Nelson The Newsboy

"No, the gentleman was too sick to see me—at least that is what they said. But perhaps it was only a dodge to keep me out."

"I suppose they play all sorts of tricks on you—to keep you out of folks' houses," went on the newsboy thoughtfully.

"Sometimes they do. Some folks won't be bothered with a book agent."

"And yet you've got to live," laughed Nelson.

"Yes, all of us have got to live. But lots of folks, especially those with money, won't reason that way. They'll set a dog on you, or do worse, just to get rid of you. Why, once I had a man in Paterson accuse me of stealing."

"How was that?"

"It was the first week I went out selling books. I was down on my luck and didn't have any clothes worth mentioning."

"Like myself, for instance," interrupted the newsboy, with a laugh.

"If anything my clothes were worse. Well, I was traveling around Paterson when I struck a clothing shop on a side street. I went in and found the proprietor busy with a customer, and while I waited for him I picked up a cheap suit of clothes to examine it. All of a sudden the proprietor's clerk came rushing out of a back room and caught me by the arm.

"'You vos goin' to steal dot coat!' he roared.

"'No, I wasn't,' I said. 'I was just looking at it.'

"'I know petter,' he went on, and then he called the proprietor and both of them held me."

"I reckon you were scared."

"I was, for I didn't know a soul in the town. I said I wasn't a thief, and had come in to sell books, and I showed them my samples. At first they wouldn't believe a word, and they talked a whole lot of German that I couldn't understand. Then one went out for a policeman."

"And what did you do then?"

"I didn't know what to do, and was studying the situation when the other man suddenly said I could go—that he didn't want any bother with going to court, and all that. Then I dusted away, and I never stopped until I was safe on the train and on my way back to New York."

"Did you ever go to Paterson after that?"

"No, I never wanted to see that town again," concluded George Van Pelt.

CHAPTER VII.

A HARSH ALTERNATIVE

Homer Bulson was a fashionable man of the world. He had traveled a good deal and seen far more of a certain kind of "high life" than was good for him, either mentally or morally. He was fond of liquor and of gambling, and had almost run through the money which an indulgent parent had left him.

He was alone in the world, so far as immediate members of his family were concerned, but he had an uncle, Mark Horton, just mentioned, and also a cousin, Gertrude Horton, who was the ward of the retired merchant. This Gertrude Horton was the young lady who had offered to assist Nelson, and who had just recognized our hero from her seat at the window opposite.

In the fashionable world Homer Bulson cut a "wide swath," as it is commonly called, but he managed to keep his doings pretty well hidden from his uncle, who supposed him to be a model young man.

The young man's reason for this was, his uncle was rich and at his death would leave a large property, and he wished to become heir to a large portion of what Mark Horton left behind him. He knew his uncle was a strict man, and would not countenance his high mode of living, should he hear of it.

Homer Bulson watched Nelson curiously, and then looked across the street to see if he could catch his cousin Gertrude's eye. But the young lady was now out of sight.

"How is it that she knows that street boy?" Bulson asked himself, as he walked into the house to stow away the books he had purchased. "I don't like it at all—seeing that he was with the man who sold me these books. I hope he doesn't ever tell her I've been buying books on poisons."

Entering one of his rooms—he occupied several—he locked the door and threw himself into an easy-chair. Soon he was looking over the books, and reading slowly, for his knowledge of French was decidedly limited.

"Oh, pshaw! I can't make anything out of this," he exclaimed at last. "That English book on poisons I picked up at the second-hand book store is good enough for me. I might as well put these in a fire." But instead he hid them away at the bottom of a trunk.

With the books on poisons out of his sight, Homer Bulson turned to his wardrobe and made a new selection of a suit of light brown which his tailor had just brought to him.

He was putting on the suit when there came a knock on the door.

"Who's there?" asked the young man.

"Mr. Grodell, sir," was the answer.

Mr. Grodell was the agent of the apartment house, and had come for his rent.

Homer Bulson was behind four months in payments, and the agent was growing anxious for his money.

"Very sorry, Mr. Grodell, but I am just changing my clothes," said the spendthrift.

"Then I'll wait," was the answer.

"Better not, it will take some time."

"I am in no hurry, Mr. Bulson," said the agent.

"Oh, pshaw! why does he bother me!" muttered Homer Bulson. "I haven't got any money for him."

He did not know what to do, and scratched his head in perplexity.

"Come around Saturday and I will pay you in full," he called out.

"You told me you would pay me last Saturday, Mr. Bulson."

"I know I did, but I was disappointed about a remittance. I will surely have your money this coming Saturday."

"Without fail?"

"Without fail."

"All right, Mr. Bulson. But I must have it then, or else take possession of the rooms." And with this parting shot the agent departed.

"The impudent fellow!" muttered Homer Bulson. "To talk to me in that fashion! He shall wait until I get good and ready to pay him!"

Nevertheless, the young man's pocketbook was very nearly empty, and this worried him not a little.

Several times he had thought of applying to his uncle for a loan, but each time had hesitated, being afraid that Mark Horton would suspect his extravagant mode of living.

"But I must get money somehow," he told himself.