During the wait Frank glanced around the office curiously. It was handsomely furnished, with drawings and engravings on the walls. In one corner, at a typewriter, a private secretary was at work.
“Now, then, I’m at liberty,” said Mr. Vincent, after five minutes had passed. “How have you been, and how is your father?”
“I’ve been well,” answered Frank, “and my father is doing as well as can be expected, so far as his foot is concerned. But he has had great misfortunes otherwise,” and our hero mentioned the Jabez Garrison loss and the fire.
“That certainly is hard luck,” said Philip Vincent, sympathetically. “He must be greatly worried.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that is why you want to try your luck at selling books?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve tried to get something else to do—I mean a regular situation—but I can’t find anything that will pay.”
“I see. Yes, regular positions on a stipulated salary are scarce.”
“I think I can sell books—anyway, I would like to try. I suppose you don’t object to employing boys.”
“Oh, no. A book sold by a boy will yield us as much profit as one sold by a man. But it requires talking, and I am afraid a boy could hardly set forth the merits of the works we offer to induce subscriptions.”