mer,
interrogatively.

Frank smiled.

"You are the only man living in Jackson that I ever met," he said.

"Indeed!" said the driver, puzzled. "Are you calculating to make a long
stay in our village?" he asked again, after a minute's pause.

"That depends on business," answered the young traveler.

"Are you in business?"

"I have a stock of stationery which I shall offer for sale in Jackson,"
answered Frank.

"I am afraid you'll find it rather a poor market. If that's all you have
to depend upon, I am afraid you'll get discouraged."

"I am also agent for an illustrated book," said Frank. "I may be able to
dispose of a few."

"Perhaps so," answered the farmer, dubiously. "But our people haven't
much money to spend on articles of luxury, and books are a luxury with
us."

"I always heard that Jackson was a flourishing place," said Frank, who
felt that now was his time to obtain a little information.

"It ought to be," said the farmer; "but there's one thing prevents."

"What is that?"

"A good deal of our village is owned by a New York man, to whom we have
to pay rent. He has a rascally agent--a Mr. Fairfield--who grinds us
down by his exactions, and does what he can to keep, us in debt."

"Has he always been agent?"

"No. Before he came there was an excellent man--a Mr. Sampson--who
treated us fairly, contented himself with exacting rents which we could
pay, and if a man were unlucky, would wait a reasonable time for him to
pay. Then we got along comfortably. But he died, and this man was sent
out in his place. Then commenced a new state of things. He immediately
raised the rents; demanded that they should be paid on the day they were
due, and made himself harsh and tyrannical."

"Do you think the man who employs him knows how he is conducting his
agency?" Frank inquired.

"No; there is no one to tell him. I suppose Mr. Fairfield tells him a
smooth story, and he believes it. I am afraid we can hope for no
relief."

"What would he say," thought Frank, "if he knew I were a messenger from
Mr. Percival?"

"What sort of a man is this Mr. Fairfield in private life?" he asked.

"He drinks like a fish," was the unexpected reply. "Frequently he
appears on the street under the influence of liquor. He spends a good
deal of money, lives in a large house, and his wife dresses expensively.
He must get a much larger salary than Mr. Sampson did, or he could not
spend money as he does."

Though Frank had not mu