“A book agent!” cried Mr. Hardy. “I don’t think they earn their salt.”
“Father, you are mistaken,” Frank answered, and then told of his experience of the day previous. Both of his parents listened with keen interest.
“That agent must be a remarkable man to earn so much,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I knew a man here who tried it once, old Randolph Winter. He earned only a few dollars a week.”
“I guess he wasn’t cut out for an agent,” answered Frank, who knew the man mentioned to be very lazy and shiftless.
“And so you think you are cut out for an agent, Frank?” demanded his father.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But I thought it might be worth trying—more especially as I can’t get anything else to do.”
“Oh, it won’t do any harm to try. But don’t fill your head with any false hopes, for you may be sadly disappointed.”
“If I try it, I’ll make up my mind to do my level best, and then take what comes. But I’d like to go to Philadelphia and see those book publishers first.”
“Very well; I’ll give you the necessary money.”
While Frank was talking the matter over with his parents, Ruth came in with several letters, and a big package from the post office.