Nelson The Newsboy. Stratemeyer Edward

Bulson, I must see you about these books," said George Van Pelt, coming to a halt on the steps of the stone porch.

      "I told you before that I did not wish to be bothered," answered the young man coldly.

      "But you ordered the books, sir."

      "I will not discuss the matter with you. Go away, and if you bother me again I shall call a policeman."

      "My friend hasn't done anything wrong," put in Nelson boldly. "You ordered some books from him, and you ought to pay for 'em."

      "What have you to do with this matter?" demanded the rich young man, staring harshly at our hero.

      "This man is my friend, and I don't want to see him swindled," said our hero.

      "Swindled!"

      "That's it. You ordered some books on poisons from him, and now you don't want to pay for 'em. It's a swindle and an outrage. He's a poor man, and you haven't any right to treat him so."

      "Boy, if you speak like that to me, I'll have you put under arrest," stormed Homer Bulson in a rage.

      "You must take the books," put in George Van Pelt, growing braver through what Nelson was saying. "If you won't take them, I'll sue you for the amount."

      "Sue me?"

      "Yes, sue you."

      "And I'll put the reporters on the game," added the newsboy. "They like to get hold of society notes." And he grinned suggestively.

      At this Homer Bulson's face became filled with horror. For more reasons than one he did not wish this affair to become public property.

      "To sue me will do no good," he said lamely.

      "Yes, it will," said the book agent. "You have money and will have to pay up."

      "Or else your rich uncle will pay for you," said Nelson, never dreaming of how the shot would tell. Bulson grew very pale.

      "I—I will take the books and pay for them," he stammered. "Not because I think I ought to take them, mind you," he added, "but because I wish no trouble in public. Where are the books?"

      "Here." And George Van Pelt brought two volumes from his satchel.

      "How much?"

      "Just what I told you before, Mr. Bulson—five dollars."

      "It's a very high price for such small books."

      "They are imported from France, remember, and besides, books on poisons–"

      "Give them to me."

      The books were passed over, and Homer Bulson drew from his vest pocket a small roll of bills. He handed over a five to George Van Pelt.

      "Now begone with you," he said sourly. "And don't ever come near me again for another order."

      "Don't worry, I won't come," answered the book agent. "You are too hard a customer to suit."

      He pocketed the money and rejoined Nelson on the sidewalk. Then both started to walk away.

      As they did so our hero glanced across the way and saw, in a window of the house opposite, the young lady who had offered her assistance after Billy Darnley had robbed him.

      She recognized him and smiled, and he promptly touched his hat respectfully.

      Homer Bulson saw the act and so did George Van Pelt, and both stared at Nelson.

      "Whom did you see?" asked Van Pelt, as they walked down the street.

      "A lady who once offered to help me," said Nelson. "She was in that house. She has left the window now."

      "Why, that is where that man's rich uncle lives!" exclaimed the book agent.

      "Is it?" cried our hero. "Then perhaps the lady is a relative to him."

      "Perhaps."

      "What is the uncle's name?"

      "Mark Horton. I understood that he was once a rich merchant of Philadelphia. But he's a sickly old man now. I wanted to sell him some books, but they wouldn't let me see him."

      "I hope that young lady isn't a relative to that Homer Bulson," mused Nelson. "If he is, he can't be very nice company for her."

      "That's true, Nelson."

      "You said you tried to sell books there but they wouldn't let you in."

      "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,