Nelson The Newsboy. Stratemeyer Edward

can find another place to live."

      "You want to git out of paying me that five dollars a week, don't you?" sneered Pepper.

      "I can't pay five dollars. But I'll pay what I can. How much do you think I owe you?"

      "A good deal—seeing that I've kept you ten years or longer."

      "Didn't my father leave anything?"

      "About forty dollars—not enough to keep you three months."

      "He hadn't any property?"

      "Nothing."

      "Well, as I said before, I'll do what I can—when I am able."

      "And you won't help me to–" Pepper paused.

      "I won't steal—I'll starve first," returned Nelson, and taking up his hat, he unlocked the door, and walked away from the lunch-room.

      CHAPTER VI.

      A BOOK AGENT'S TRIALS

      When Nelson left the lunch-room he scarcely knew what he was doing. The conversation which had occurred had been an important one, but his head was in such a whirl that just now he could make little or nothing out of it.

      He had no desire to sell papers,—indeed, he had no desire to do anything,—and all he did was to walk up the street and keep on walking until he was well uptown. Then he began to cross the city in the direction of Broadway.

      At last he began to "cool off" a bit, and then he went over all that had been said with care. As he did this he became more and more convinced that Sam Pepper had not told him the truth concerning his parent.

      "He is holding something back," he told himself. "And he has some object in doing it. He shall never make me a thief, and some day I'll force him to tell his secret."

      "Hullo, Nelson! what brings you up here?"

      The question was asked by a young man who carried a flat bag in his hand. The man was an agent for books, and the boy had met him many times before.

      "Oh, I just came up for a walk," answered our hero. "How is business, Van Pelt?"

      "Poor," answered George Van Pelt, as he set down his bag, which was heavy. "Haven't made but half a dollar so far to-day."

      "That's no better than selling newspapers."

      "I don't suppose it is, and you don't have to carry around such a bag as this, either. But I would have made more to-day if a customer hadn't tripped me up."

      "How was that?"

      "There was a young gent living near Central Park named Homer Bulson, wanted me to get certain French books for him. I got the books, but when I went to deliver them he refused to take them, saying they were not what he had ordered."

      "Were they?"

      "They were. I could make him take them, according to law, but to sue a man is expensive. But now I've got the books on my hands, and they cost me over three dollars."

      "Can't you sell them to somebody else?"

      "I hardly think so. You see, they are books on poisons, and there isn't much call for that sort of thing."

      "Poisons! What did he want to do with them?"

      "He said when he ordered them, that he was studying to be a doctor, and was going to make poisons a specialty."

      "It's a shame you can't make him take the books."

      "So it is. I suppose I could make him take them, if I wanted to create a row. But I can't do that. I haven't the cheek."

      "I'd make him take them, if I was in your place. Anyway, I'd tell him I was going to sue him if he didn't pay up. Perhaps that might scare him."

      "I was thinking something of doing so. Do you really think it might make him come down?"

      "I know some folks hate to think they are going to be sued. And if he lives in a fine house he must be pretty high-toned."

      "Oh, he is! He's a young bachelor, and lives in fine style, directly opposite the home of his rich uncle."

      "Then I'd try him again, before I'd give up."

      "I will. Do you want to come along?" went on George Van Pelt, who hated a quarrel.

      "I might as well. I'm not doing much just now," answered Nelson.

      "Of course you haven't given up selling papers?" went on George Van Pelt, as the two walked along.

      "No. But I wish I could get something better to do."

      "That's hard these times, Nelson. How much a day can you make at it?"

      "From seventy-five cents to a dollar and a quarter. Sometimes I make a dollar and a half, but that's not often."

      "The books used to bring me in from three to five dollars a day. But the department stores cut the prices now, and soon the whole book-agent business will be ruined."

      "What will you go into then?"

      "I don't know. If I had the money I'd start a newsstand—for papers and books, too."

      "That would pay, if you could get hold of the right corner," said our hero, with interest.

      "I know of a good corner on Third Avenue. The man who keeps it now is old and wants to sell out."

      "What does he want for the stand?"

      "A hundred dollars. Of course the stock isn't worth it, but the business is."

      "That depends on what he takes in a day."

      "He averages seventy-five dollars a week. But it would be more, if he was able to get around and attend to it."

      "A hundred dollars a week would mean about thirty dollars profit," said Nelson, who was quick at figures. "How much is the rent?"

      "Five dollars a week."

      "That would leave twenty-five dollars for the stand-keeper. Does he have a boy?"

      "Yes, and pays him three dollars a week."

      "Maybe we could buy the stand together, Van Pelt. You know all about books, and I know about the newspapers. We ought to make a go of it."

      "That's so, but–" The book agent looked rather dubiously at our hero's clothes. "How about the cash?"

      "We might save it somehow. I'm saving up for a suit now."

      "You need the suit."

      "I expected to get it in a few days. But Billy Darnley robbed me of five dollars, so I've got to wait a bit."

      "Well, if we could raise that money we might buy out the stand and try our luck," continued George Van Pelt, after a thoughtful pause. "I think we'd get along. How much have you."

      "Only a dollar or two now."

      "I've got fifteen dollars, and about ten dollars' worth of books."

      "Couldn't we get the man to trust us for the stand?"

      "He said he might trust me for half the amount he asks, but fifty dollars would have to be a cash payment."

      "We'll raise it somehow!" cried Nelson enthusiastically. The idea of owning a half interest in a regular stand appealed to him strongly. In his eyes the proprietor of such a stand was a regular man of business.

      The pair hurried on, and at length reached the vicinity of Central Park, and Van Pelt pointed out the house in which the rich young man who had refused to take the books lived.

      "Perhaps he won't let me in," he said.

      "Wait—somebody is coming out of the house," returned our hero.

      "It's Mr. Bulson himself," said George Van Pelt.

      He hurried forward, followed by Nelson, and the pair met the young man on the steps of his bachelor abode.

      Homer Bulson was a tall, slim young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat weak, but in his eyes was a look full of scheming cunning. He was faultlessly dressed in the latest fashion, wore a silk hat, and carried a gold-headed cane.

      "Mr.