"Huh!" growled the worker of all this mischief. "I'm cleaning out this place."
He was a husky, big-boned farmer-looking man of middle age.
Frank saw that he had a wicked eye. He also discerned that the fellow had been drinking heavily.
The stranger put his foot across a wicker basket and crushed it to splinters.
"What—what you got to say about it," he demanded, facing on Frank.
The big mailing table stood between them. The fellow leaned upon it as he stared insolently and savagely at Frank.
"I happen to be the proprietor of this place," remarked Frank.
"Whoop! you are?" yelled the man in a sort of frantic joy. "You're the mail order shark, are you? Here's luck. Better than smashing your traps. Say, I'm going to eat you!"
The man made a pounce around the table to catch Frank. His big fists warned the latter. The fellow in his present condition was positively dangerous, and was four times as big and strong as Frank.
"Hold on," cried Frank, seeking to temporize, but still keeping his distance by following the table
