HARRY PAYS HIS DEBT
Harry made good his promise. For once fate seemed with him. A huge
job lot of books, which it had taken him three days to bring from
the stock-room to the first floor, was to be placed on sale in the
department and the handling of this stock kept him busy on the floor,
where he could see what went on.
The day before the sale he was detailed to work after the store had
closed. The majority of the men in 85 had also been detained for night
work and among them was Mr. Farley, the sleepy-eyed salesman.
A week had passed since Harry’s conversation with Miss Welch.
During that time the boy had watched Mr. Farley whenever he had the
opportunity to do so, without being observed. His vigilance had met
with no reward. To all intents the salesman appeared to be perfectly
open and above-board in his dealings. Harry felt almost ashamed
of himself for shadowing a man of whom he had really no cause for
suspicion other than the fact that he had charge of the sets and that
Miss Welch had suggested that he might bear watching. Even though there
were a chain of thieves among Martin Brothers’ employees, it might not
extend to the book department. Still the conversation he had overheard
pointed plainly to the dishonesty of someone in Department 85.
Late that afternoon, however, Harry chanced to witness something which
bore out Miss Welch’s suggestion. The boy was hard at work, arranging a
table of bargain books when the sound of voices in his ears caused him
to glance up. Mr. Farley stood before a shelf of special books devoted
to arts and crafts. It was situated directly across the narrow aisle in
which Harry was working. The man’s back was toward the boy. Beside him
stood a pretty young woman. She was talking animatedly on the subject
of interior decorating and examining with interest the various books
the salesman showed her.
“How much is this book?” Harry heard her ask.
“Five dollars,” was the salesman’s response.
The young woman turned the leaves of the book as though undecided
whether she wished to pay that price for it. The salesman watched her
narrowly.
“I’ll take it,” she said at last, “but need I have it wrapped? I wish
to make a train and I can save time by tucking it in this bag.” She
pointed to a leather traveling bag she had set down on the shelf.
Fumbling in her hand-bag she took from it a five-dollar note and handed
it to Mr. Farley.
“That will be all right, madam,” