When he returned to the hotel he had the precious volume of Dante and two other rare books in his possession. He placed them in his traveling bag and went to bed with a good deal of satisfaction.
“It seems to me I’m getting along famously,” was his thought. “Even if I can’t sell any more of that lot of books I’ll clear twenty dollars by the transaction.”
The next morning was as bright and clear as ever, and, much to the satisfaction of the hotel keeper’s son, the young book agent spent half an hour in cleaning and oiling the bicycle.
“You’re the kind to rent a wheel to,” said Tom Grandon.
“I like to have a bicycle look nice,” answered our hero. “Besides, it runs easier if it’s clean and well oiled.”
“How are you making out?”
“Pretty fair.”
“I don’t think I’d care to sell books.”
“And I shouldn’t care to run a hotel,” returned Frank. “It’s a good thing everybody doesn’t want to do the same thing.”
By the middle of the forenoon Frank was at Mrs. Carsdale’s residence once more. He carried the volume of Dante and also two others he thought she might wish to look over.