A DISTURBING CONVERSATION
“Who do you s’pose likes me?” asked Teddy Burke that evening, as he and
Harry began their homeward walk together.
“Quite a number of persons, I should say,” returned Harry, smiling.
“But this is the last person you’d ever guess. It’s the Gobbler--I
mean, Miss Newton. She said I was the best boy that ever lived. What do
you think of that?”
“I think you must be dreaming, or else Miss Newton isn’t in her right
mind,” jeered Harry. More than once Teddy had recounted to his chum
his frequent tilts with the saleswoman he had naughtily named the
Gobbler. Harry knew, too, that she had ignored Teddy in the matter of
a Christmas gift, and far from being sympathetic had slyly reminded
his friend that he could not expect favors from one he had teased and
ridiculed.
“She’s not crazy, and I’m not dreaming,” retorted Teddy. “I started to
mix up her pie tins after she got ’em counted this morning, to get even
with her for Christmas, and----”
“No wonder she likes you,” interrupted Harry. “Are you sure she said
you were the _best_ boy that ever lived?”
“Aw, quit teasing me,” grinned Teddy, “and listen to what I’m telling
you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Just as I started on those tins she came
yelling down the aisle like an Indian! She’d lost her pocketbook with
her salary in it.”
“What did you do then?” asked Harry, with a curious sidelong glance at
his companion.
“Oh, I had to drop the pans and help her hunt it. There wasn’t any
fun in mixing ’em when she was crying like anything,” replied Teddy.
“She didn’t find it, but the folks in the department all put together
and made it up to her. She lost ten dollars. Mr. Everett made me give
it to her. That’s when she said I was the best boy that ever lived.
She--she--don’t you dare tell anybody,” Teddy stipulated threateningly,
“but--she--she kissed me. Can you beat it?” His small face wore an
expression of supreme disgust.
Harry shouted with laughter. “That’s a funny one on you, Ted.” Then,
straightening his face, he asked with a suddenness that caught Teddy
off his guard, “Who put in the first money for Miss Newton?”
“I did, I--oh, what made you go and ask that? I wasn’t goin’ to tell
you.” Teddy looked abashed.
“I suspected she had a pretty strong reason for saying you were such a
good boy. It was a kind thing to do, Teddy. I’m glad and proud you’re
my chum.” Harry’s earnest, admiring speech brought a quick flush to
Teddy’s cheeks. “Oh, forget it,” he muttered. “Say, did you know that
if we pass an examination in May we can’t go to day school next year?”
“Yes, I heard that when first we came to the store. We will have to go
to school on two evenings during the week after the store closes. But
we are to have our suppers. Martin Brothers do that for the boys, to
help them along. It’s mighty fine in them, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” agreed Teddy. “Oh, say, who do you suppose is coming to see me
to-morrow night?”
“Frank Campbell?” guessed Harry. He was the lad who had shared honors
with Harry in the Christmas play.
“Nope; Fatty--I mean, Howard Randall. He’s coming home to supper with
me. You don’t care if he walks home with us, do you? Why can’t you come
to supper, too?”
“I don’t believe I will.” Harry shook his head. He wisely decided that
it would be better for Teddy and Howard to spend the evening together,
without the presence of a third party.
“What a splendid boy Teddy is,” was Harry’s reflection as he hurried
on toward home after saying good night to his chum. “The people in his
department must like him. It’s great to be liked.” His face glowed with
happiness. Since his advent into the book department he was tasting the
joy of having his efforts to be of use to his buyer appreciated. He
felt that there was nothing he would not do for Mr. Rexford to show his
gratitude, and he longed for some fitting opportunity to demonstrate it.
The winter days rolled swiftly on, however, bringing with them
nothing more stirring than the chance for Harry to perform faithfully
and painstakingly his daily duties. But these he executed with a
thoroughness and good will that made him a general favorite in
Department 85, and caused Mr. Rexford to congratulate himself on having
the boy in his department.
