“This Dante is certainly just what you said it was,” said the lady. “And I will pay you twenty-five dollars, as I promised.”
“Here are two other books that may interest you,” said Frank, and passed them over.
Mrs. Carsdale gave each a thorough examination.
“I do not think I can use them,” she said, “but I know a friend of mine in Trenton who may buy both from you at a fair price. He collects just such books.”
“Please give me his address.”
“I will.”
When Frank left the residence he was just twenty-five dollars richer than he had been. His high spirits made him put on an extra spurt, and his bicycle flashed over the road like a meteor.
“That is what I call doing business,” he said to himself. “It beats the old feed store all to pieces. Won’t the folks at home stare when they learn how I am getting along!”
The young book agent had his case of samples with him, and also some volumes to be delivered, and put in a full day delivering and collecting, and in trying to get new orders. But new business was slow, and by nightfall he found he had but one extra order for the cattle and poultry work to his credit.
“Never mind; I’ve got to take matters as they come,” he said to himself. “The best of marksmen can’t hit the bull’s-eye every shot.”