“Maybe it’s a cent,” suggested Markham, with a slight tinge of sarcasm. “No, a ten-cent piece, sure enough,” declared Frank. “For your puzzle, Markham, too.” “Yes,” put in Markham, picking up the coin that Frank had placed on his desk, “but the dime is--lead!” Frank pulled a dismal face. Markham looked actually mad. Then their glances met. They broke into a hearty laugh mutually. “Humph!” commented Markham. “Amusing, isn’t it?” asked Frank, trying hard to keep up his courage. “Oh, well, there’s the afternoon mail,” suggested Markham, getting up and beginning to fold some more circulars. “Who expected any mail of consequence this morning, anyhow?” Frank resumed his task of working on the catalogue. He whistled a cheery bar or two, felt too serious to keep it up, and went on with his work in a half-hearted way. “This Frank’s Mail Order House?” demanded a brisk voice, half an hour later. “Don’t you know it is?” challenged Frank, arising to welcome Ned Davis, a bright young fellow, who was the messenger of the local bank. “All right,” chirped Ned. “Got a letter this morning from a correspondent at Bayview. Enclosure. Man running a small store there asks us if Frank’s Mail Order House is a reliable concern. If so, instructs us to place this order with you.” Ned importantly spread out quite a voluminous order list before Frank. “Accompanied with the cash,” added Ned, and set down a crisp, encouraging-looking five-dollar bill beside the document. “Oh!” ejaculated Markham, almost falling off his chair with surprise. “Ned,” said Frank, with a touch of genuine feeling, “thank you.” “That’s all right,” responded Ned. “We’re simply working to get your bank account when it runs up into the thousands, see?” “Will it ever, I wonder?” murmured Frank. “Isn’t that a nest egg?” challenged the practical young financier. CHAPTER XVIII A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR Frank looked up from his work with an eager flush on his face. Markham, who had gone to the post office, was returning. His light, springy step coming up the walk, and cheery, ringing whistle told Frank that he was the bearer of good news. “Afternoon mail,” sang out Markham, putting the satchel down on Frank’s desk. “And she’s a cracker-jack!” “Good,” said Frank. “Over thirty letters,” continued Markham gaily. “Stamps in some, coin in others. My finger tips just itched to feel those letters, Frank. I just had to do it. Oh, if this suspense keeps up I’ll be rifling the mails next.” Frank slitted all the letters in turn. Four postal cards asking for catalogues were promptly disposed of. The first of the letters was from a country newspaper offering reduced terms for advertising. There was an application for an agency. No. 3 wanted to be hired in the office--could count money and put on postage stamps fast.