Cast Upon the Breakers by Jr. Horatio Alger (i love reading books TXT) 📕

“Are you a drummer?” asked the stout man, with a glance at the casket.

“No, sir.”

“I thought you might be, and that THAT might contain your samples.”

“No, sir. That is private property.”

He had thought of telling what it contained, but checked himself. He knew nothing of his companion, and was not sure how far it might be safe to trust a stranger.

“I used to be a drummer myself—in the jewelry line—” continued his companion, “and I carried a box just like that.”

“Ah, indeed! Then you are not in that business now?”

“No, I got tired of it. I deal in quite a different article now.”

“Indeed?”

“Suburban lot.”

“You don’t happen to have any of them with you?”

The stout man roared with laughter, giving Rodney the impression that he had said a very witty thing.

“That’s a good one,” he remarked, “the best I’ve heard for a long time. No, I haven’t any of the lots with me, but I’ve got a circular. Just cast your eye over that,” and he drew a large and showy prospectus from his pocket.

“If you should be looking for a good investment,” he continued, “you can’t do any better than buy a lot at Morton Park. It is only eighteen miles from the city and is rapidly building up. You can buy lot on easy installments, and I will myself pick one out for you that is almost sure to double in value in a year or two.”

“Thank you,” said Rodney, “but I shall have to invest my money, if I get any, in a different way.”

“As what for instance?”

“In board and lodging.”

“Good. That is even more necessary than real estate.”

“How long have you been in the business, sir?”

“About six months.”

“And how does it pay?”

“Very well, if you know how to talk.”

“I should think you might do well, then.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment. What business are you going into, that is, if you are going to the city?”

“I am going to the city, but I have no idea yet what I shall do.”

“Perhaps you may like to become an agent for our lots. I shall be ready to employ you as sub agent if you feel disposed.”

“Thank you, sir. If you will give me your card, I may call upon you.”

The short man drew from his card case a business card. It bore the name

ADIN WOODS. ROYAL BUILDING. NASSAU ST. Morton Park Lots.

“Come to see me at any time,” he said, “and we will talk the matter over.”

Here the train boy came along and Rodney bought a copy of Puck, while the agent resumed the perusal of a copy of a magazine. For an hour the cars ran smoothly. Then there was a sudden shock causing all the passengers to start to their feet.

“We’re off the track!” shouted an excitable person in front of Rodney.

The instinct of self preservation is perhaps stronger than any other. Rodney and his seat mate both jumped to their feet and hurried to the door of the car, not knowing what was in store for them.

But fortunately the train had not been going rapidly. It was approaching a station and was “slowing up.” So, though it had really run off the track, there was not likely to be any injury to the passengers.

“We are safe,” said Adin Woods. “The only harm done is the delay. I hope that won’t be long. Suppose we go back to our seat.” They returned to the seat which they had jointly occupied.

Then Rodney made an alarming discovery. “My casket!” he exclaimed. “Where is it?”

“What did you do with it?”

“Left it on the seat.”

“It may have fallen to the floor.”

Rodney searched for it in feverish excitement, but his search was vain. THE CASKET HAD DISAPPEARED!