“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. Frisky¹ 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.

 

“You must feel happy, Frank,” cried Ruth, who came into the hall to greet him.

 

“I do feel happy.”

 

“Then you got an agency for those books?”

 

“I did more, Ruth—I’ve sold some of the books.”

 

“Good for you!”

 

The family had already eaten supper, but a generous portion had been saved for our hero.

 

“Here’s a chicken I brought from Bardon,” said Frank. “I bought it from a man because he bought a book from me,” he explained.

 

“It is a nice fowl,” answered his mother, after an examination. “So you got your books and have begun to sell them? You were fortunate.”

 

“Let’s go up to father’s room, and I’ll tell you all about it, mother.”

 

The whole family gathered in the patient’s room to hear what Frank might have to say. Mr. Hardy² was now able to move around the room a little bit, but could not go downstairs.

 

It was a long story, but all listened with deep interest to all our hero had to say.

 

“And you have really sold thirty-nine dollars worth of books, Frank!” ejaculated his father, in amazement³. “It is wonderful. I did not think any agent could do so well.”

 

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