"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 I 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
