHAPTER XII]
A BOY WITH A MYSTERY
The boy who called himself Markham flushed scarlet at Frank’s sudden words. His hand went with a quick, nervous movement to his upper lip. He looked dreadfully embarrassed.
“Never mind,” said Frank abruptly, trying to make it easy for the young fellow. “You look better without it.”
Markham had gained time now to cover his confusion. He swallowed a lump in his throat and smiled feebly.
“You see,” he stammered somewhat, “that wasn’t a real moustache—that one I’ve dropped.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?” said Frank.
“No. How I happened to have it was this,” explained Markham, rather lamely, but with apparent truth. “See?” and he produced from a pocket two false moustaches and as many small goatees. “Fact is, I wanted to earn some money. I saw a peddler selling those things on a street corner. They went like hot cakes. I asked him where he bought them. He told me, said he had taken them up only temporarily to make a little pocket money. He was nearly sold out, and offered me about a dozen of them for a quarter. I sold nearly all of them, and then went to the address he gave me to stock up again. They wouldn’t sell under a gross—three dollars and sixty cents, I think the price was. I didn’t have that much, so my scheme fell down.”
Markham now took a printed circular from his pocket, as if to verify his statement. Frank glanced over it with increasing interest. It advertised a city firm supplying street peddlers with all kinds of goods.