CHAPTER XIII

A MATTER OF BUSINESS

“That’s the talk!” cried Harry. “For all we know, he may be a tool of this Tom Mason.”

“Say, Harry, what are you going to become, a detective?” queried Bart, with a grin. “First thing you know, you’ll be on the New York force.”

“Never mind, it’s a good idea,” broke in Link. “Joel Runnell said the fellow acted suspicious-like.”

“The Dickerson farm isn’t much out of our way, so it won’t do any harm to stop there,” remarked Fred.

Now that the sun was getting lower in the west, it was not so hot riding and, refreshed by their rest at the cottage, the five youths made good time over the hills leading to the Dickerson farm, which was less than a quarter of a mile up a side road midway between Cresco and Brookside.

They found Henry Dickerson and his wife in the barnyard, milking the cows. The farmer often came to the Lakeport stores for supplies and knew the Westmore boys and Fred fairly well.

“Hullo, lads, what can I do for you?” he asked, pleasantly, as he set down his milking pail.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Dickerson,” replied Joe, and without preliminaries spoke about the man who had stopped at the Runnell cottage.

“Oh, yes, I remember that chap,” answered Henry Dickerson. “He was agent for a new kind of plow. He wanted to sell me one the worst way, but I told him my old plows were good enough for me.”

“What was his name?” asked Harry.

“I forget his name. But he left his card. It’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.” And the farmer did so.

“Lamar Chase,” said Joe, after reading the name. “Representing the Double Weld Plow Company, Springfield.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that chap!” cried Bart. “Why, he used to be located in Brookside--had a small hardware shop there.”

“Yes, I remember now,” returned Joe. “He gave it up two or three years ago.”

“Yes, and let me tell you something more,” cried Link. “He used to be in the same building where Mr. Thomas Mason had his office.”

“Anything wrong with that chap?” questioned Henry Dickerson, curiously.

“Oh, we only wanted to find out who he was,” answered Joe. He handed back the card, after noting the man’s address. “Much obliged. We’ll have to get home, for it is late.” And in another minute the five boys were off.

“That man came from Springfield!” cried Harry, when they were out of hearing of the Dickersons.

“Exactly!” returned his brother. “Boys, I feel sure of one thing: This Mr. Lamar Chase knows Mr. Mason. He knew him in Brookside years ago and now he is located in Springfield, directly across the street from the Springfield Novelty Manufacturing Company. His location is 52 River Street and the novelty company’s address is 49 to 53--just on the other side.”

“And he knows Mr. Akers,” added Fred.

“I’m going to investigate some more, when I get to Springfield,” went on the elder Westmore boy.

The lads put on a burst of speed, and while riding hard but little talk was indulged in. Soon they reached Brookside, and just as the town clock tolled out the hour of seven they came in sight of home.

“I wish you’d come over to our house to-night, Fred,” said Joe. “And ask your father if he won’t come, too.”

“All right, I’ll do it,” responded the stout youth.

While eating supper the Westmore boys told their father of all that had happened. Mr. Westmore was deeply interested.

“I don’t know much about Mason, excepting that he is reported to be rather close-fisted,” he said. “But I do know this Lamar Chase--and Mr. Rush knows him even better. They once bought some hardware supplies together, and Chase didn’t pay his part of the bill and it gave Mr. Rush a good deal of trouble.”

A little later Fred and his father appeared, and all sat down in the Westmore sitting-room to discuss the situation.

“Lamar Chase is a trickster,” said Mr. Rush. “He caused me no end of trouble in that hardware deal. And I know that he and Thomas Mason are well acquainted, and both have something to do with that Springfield Novelty Company. It is quite possible that Chase is aiding Mason to get the better of this Andrew Akers.”

“My opinion is, this Mr. Akers ought to hire a first-class lawyer to protect his interests,” said Mr. Westmore. “It is a mistake to leave it to you boys.”

“Well, he asked us to go to Springfield for him,” answered Joe. “He has no use for lawyers, any more than he has for doctors or a hospital. I think myself he is a queer man; but I think we are bound to respect his wishes.”

“Oh, it won’t hurt for the boys to go to Springfield,” said Mr. Rush. “They can take that letter and probably get as much information as anybody could.”

“Very well, they shall go,” answered Mr. Westmore. “But be sure and keep out of trouble.”

The morning train for Springfield left at quarter of eight and long before that hour Joe and Fred were ready for the trip. Joe had the letter that had been signed by Andrew Akers, offering his stock in the novelty company to Mr. Westmore. The boys purchased excursion tickets to the city and then waited impatiently for the train to come along. There were less than a dozen passengers to get on, and the lads found the cars only half filled, and so had a double seat to themselves.

“Why, say, here is news!” cried Fred, who had bought a Springfield daily newspaper at the depot stand. “Do you remember the County Fair at Springfield?”

“Yes, that’s no news, Fred. I don’t care for ’em much--same old cows and pigs and horses, and pumpkins and patchwork quilts.”

