THE PRICE OF HONESTY
When Harry took his station near the exchange desk the next morning,
it was with renewed determination to do his duty to the full as he saw
it. He wondered if Mr. Barton would mention the errand on which the
aisle manager had sent him the previous afternoon. He also speculated
anxiously as to whether Mr. Seymour would send for him and demand
an explanation of his absence from the department. The day sped on,
however, and no summons came. Mr. Barton managed to keep some distance
from poor little messenger 45, and studiously avoided the boy’s
unconsciously accusing eyes, whenever they happened to come in contact
with each other at the exchange desk.
Late in the afternoon, as Harry was returning from an errand to a
basement exchange desk, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Wheeling
about, he faced Mr. Barton.
“Boy, if anyone asks you about that errand I sent you on yesterday,
don’t you tell where you went. I said you had gone to the stock room.
That’s enough for any curious people who come prying around here to
know.”
“But I didn’t go to the stock-room, sir, so I couldn’t truthfully say
that.”
“You just do as I tell you. I know how to run this end of the store.
If I need the services of a messenger, I am at liberty to send you
wherever I like,” snapped Mr. Barton.
“Then why did you not say exactly where I went?” asked Harry quietly.
The boyish mouth had set in the firm lines that meant stubborn
resistance to the end. “Why did you say that I had gone to the
stock-room?”
“Don’t be impudent,” hissed the man, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not
obliged to answer your questions. You’re here to do as I say. Every
other boy who has worked for me has done my errands and said nothing.
You aren’t any better than the rest. Any time I have anything for you
to do outside the store, you’ll do it, or I’ll get a boy down here that
will.”
Mr. Barton had grown angrier with every word he spoke.
Harry measured the enraged aisle manager with a clear, searching glance
in which lurked a shade of contempt. “I give you fair warning, Mr.
Barton, I won’t do an errand on the store’s time unless it is strictly
on business for Martin Brothers. I can’t help what you say about
getting another boy down here, I won’t do what I think is unfair to the
men who hired me. I’ve never done a dishonest thing yet, and I’m not
going to begin now.”
“I suppose you think you’ll go to Mr. Keene and tell him a pack of
lies,” sneered the aisle manager, “rather than do me a little personal
favor now and then.”
“I’m not a telltale, and I’ll gladly do any errand you wish me to do on
my lunch hour, or after the store closes. You are welcome to _my_ time,
but I can’t give away what doesn’t belong to me.”
“You’ll do as I say,” ordered the aisle manager grimly, as though he
had not heard Harry’s firm refusal. Then he turned on his heel and
walked rapidly away, leaving Harry to stare after him, a bitter smile
on his youthful face. He was learning the ways of men all too rapidly.
“What are you looking so gloomy about, Kiddy?” questioned Margaret
Welch, as Harry strolled thoughtfully up to the desk, his hands behind
his back. “Come here. I want to ask you something.”
Harry approached the exchange clerk’s desk. She bent down and said in
an undertone, “Were you and old Smarty Barton having it out over there?”
Harry nodded.
“Did you say what I told you to say?” she asked sharply.
“Yes, Miss Welch, I did.”
“Good for you. If he has any sense he’ll let you alone, or Margaret
Welch’ll take a hand in things. You’ll have to watch yourself harder
than ever, Harry. He won’t have your kind of a boy around.”
“Miss Welch, there aren’t many of the aisle managers in the store like
Mr. Barton, are there?”
“No, indeed,” was Miss Welch’s vigorous reply. “Most of them are as
nice men as you’d care to meet anywhere. There’s only about three or
four mistakes in the aisle-man bunch here, and Smarty’s one of ’em.
He’s been here a long while and served in almost every department in
the store. If there was to be a contest to find out who’s the meanest
man in the store, everybody’d vote for his crabship. Do I love him?
Well, not so you could notice it. Does anyone else? Nay, nay, my child.
Here he comes, bless him. Run along, or he’ll think you’re telling me
everything you know.”
Harry trotted obediently down the aisle, and wandering into the
juvenile section of the book department, began reading, with longing
eyes, the titles on the gaily-colored jackets of a table of boys’
books. He was never tired of exploring the book department. Whenever
there was a lull in the business of the exchange desk, he slipped
across the space that divided the books from the jewelry department to
spend a few rapturous minutes among the volumes he loved.
On several occasions he had encountered the man with whom he had
collided on that first, disastrous school morning. By this time he knew
him to be Mr. Rexford, the buyer of the books. Miss Welch had given him
that information. Mr. Rexford had invariably smiled at him in a kindly
fashion that quite won the boy to him. Harry never saw him without
wishing secretly that he had been placed in the book department. It
would be the height of happiness to work for such a man as Mr. Rexford.
As he stood eagerly devouring the titles with book-hungry eyes, a deep,
pleasant voice at his elbow said, “Well, my boy, it’s evident that you
like to read.”
Harry swung about. Mr. Rexford stood looking at him, a half smile on
his handsome, clean-cut face.
“Oh, yes, sir. I’d rather read than do anything else. I’ve read some of
these books. I get books from the Public Library.”
“Did you ever read ‘Alice in Wonderland!’” asked the buyer.
