A DISASTROUS COMBAT
“Say, Reddy,” called Sam Hickson, a little later. A chance customer had
prevented him from joining the group about the Italian woman. “Look
down the aisle. There’s the buyer, if you’re dying to see him.”
“Oh, I saw him long ago,” drawled Teddy. “He was over there with that
Eyetalion woman who was lost in the wilds of Martins’ basement.” He
related the incident to Hickson who had been busy with a customer at
that time.
Hickson laughed heartily. “And it took little Reddy to show ’em. I
guess maybe Mr. Everett _will_ know you the next time he sees you.”
But before the day was over, Mr. Everett was destined to receive a most
vivid impression of Teddy. The long, dull afternoon was drawing slowly
to a close. The wall clock at one end of the department pointed to a
quarter to five.
“I’m not sorry this day’s pretty near done,” grumbled Sam Hickson to
Teddy. “I haven’t sold enough to-day to earn my salary, let alone my
commission.”
“If you don’t sell enough of this junk to earn your salary, will you
get fired?” was Teddy’s anxious inquiry.
“Well, Martin Brothers haven’t said anything yet about keeping me for
an ornament,” Hickson made humorous answer.
“Te, he!” snickered Teddy, “I guess they think these old kettles and
pans are nicer ornaments than you are. All they have to do is to hang
around here till somebody buys ’em, or they jump off the table,” he
added, as, his arm coming into contact with a long-handled dipper, it
bounced to the floor with a protesting bang. “I’m goin’ to take a walk
down there where the wash boilers grow.”
Teddy slammed the dipper into its accustomed place and strolled down
the aisle, his alert, black eyes roving over the department in search
of adventure. He could never pass the rows of wash boilers without
slyly lifting the lid of one of them and holding it in the position of
a shield. He always wondered how cannibals and head-hunters could hold
those great, clumsy things in one hand and fight with the other. To-day
he peered sharply about to see if anyone was observing him. That end of
the department was apparently deserted. Far up the aisle the Gobbler
was expatiating on the glories of a clothes-wringer to a stolid-faced
woman, who clamored for a bargain in wringers. The loud gobble, gobble
of the saleswoman’s strident voice floated down the aisle to Teddy.
It meant that the Gobbler was too much taken up with her customer to
trouble herself about him. With the shield-like lid in his hand he
flitted through a cross-aisle, like a mischievous little shadow, to a
corner where a collection of clothes-poles stood. He ran his eye over
the lot, then singling out the smallest one, reached for it. Again he
glanced quickly about him. The coast was clear.
Holding his improvised shield in an attitude of defence, Teddy charged
down the deserted aisle, the clothes-pole poised threateningly. His
impish face was aglow with the excitement of his pretended warfare.
At the end of the cross-aisle he paused to reconnoiter. No one was in
sight. Teddy took a fresh grip on his shield and charged back again.
Suddenly, to his amazed horror, his shield came in violent contact with
something moving. The snarling, “Hi, there, whoda you think you’re
hitting,” proved the “something moving” to be a very angry human being.
The clothes-pole clattered to the floor. The victim of his spirited
charge was none other than his old enemy, Howard Randall, the fat boy.
Teddy hastily flung aside his shield and doubled his fists.
“Thought you’d lick me, didn’t you,” sputtered Howard. “Had to get a
clothes-pole and a boiler lid to do it, though. I c’n lick _you_ with
my two fists, and I’m goin’ to do it right now while no one’s lookin’.”
Howard aimed a savage blow at Teddy, who dodged nimbly, placing the
width of a narrow aisle table between them.
“’Fraid of me, ain’t you, baby,” sneered Howard, following Teddy up
menacingly. “I’ll show you.”
Both boys reached the end of the protecting table at the same instant
and met in the narrow aisle. Intent on what promised to be a real
battle, neither had noted the approach of a very short, stout man, who,
equally occupied in trying to gaze on both sides of the aisle at once,
had not yet perceived them.
“Take that, you red-head.” With unseeing rage Howard lunged viciously,
putting all his strength into the blow. Teddy again side-stepped.
A groan of deep anguish, followed by an angry snort rent the air.
Howard’s fist had missed Teddy but it had not missed the stout man. The
force with which Howard had delivered his blow had caused him to lurch
forward. Before he could recover his balance, he was seized in an iron
grip.
“You young rascal,” growled the enraged recipient of the blow, “I’ll
teach you to go about attacking customers!”
Teddy stood transfixed. Things had happened with most amazing
suddenness.
The fat boy wriggled ineffectively to free himself. “Aw, let me go,
mister. I didn’t mean to hit you. I was tryin’ to hit _him_,” he
begged, wagging his head toward Teddy.
“Let you go! I guess not, you young ruffian. Why don’t you pick a boy
of your own size, if you want to fight?”
“I guess it was some my fault,” put in Teddy. “I ran into him, and
he thought I did it on purpose. That’s why he was goin’ to fight me.
Please don’t report him, mister. He didn’t mean to hit you. There isn’t
a boy in this store that would do such a thing on purpose.”
Teddy’s black eyes were fastened on the man with desperate pleading.
The fat boy stared at Teddy in amazed unbelief.
The man looked from one lad to the other. His grim face softened. He
relaxed his hold on Howard’s arm. “I ought to report you both for
fighting,” he said, “but I’ve a boy about your age at home. So I’ll let
you go. You’d better be careful in future whom you hit. The next person
might not see things as I do.” He turned abruptly and walked off in the
opposite direction.
The belligerents watched him out of sight, then their glances met. The
fat boy looked somewhat sheepish. Teddy was grinning broadly.
“I’m glad he had a boy of his own,” he commented.
“You got me into that mess, but you got me out of it, too,” said Howard
slowly. “Say, honest, did you mean to upset my dinner that day?”
“Of course not,” sniffed Teddy, “but you had no business to try to
stick me for five cents. That was just the same as stealing.”
The fat boy colored hotly. “I don’t know what made me do it,” he
muttered. “_You_ hadn’t any business to call me an elephant and Fatty
Felix. I can’t help being fat any more’n you can help having red hair.”
“I guess I know that.” This time it was Teddy who blushed.
“Say, I don’t think you’re a baby. You’re a real scrapper for a boy of
your size. I kind of like you.”
“You’ve got an awful punch in that right arm of yours,” was Teddy’s
magnanimous tribute. “I’ll bet you hurt that man, all right.”
Both boys giggled.
Down the aisle floated the Gobbler’s voice, “Boy, boy. Num-ber 65.” She
had triumphantly put over the sale of the wringer.
“That’s my number. I’ll have to go. See you in school Thursday.”
Teddy’s little thin hand shot out. A fat hand clasped it half-way, and
marked the beginning of a friendship between the two lads that was to
be the making of Howard Randall.
As Teddy hurried up the aisle and the fat boy lumbered off about his
business, a man emerged from a small room not far from where the
disastrous encounter had taken place. His face wore a broad smile.
Seated in his office, through the partially-closed door, he had
heard the boyish altercation, and had decided not to interfere. The
surprising turn the affair took had convulsed him with mirth, despite
his efforts to sympathize with the maltreated customer. He had also
witnessed the end of the scene, and as he watched Teddy’s wiry, lithe
body speed up the aisle, he murmured, “Mischievous as that youngster
seems to be, he’s a boy with a future.”