“Then I suppose I must walk,” said Frank, looking rather doubtfully at the two heavy valises which constituted his baggage.

“Then you are going to Jackson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I come from Jackson myself, and in fifteen minutes shall start on my way back.  You may ride and welcome.”

“Thank you, sir!” said our hero, quite relieved.  “I hope you will allow me to pay you as much as I should have to pay in a stage.”

“No, no, my lad,” said the farmer, heartily.  “The horse can draw you as well as not, and I shall be glad to have your company.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Just climb up here, then.  I’ll take your baggage and put it on the wagon behind.”

When the farmer had loaded up, he started up the team.  Then, finding himself at leisure, he proceeded to satisfy his curiosity by cross-examining his young passenger.

“Do you come from the East?” he asked.

“I am last from Chicago,” answered Frank, cautiously.

“I suppose you’ve got some friend in Jackson?” ventured the farmer, 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.