February came in, stiff, cold and apparently implacable, only to thaw
unexpectedly, hold out a deceitful promise of springlike warmth,
then maliciously freeze again at the very moment when everyone was
congratulating himself on the mildness of the winter. March came in
blustering, buffeting the great city with hard, icy fingers, and
roaring forth a challenge of unending winter. Later, however, he
relented, grew sunny and smiling by day, and merely snappy and frosty
by night, indulging only in an occasional blast of fury by way of
keeping up his lionlike reputation.
To Teddy Burke and Harry Harding the winter fairly raced along the
frozen road to spring. Work brought the lads a contentment they
had never before experienced. Teddy’s efforts had been rewarded
with another dollar a week, and an initiation into the mysteries of
stock in the realm of kettles and pans. Determined to give the boy
every chance, Mr. Everett made much of him, giving him simple but
invaluable information in the business of careful buying and the care
of stock. Teddy was laying the foundation for a useful future amid the
pleasantest possible surroundings.
Harry Harding was also making rapid strides along the line of his
work. The only drawback to his satisfaction lay in the thought that
he could not do more for the man who had done so much for him. Over
and over again he said to Teddy, “I wish I could do something splendid
for Mr. Rexford and for Martin Brothers, too, just to show them that I
appreciate working for them.” With this aim in mind he was continually
on the alert for a chance to demonstrate his gratitude, and it was this
spirit of watchfulness that finally placed in his path the opportunity
to prove his earnest words.
One morning, while busily engaged in unloading a truck full of books,
Harry overheard what struck him as a curious conversation. He had
moved his truck alongside a long, projecting ledge of book shelves
under which stock was usually placed in open bins at unloading, then
carried to the various tables where it belonged. Having emptied
his truck, Harry had seated himself on the floor behind it and was
straightening the rows of books he had placed in the bins.
“I haf had my eye feexed on that set of Poe seence Christmas,” he heard
a low, unfamiliar voice say. He felt a sudden jarring of the truck.
Someone had leaned against it. The truck rolled an inch or two, and
the speaker changed position, without turning about or noting the boy
seated under the shelf.
“Wait until that girl in the desk goes to lunch,” came the cautious,
whispered answer. “I can’t do a thing, with her there. If the
inspectress who relieves her is as stupid as the reliefs Wallace has
been sending down here lately, I can put it through all right. You’ll
have to pay ten cents a volume, though.”
“It weel not break me,” laughed the first speaker. “I weel return the
favor whenever you say. Come to the department on your luncheon hour
with your hat on and you shall haf the embroidered----”
“Beat it,” hissed the other voice, “there comes----”
There was a quick scurry of feet. Harry rose hastily from the bin where
he had been crouching, bumping his head smartly on the projecting
ledge as he straightened up. The impact made him see stars for an
instant. He struggled to his feet, however, pushing the truck from him,
and glanced quickly up and down the department. But he was too late.
Half a dozen salespersons stood about the floor, but there were no
strange salesmen to be seen. The unfamiliar voice belonged to no one in
Department 85, and the whispered voice he could not recognize. It might
belong to anyone in the department.
Then he remembered the words, “that set of Poe.” He hurried to the
section where the sets of expensive books were displayed and began an
eager scanning of the titles. Here he met with defeat. There were at
least a dozen sets of Poe, all in expensive bindings.
“What are you looking for, boy?” A drawling voice suddenly addressed
him. The salesman who had charge of the stock, a stout, brown-haired
young man with rather sleepy-looking, blue eyes stood blinking at the
boy. “You mustn’t finger those sets. Remember, they cost money.”
“I wasn’t fingering them. I was just looking.” Inwardly, Harry was
indignant. His quiet, respectful voice did not reveal this fact,
however. Then he said innocently, although his blue eyes studied the
salesman intently. “I suppose these sets of _Poe_ are very expensive.”
His remark drew no blood. The salesman merely grinned derisively at him
and said, “I guess it would take more than your week’s wages to buy a
set.”
“I guess it would.” Harry smiled and walked away. He had learned
nothing. He had not even had time to count the sets, or fix their
appearance in his mind. True, he had had an object in mentioning Poe
to the man, but his ruse had failed. The man seemed not in the least
perturbed.
