Bound to Succeed: or, Mail Order Frank's Chances. Chapman Allen
fence. It reached up fully fifteen feet, and its top was studded with sharp-pointed nails. Frank was not near enough to observe it more than casually. He had no time to make a closer inspection, and, past a reach of timber, it was shut out entirely from his view.
“Hello!” again he exclaimed a few minutes later, and paused this time to look across a ditch. An object of decided curiosity and interest held Frank’s attention. This was a little ragged urchin curled up fast asleep against a clump of dry weeds.
He was barefooted, and up to the knees he was spattered and caked with dry mud. His face was dust-covered, tired-looking and tear-stained. Frank’s sympathy was easily aroused. He voted the little fellow some wretched, homeless lad on a tramp.
By the side of the boy was quite a large bundle. It was enclosed in a newspaper. The breeze blew the sheets aside and the contents were disclosed quite readily to Frank’s view.
“Well!” said Frank, his eyes opening wide, “he’s not a vegetarian, that’s sure.”
The remark was called forth by a sight of a mass of cold cooked meat that might well make Frank stare, on account of its volume and variety. It looked as if the young wayfarer had gathered up a lunch for many days. There were parts of mutton chops, chunks of roast beef, and cuts of pork, flanked by bones and remnants of hash and sausages.
“Hope he’s here when I come back this way,” said Frank. “Looks pretty forelorn. I’d be glad to give him a lift.”
Frank hurried forward now. He soon reached the outskirts of Riverton. Within ten minutes he gained the business centre of the little town. Frank located the bank. He was soon at the door of an office over it bearing the words in gilt letters:
James Pryor, Fire Insurance.
The door was open. Seated behind a wire railing at a desk was a cross-looking old man writing in a book. Frank approached him with the question.
“Is Mr. Pryor in?”
“Eleven,” snapped out the man without looking up from his work.
“You mean he will be here at eleven o’clock?” pursued Frank.
“Yes.”
“I’ll wait for him then,” said Frank, selecting a chair. He felt a trifle disappointed and worried. The “certain other party” was on the road to Riverton. It was part of Frank’s contract to see Pryor before his arrival.
Several people came in and inquired for the insurance man during the next half-hour. Some of them went away saying they would return at eleven o’clock. Some others sat down like Frank, and waited. Frank heard the old clerk explain to one caller that Mr. Pryor was in his private room, but engaged in a most important consultation with a client.
Frank grew restless. He approached the cross-grained clerk again.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, “but I understand that Mr. Pryor is in his private room.”
“What of it? Can’t be disturbed,” snapped out his representative.
Frank retreated. He managed to endure a further tedious wait of a quarter-of-an-hour. Finally he strolled to the window looking down on the street.
“That ‘other party’ is on his way here,” mused Frank anxiously. “Suppose he gets here before eleven o’clock? That gives him an even chance with myself. Oh, the mischief!” exclaimed Frank suddenly. “Now the pot’s in the fire, sure!”
Frank gave a great start, and stared fixedly at a horse and gig that came clattering to a stop just then in front of the bank.
Frank recognized the vehicle and its driver. As he did so, he as quickly guessed that this new arrival must be the “certain party” alluded to by Mr. Buckner.
The new comer was Abner Dorsett, the man who had helped to swindle Frank’s mother out of her fortune.
CHAPTER III
A BUSINESS CALL
Frank watched Dorsett dismount from the gig and tie his horse. He realized that he would be up into the insurance man’s office in a few minutes.
“I must do something, and quickly,” thought Frank. “The second that man sees me he will suspect my mission here. He is a person of substance, and will carry weight. I shall be left if he gets into action first.”
Frank reflected rapidly. The old clerk, as he had already found out, was unapproachable. Frank was seized with a wild impulse to leap over the wire railing and rush past the clerk to the door of Mr. Pryor’s private office.
“Maybe it’s locked, though,” said Frank. “No, I won’t do that. I don’t see that I can do much of anything, except to wait and take my chance of getting the check into Mr. Pryor’s hands before Mr. Dorsett guesses what’s up.”
Frank glanced at the clock. It showed ten minutes to eleven. He went out into the hall and drew back into the shelter of a big fuel box there.
Dorsett came up the stairs, buggy whip in hand. He bustled into the office in his usual self-important way. Frank noticed that the old clerk sat down on him promptly. He was not one bit impressed with the bombastic visitor from Greenville.
Dorsett scowled as the clerk pointed to the clock, and impatiently fumbling the whip, sat down with the others in the office to await the royal pleasure of its closeted proprietor.
Frank did a lot of thinking. He planned all kinds of wild dashes when the door of that private office should open. Then, happening to stroll down the hall, a new idea was suggested to him.
“Would it win?” Frank breathlessly asked himself.
He had come out on a little landing. This was that platform of stairs running down into the rear of the lot that the bank and the insurance office occupied.
Six feet away from it to the left were two windows. They were both open. The low hum of voices reached Frank’s ears. Judging from the situation of the apartment beyond, Frank was sure that he had located the insurance man’s private room.
“I wonder if I dare?” he challenged himself. “I wonder if it would work?”
His eyes snapped and his fingers tingled. Then Frank studied the outlook more carefully. He calculated first his chances of getting to the first window. He also planned just what he would say in the way of explanation and apology once he reached it.
Two feet away from the platform a lightning rod ran straight up the building. Frank seized this. He fearlessly swung himself free of the platform, bracing his toes on a protending joint of the rod.
At the side of the nearest window, top and bottom, were two hinge standards. They had been imbedded in the solid masonry when the place was built to hold iron shutters, if such were ever needed. The bank floor below was guarded with these, but none had been put in place on the upper story.
Frank swung one hand free, and bending to a rather risky angle hooked a forefinger around the upper one of these standards. At the same time he gave his body a swing clear of his footing.
He aimed to land his feet on the sill of the nearest window. In this Frank succeeded. There was no time, however, to chance losing the foothold thus gained. He promptly slid his free hand down under the frame of the raised window. He got a firm clutch. Relaxing his hold of the hinge standard, he stooped.
The next moment, on a decidedly reckless and awkward balance, Frank tumbled rather than dropped inside of the room that was his objective point of assault.
“Hello! what’s this?” instantly hailed him.
Frank nimbly gained an upright position. He faced two men who, seated at a table covered with papers, began to push back their chairs in a somewhat startled way. They stared hard at the intruder.
Frank promptly doffed his cap. He made his most courteous bow.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a rather flustrated way, “but which is Mr. Pryor, please?”
“I am Pryor,” answered one of the twain, and Frank saw from the gathering frown