“Oh, I don’t care for that myself. But the paper says that they are going to have an added attraction, which is to take the place of the lady lion-tamer, who is sick. They have engaged Mr. Frank Dimity, the world-famous aviator, to give several flights in his new hydro-aeroplane, from Crystal Lake, at the fairgrounds.”

“That’s different!” cried Joe, his face showing his interest. “A hydro-aeroplane, eh? That’s one of the kind that can sail on the top of the water as well as in the air. I’d like to see it.”

“So would I.”

“Will the aviator be there to-day?”

“Yes, from three to six o’clock this afternoon.”

“Then, if we get through in time, Fred, why not go out to the fairgrounds before we go home? We can take the eight-fifteen train to Lakeport instead of the four-forty.”

“That’s the talk!” exclaimed the stout lad, his face beaming. “I’d like to see that chap scoot over the water and in the air.”

For the time being the business that was taking them to Springfield was forgotten, and both lads pored over the advertisement and over the reading account of what Mr. Frank Dimity had done in the past with his new air and water machine.

“From this account the hydro-aeroplane isn’t so very much different from our machine, excepting that it has air-tight pontoons under it, instead of bicycle wheels,” remarked Fred. “There are two pontoons under the center of the machine and a little pontoon at the far end on either side. I suppose he drops down on the water just as our machine drops on a level field, and he can run on the top of the water just as our machine can run over the field before it rises in the air.”

“That’s the size of it,” returned Joe. “But I reckon a chap has got to be careful that he doesn’t hit the water sideways, otherwise he’ll go under. He has got to come down just as flat as a pancake.”

The run to the city occupied an hour, for the train was an accommodation, making eleven stops. Soon the seats began to fill up, with many folks bound for the fair.

The boys had been to Springfield before, both by train and in the automobile, so they did not feel strange when they alighted at the depot. They soon found out where River Street was located, down in the factory district.

“It’s a little bit early yet,” said Joe, consulting his watch. “Perhaps we had better walk around a little before we call at the office of the novelty company. The man in charge of the office may not be there. Some of these rich men don’t get to work until ten o’clock or after.”

“Oh, I guess we’ll find somebody there,” answered Fred. “If not, we can sit down and wait.”

A ten-minutes’ walk brought them in front of the big factory building occupied by the Springfield Novelty Manufacturing Company, as announced by the big sign across the front of the structure. At one end were the offices. Looking through a window the lads saw two young clerks standing at a tall desk writing in some books. At a stand in a corner was a young lady at a typewriter. On the other side of the office a portly man sat back in a chair, reading a newspaper. His feet were up on a desk, and he was evidently taking his ease.

“That man must be the manager,” said Joe to his chum. “Come ahead.” And he braced himself for the coming interview.

As they entered, Fred purposely shut the door rather hard, so as to attract the attention of the man who was reading. He dropped the newspaper and looked at the visitors inquiringly. The young lady at the typewriter arose and came towards him.

“What is it you wish?” she asked.

“I would like to see the office manager,” answered Joe.

“The office manager? Do you mean Mr. Mason?”

“Is he the manager here?”

“He is the general manager, yes.”

“Then I’d like to see him, if he is here.”

“What do you want?” demanded the portly man at the low desk, without making any movement to arise. Both boys noticed that his face had a shrewd, hard look on it.

“Are you Mr. Mason, the manager?” asked Joe.

“I am.”

“Then I’d like to see you on business, Mr. Mason.”

“What is it?”

“I came to see you about some stock in this concern, now owned by Mr. Andrew Akers.”

“What’s that?”

The words were uttered quickly, as if Mr. Mason had been taken very much by surprise. His feet came to the floor with a bang and he hurried over to where Joe and Fred stood.

“I said I had come to see you about some stock in this manufacturing company that is now owned by Mr. Andrew Akers. He has offered the stock to my father, and I wish to get some particulars about it.”

“Um! Ah!” muttered Thomas Mason, and for the moment he looked very much disturbed. “If you--er--want to see me about our stock, please step into my office.” And he pointed to a side apartment, separated from the main office by a ground-glass partition reaching to the ceiling.

The two boys followed him into the other office and he motioned them to chairs. Then he closed the door carefully and confronted them.

“Now, then, what did you say?” he asked, of Joe, although the Westmore boy had told him twice.

“I came to see about the twelve thousand dollars’ worth of stock that Mr. Akers owns in this concern,” answered Joe. “He has offered it to my father, and I want to find out how this concern stands and if it would be a good investment.”

“Humph! Who are you?”

“I am Joe Westmore, of Lakeport. My father is Horace Westmore, the flour and feed dealer.”

“Oh, yes, I know him,” and Thomas Mason nodded slowly. “And who are you?” he asked, turning to Fred.

“I am Fred Rush, also of Lakeport.”

“Oh, yes, that Rush boy! Your father is in the hardware business, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Humph!” Thomas Mason dropped into a chair in front of a big roll-top desk. “Well, let us come to business. Let me see that certificate of stock that this Andrew Akers claims to own.”