Harry smiled. “Long ago,” he answered. “I’ve read ‘Through the Looking
Glass,’ and ‘Treasure Island,’ and ‘Robinson Crusoe’ and lots of books
like that. I call those my baby books. I read adventure stories now,
but I’m trying to read Shakespeare and Thackeray and Dickens. I don’t
understand Shakespeare so very well yet, but I love ‘Henry Esmond’ and
‘The Tale of Two Cities.’”
Mr. Rexford’s eyebrows were elevated in surprise. He scrutinized
Harry’s flushed, animated face. Yes, here was a boy who really loved
books. Such a boy would be extremely valuable in his department. He
made mental note of it and resolved to set the wheels in motion to
bring about the desired end.
“Forty-five, forty-five!” shrilled Miss Welch’s high voice.
“That is I. I must go.” Harry set off up the aisle toward the exchange
desk.
“An obedient boy, too,” murmured Mr. Rexford, as he watched Harry bring
up at the desk, stand in a respectfully attentive attitude, then hurry
off on his errand. “Well, we’ll see. We’ll see.”
Contrary to all expectation, Mr. Barton let Harry strictly alone for
several days. He ordered him about in his usual gruff fashion, but did
not again broach the subject on which he and Harry had disagreed. Then,
suddenly and without warning, he began a series of petty persecutions
of the boy that caused Miss Welch to glower with rage and hurl caustic
remarks in his direction that he could hardly fail to overhear. He
began operations by detaining Harry in the department on his school
mornings just long enough to give the appearance of deliberate
lateness. On the first morning this had happened, Miss Leonard had
looked surprised, and accepted his excuse. On the second morning she
had looked displeased, on the third as well as the fourth mornings,
she had scolded him and given him demerits. She had flatly refused to
listen to his plea of being detained and responded severely that any
boy who _wished_ to be in his class on time, _could_ be on time.
Dropping the pleasantness with which she had treated him on his
entrance into her room, she became stern and uncompromising. She had
been greatly attracted toward Harry in the beginning, and it annoyed
her to find him in the least disappointing. He already had five
demerits on his card and he had been in the store only three weeks.
At the rate he was going he would hardly last the month. Absorbed in
her own affairs, Miss Leonard had not inquired into Messenger 45’s
record at the exchange desk, and, therefore, knew nothing of the boy’s
trials. She had anticipated frequent trouble from Teddy Burke, but
to her surprise none arose in his corner. One demerit, and one only,
disfigured Teddy’s card.
Poor Harry was in despair. Keenly sensitive, he read Miss Leonard’s
attitude toward him only too correctly, yet he could neither do nor say
that which would place him once more on the pleasant footing that had
been his when he began his school work. He talked matters over with
Teddy, who was deeply downcast over his chum’s misfortunes, but could
suggest no remedy beyond offering “to tell Miss Leonard all about it,”
or to “punch that old snapping-turtle,” as he had fondly named Mr.
Barton.
“If he gives me any more demerits, I don’t know what I’ll do. Miss
Welch says to go to Mr. Marsh about it, but I hate to be such a baby,”
mourned Harry, as he and Teddy trudged home together one crisp evening
in late October.
“I’d go to him,” advised Teddy. “I wouldn’t let him put it all over me
like that. I’d fight him.”
“Perhaps I had better go to Mr. Marsh,” Harry spoke with indecision.
“If he gives me another demerit, I’ll go.”
Harry had reason to remember his resolve when, early in the afternoon,
Mr. Barton set him to straightening the cubby-hole where he kept his
various effects and dignified with the title of his “office.” It was
dusty work and when Harry had finished, there was a long streak of
dirt across one cheek, his white collar bore evidences of his work,
and his hands were dark with dust. Just as he was putting the last
box in place, he heard Mr. Barton’s strident voice raised in a cry of
“Forty-five, forty-five.”
Forgetting his unsightly appearance, Harry rushed in the direction
of the call. The habit of obedience was firmly ingrained. The aisle
manager stared hard at him. “What do you mean by coming out on the
floor in such an untidy condition?” he thundered.
For the first time Harry remembered his disheveled and dusty appearance.
“I came straight to you when I heard you call, sir. I forgot how I
looked. I had just finished cleaning your office, sir, and I hadn’t
time to wash my hands.”
“You should have tidied yourself before daring to appear on the floor,
even if you did hear me calling. Suppose Mr. Martin had seen you? What
would he say of such a slovenly boy? Give me your card. You deserve
half a dozen demerits. You’re lucky to get off with two. Now go and
wash your hands and face, at once.”
“Mr. Barton,” choked an indignant voice, “you had no business to give
that boy those demerits. You did it on purpose, and _I know why_.”
Mr. Barton whirled and faced the exchange desk. Miss Welch’s blue eyes
flashed with quiet fury.
“You tend to your own affairs, Miss Welch. Don’t interfere with me.
That is, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I know I’m not going to see that boy abused,” flashed the exchange
clerk. “How about that errand--to the _stock-room_?”
A deep flush mounted to the man’s forehead. “You mind your own
business,” he said quickly, his voice shaking with anger. “When Martin
Brothers give you charge of this end of the floor, then you can offer
your advice. But I don’t believe you’ll be here long enough for that to
happen.” He stalked away from the desk.
“The old scorpion,” muttered Margaret Welch. “He’ll never rest till he
gets that poor kid out of here. Harry’s too honest to suit him.”
And this was precisely what Mr. Barton was thinking as he walked away.