“Why, yes. Truth is, I can put some loose change in your pocket, if you care to undertake a ten-days’ job I have in hand.” Nelson shook his head dubiously, with a very important air. “Dunno,” he said calculatingly. “You see, I am expecting a letter any day now.” Frank smiled to himself. Nelson had been “expecting a letter” every day for a year. Every boy in the village knew this, and occasionally guyed and jollied him about it. Nelson’s great ambition was to become a cowboy. On one occasion he had run away from home, bound for far-away Idaho. He got as far as the city, was nearly starved and half-frozen, and came home meekly the next day. His father gave him a good, sensible talk. He tried to convince Nelson that he was too young to undertake the rough life of a cowboy. This failing, he agreed that if Nelson would get some respectable stockman in Idaho to ensure him a regular berth for a year, he would let him go west and pay his fare there. Since then Nelson had spent nearly all the pocket money he could earn writing to people in Idaho, from the Governor down. Nobody seemed to want an inexperienced, home-bred boy to round their stock, however. Still, Nelson kept on hoping and trying. “I’ll risk your letter coming before your contract with me is finished, Nelson,” said Frank kindly. “About this cowboy business, though--take my advice and that of your good, kind father: don’t waste your best young years just for the sake of novelty and adventure. No ambitious boy can afford it.” “But I have a longing for the wild ranch life,” said Nelson earnestly. “All right, then do your duty to those at home, earn a good start here, where you have friends to help you, and begin with a ranch of your own. When I have made enough money, I would like to run a ranch myself. But I want to own it. I want to make a business investment--not fun and frolic--out of it.” “All right, I’ll be on hand in the morning,” promised Nelson. “I have been saving a surprise for you, Frank,” said his mother, as he rejoined her about nine o’clock. “What do you think? Your friend, Mr. Gregson, insisted on leaving you twenty-five dollars.” “Oh, that won’t do at all!” cried Frank instantly. “The professor, who was with him, insisted that it must. Besides, they left all sorts of kind regards for you.” Frank’s was a truly grateful heart. It had been a splendid day for him. He took up a lamp and went downstairs, whistling happily. “There’s a lot of work to do here,” he said, going from box to box, flashing the light across the contents. “There must be a million needles in that packing case. Poor Morton’s apple corer--there’s several thousands of those. And here’s a great jumble of lawn mower repair material.” Frank stood mapping out how he would handle the mass of stuff. About to leave the room, he set down the lamp and curiously inspected the zinc box that had apparently been the burned-out hardware man’s safe.