“What had I better do?” was the uppermost question in Harry’s mind. “I
hate to tell Mr. Rexford that there is a thief in this department, when
I haven’t the least idea who it is. I’ll wait a little, then I’ll go
back and count the sets when that fellow isn’t around. If one’s missing
later, I’ll know. But suppose somebody should sell one? I’d have to go
around the department and look on everyone’s book. I can’t do that.
I’ll keep my eyes open, though; maybe I’ll find out something. I’ll
look at those sets again, when I have a good chance.”
But a little later Harry was ordered to the stock-room and spent not
only the rest of that day there, arranging surplus stock, but the
next three days, as well, and in the fulfilling of his duties, the
disturbing conversation was, for the time being, forgotten.
It was revived when, one day, a week later, he stopped at Exchange Desk
number 10 for a moment’s conversation with his old friend. Miss Welch.
“Well, Kiddy, how’s books?” greeted the kind-hearted Irish girl.
“Aren’t you the busy boy, though? Haven’t much time for your old
friends, have you?”
“I’ve been pretty busy,” admitted Harry, “but I’ve always time for you,
Miss Welch.”
“Hear him talk,” smiled the girl. “Don’t cry about it, youngster.
I know you haven’t forgot your old friend Irish. I’ve been busy
myself. Most of these people with the exchange habit ought to be in
a sanitarium. Say, there’s an old friend of yours over there in the
jewelry. I wonder what’s up.”
Harry’s eyes followed Miss Welch’s quick glance. Leaning against the
counter, deep in conversation with Mr. Cohen, the buyer of the jewelry,
stood Mr. Prescott, the head detective.
An almost imperceptible shudder shook the lad’s slender body. He would
never forget Mr. Prescott.
“I guess it’s about that stock they’ve been missing in jewelry,”
speculated Miss Welch.
“Have they been losing stock?” asked Harry.
“Yes, but you just keep it under your hat. A lot of stuff has skidooed
out of the department since Christmas. I’ve heard it’s not shoplifters,
either.”
“Then it must be----”
“Employees,” supplied Miss Welch. “A friend of mine told me that it’s
the same all over the store. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a
gang.” She nodded wisely.
“A gang?” questioned Harry.
“Yes, a gang, Innocent. When I was inspecting in Harrington’s store
the detectives got next to a gang of thieves there. It was sort of
an endless chain; inspectors and sales were both mixed up in it. One
person would steal one thing and another would steal something else;
then they’d exchange. Sometimes they’d send their friends in to cart
stuff out. Sometimes they’d buy things for almost nothing and the
inspectors would pass it. They kept it up for two years and then----”
“Miss Welch,” Harry’s voice trembled with excitement, “I want to
tell you something.” The boy recounted in a low voice the curious
conversation he had overheard on the morning he had been seated in the
bin.
“Whada you think of that!” exclaimed the girl. “My, but it would have
been some feather in Kiddy’s cap if he’d got a look at those two.
Better keep your eyes peeled. Mark my words, there’ll be more of it in
your department. Why didn’t you tell Mr. Rexford?”
“I hated to, because I couldn’t prove a single thing. I was afraid
I might make trouble for some innocent person,” returned Harry. “I
thought maybe one of the men might be that Mr. Farley who has the
sets, but I was mistaken.”
“Farley. U-mm. Let me see. That’s that fellow with the sleepy eyes.
Looks like the real thing. Still, you never can tell. Sometimes
these harmless-looking people are fakes. Why don’t you do a little
Sherlocking on your own account?”
“Sherlocking?” inquired Harry.
“Yes. Didn’t you ever read about Sherlock Holmes? He was some
detective. Put it all over Nick Carter and a few others. Go to it,
Kiddy, and beat him.”
“I will,” promised Harry. “Do you think----?”
“Where’s your check, madam?” Miss Welch had turned to a woman who had
come up to the desk.
Harry walked away, reviewing the conversation he had overheard on that
morning of over a week past. “I’ll watch,” he resolved, “and perhaps
I’ll find out something. If only I could I’d be helping Mr. Rexford and
Martin Brothers, too.”