“Me? Nothing,” declared Markham, assuming the vacant bumpkin look he expressed so well when he gave a character delineation. “It’s old Dorsett’s emissary who was up to something--up to the wrong car, see? He has tacked that attachment notice onto a poor innocent old car filled with ballasting cinders. Never mind now. I’ll tell you later. Don’t miss the train, Frank.” There were hurried good-byes to their kind-hearted neighbor. Frank and Markham, each carrying two satchels, piloted Mrs. Ismond to the railroad station. Just as the train came in from the south a man drove past the depot platform. He drew up his horse with a jerk. It was Dorsett. He stared in amazement at the departing trio. Then suddenly, as if suspecting some trick, he got out of his gig and hurried across to the train. Frank had got his mother to a comfortable seat. The coach window was open. “You leave at your peril, widow Ismond,” shouted Dorsett. “That stuff of yours is attached. We’ve stopped the freight car, and--” “All aboard!” sang out the conductor. “Hold on, stop--zounds!” yelled Dorsett at the top of his voice. He was lifted from his feet suddenly. Some one rushing down the platform at cyclone speed had collided with him. It was Nelson Cady. He was hatless, his hair flying in the wind, his whole appearance that of fearful excitement. “Say, conductor,” he panted out breathlessly. “Three people just got on the train--where are they? Must see Frank Newton!” “Hi, there, Nelson,” hailed Frank, waving his hand through the open coach window. “Oh, jolly!” shouted Nelson, keeping on a run with the moving train. “See Frank!” Nelson tugged at his pocket. He pulled out a white, fluttering sheet of paper. “Frank, Frank,” his excited tones rang out after the vanishing train--“I’ve got my letter at last!” CHAPTER XVI “FRANK’S MAIL ORDER HOUSE” “Gentlemen, you embarrass me.” “Hear! hear!” “I may say, I am overwhelmed--overpowered--” “Good! Get over it, and give us a speech.” “No, a toast first. ‘Frank’s Mail Order House.’ Stet, fill up the sparking glasses once more.” “Hip, hurrah! Success to Frank Newton and his new business venture.” A merry friendly party was gathered about a long folding table in the middle of a spacious room. There were seven of them, and they were having a jolly good time. An acceptable lunch graced the banqueting board. Attired in a neat waiter’s apron and entering heart and soul into the enjoyment of the occasion, Stet, general utility boy for Haven Bros., helped the guests from a great pail of ice cold lemonade, and made himself generally useful about the table. This was Pleasantville, where Frank Newton, his mother, and Markham had arrived just one week previous. The room in which Frank’s friends were giving him a welcome was located on the lower floor of the old building that Haven Bros. had transformed into a print shop in their early amateur publishing career.