THE BELATED DAWN
“Watch yourself, Harry,” was the greeting he received from Miss Welch
as he went to his station, still glowing with yesterday’s happiness.
“Smarty Barty’s on the warpath. I guess his Thanksgiving dinner didn’t
agree with him.”
Although Miss Welch did not know it, that was precisely what ailed Mr.
Barton. Being afflicted with dyspepsia, he had eaten to his sorrow, and
when he stalked into his section that morning, he was ready to snap at
the first unlucky person who might offend him.
By prompt obedience to orders, Harry managed all morning to avoid a
clash with Mr. Barton. Just before twelve o’clock, however, the aisle
manager swooped down upon him with, “Here, boy, take this money over to
Miss Exley in the perfumes and get it changed. Bring it back to me, and
hustle. Miss Rowe, at the book desk, is waiting for it.”
Harry was instantly off on his errand. He was frequently intrusted
with a five-dollar bill to be changed. This morning, however, it was
a yellow-backed twenty-dollar note that Mr. Barton handed to him.
Hurrying to Miss Exley’s desk, he handed her the money. She grumbled
at having to part with her small notes, but counted out four crisp
five-dollar bills, and thrust them into the boy’s hand with, “Take that
to Mr. Barton, and don’t you dare lose it.”
Three minutes later the notes lay in the aisle manager’s hand. In
that same instant, however, he was besieged by an irate customer, who
demanded that he sign her check for the return of a bracelet which had
been sent to her in place of one she had purchased. Intent on pacifying
the woman, he accompanied her to Miss Welch’s desk, the money in his
hand.
It took at least fifteen minutes to rectify the mistake, and send the
woman on her way with the bracelet she had originally purchased safely
in her shopping bag.
“After that, it’s me for lunch,” announced Miss Welch grimly. “I need
food to sustain me until the next trouble hunter hits this desk.” Mr.
Barton mumbled a disgruntled reply and stalked off up the aisle in
answer to a frantic call from a salesman in the books.
“I hope Mr. Barton lets me go to lunch on time to-day,” reflected
Harry. “It isn’t a bit busy. Here he comes back again. I wonder if I
dare ask him. My, but he looks cross.”
“Boy,” thundered the aisle man, approaching Harry almost on a run.
“Where’s that money I gave you to change?”
“I gave it to you, sir,” replied Harry. “Don’t you remember, I----”
“You gave me nothing,” stormed the man.
“Oh, yes I did, sir,” Harry’s voice rose in an anxious note.
“You did _not_. I _say_ you did _not_.” The aisle manager’s voice
soared to a hoarse bellow of rage.
“What’s this? What’s this?” demanded a stern voice. Mr. Seymour, the
floor superintendent, had come up in time to hear Mr. Barton’s words.
“I gave this boy a twenty-dollar note to take over to Miss Exley to
change. Now he says he gave it to me. I tell you, he didn’t. He has
lost it or else he has stolen it.”
“Stolen it! Oh, Mr. Barton!” rang out Harry’s agonized cry.
“What have you done with that money, young man?” thundered Mr. Seymour.
“I gave it to Mr. Barton, sir. I came straight from Miss Exley’s desk
and gave it to him.”
“He didn’t. I haven’t seen it.” Mr. Barton glared vindictively at
Harry. “Search that boy. He’s taken it.”
“Come with me.” Mr. Seymour grasped the stunned, unresisting boy by the
arm and steered him to the nearest elevator.
“Oh, Mr. Seymour, I didn’t take it. Please believe me. I didn’t.”
“Hold your tongue. Get into that elevator. We’ll soon find out whether
you did or not. I’m going to have you searched.”
The three passengers in the elevator eyed the boy askance.
“He’s stolen something,” whispered one of them to the other. “They’re
taking him to the store detective’s office.”
Harry heard the whisper. “Oh, please----” he began. His voice died away
in a half sob. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. He was hustled
roughly off it and down a narrow passage to a door which he had learned
to know led to the room where the force of store detectives searched
the persons they caught stealing Martin Brothers’ wares. A stern-faced
man seated at a desk rose to meet them as they entered.
“Search this boy,” commanded Mr. Seymour. “Barton says he has stolen
twenty dollars.”
Then the most humiliating moment of Harry Harding’s short life began.
The search did not reveal the missing money, however. For half an
hour the detective kept up a merciless grilling of the unfortunate
boy. Harry’s brief desire to cry had vanished. With pale, set face,
he repeated over and over again, “I didn’t take it. I gave it to Mr.
Barton.”
“Send for Barton,” ordered the detective. Mr. Seymour left the room
on his errand. The detective eyed the boy angrily. His patience was
becoming exhausted.
“You’d better own up, youngster. If you don’t----”
The door was suddenly flung open and two persons fairly rushed into it.
One of them was Miss Welch. Her face was white with rage. Her blue eyes
shot fire. In her hand was clutched four five-dollar notes.
“There’s your old money,” she cried, throwing it on the desk. “Oh,
Kiddy, what a shame!” She ran to Harry and encircled him with
protecting arms. Then she turned fiercely upon the detective. “You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Torturing this poor boy, before you
stop to find out things. Look at him, the poor lamb. His heart’s
broken. Why don’t you take somebody your own size? He _did_ give the
money to Mr. Barton, just as he said he did. The old trouble-hunter
laid it in my exchange book and I just now found it. Maybe I didn’t
hot-foot it up here!”
“See here, miss, this boy was brought to me for stealing. How was I to
know----”
“You didn’t know,” broke in the person who had accompanied Miss Welch.
It was Mr. Rexford. “This boy is innocent. I’ll be responsible for him.
You can settle this with Barton. Come, Harry.”
As one in a dream, Harry found himself leaving the hated room between
his two protectors.
“Now, my boy,” said Mr. Rexford grimly, “we are going to settle matters
once and for all. I’m going to take you to Mr. Keene, and he is going
to give you a transfer slip. I need a boy like you in my department,
and if you are not working for me within the next ten minutes, then my
name isn’t Henry Rexford.”
Harry Harding’s “better day” had dawned.