“Yes, all you want.”
“What will you charge for a nice chicken, cleaned and dressed? My father is home sick and I’d like to take one to him.”
“I’ll let you have your pick for sixty cents.”
“Then I’ll take one,” answered Frank.
CHAPTER XIII
FRANK ON THE ROAD
Half an hour later found Frank on his way home by way of the stage which ran between Bardon, Claster, and half a dozen other points. He had his books in one hand and a fine, fat chicken, cleaned and dressed, in the other.
“I’ve certainly had a splendid start,” said he to himself. “I’ve sold thirty-nine dollars’ worth of books and made nine dollars and a quarter. If I do as well every day I’ll soon be rich.”
It was dark when he reached home, and it must be confessed that he was very tired, and his arms ached not a little from carrying the books. Yet he could not help but whistle as he entered the house, so light was his heart. Frisky greeted him with short, sharp barks of delight.
“Glad to see me, aren’t you?” cried Frank, and putting his books on the hall rack, he patted the dog.