Through the main street of the town Dick rode, waving his hand now and
then to acquaintances who saluted him. To some he called out cheery
words of greeting, and to several elderly men he bowed respectfully.

As Dick turned out of the main thoroughfare into one that led to the
handsome mansion where he and his father lived, he came in sight of a
spectacle that made him pause. It was a rattletrap of a wagon, drawn by
a horse that seemed as much in danger of falling apart as did the
vehicle. In the wagon was a miscellaneous collection of scrap iron,
broken pipes, pieces of stoves, fractured pulleys and bent shafting
mingling in a confused mass. On the seat sat a pleasant-faced,
bright-looking youth, about Dick's age, and nearly of his size.

"Hello, Henry!" called Dick. "What in the world have you got there?"

"Scrap iron, scrap wagon and a scrap horse," replied Henry Darby, with a
grin.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I'm in a sort of new venture," was the answer. "I'm collecting
old iron, wherever I can find it, and selling it again. I bought up a
lot out in the country, and I hired this rig to get it back to town
with; only I'm afraid I'm not going to arrive."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, this horse--if you can call such an animal a dignified name like
that--has the heaves, a spavin, spring-halt, blind-staggers, and a few
other things. It got tired a few minutes ago, and went on a strike. I'm
afraid to do anything to it to make it go for fear it'll fall apart
right here in the road."

Dick, who had brought his steed to a stop, laughed heartily.

"Well, you are in a fix," he said. "But I don't understand about this
old iron business."

"I've got to do something to make a living," answered Henry Darby, who
seemed confused about something. "I have been doing it on a small scale
for quite a while. Now I'm trying to branch out a bit. There's money in
old iron, if I could sell enough of it. But I don't see how I'm going to
get this load home. You might lend me your horse," he added with a
laugh; for in spite of the poverty of Henry Darby, and the wealth of
Dick Hamilton, the two boys were good friends.

"I'm sorry I can't do that, Henry," said Dick; and his voice showed that
he was sincere. "The fact is, I'm in a hurry to get home. When I went
out this morning father told me to be sure to be in at three o'clock, as
he had something important to tell me."

"Maybe he's going to reduce your allowance," suggested H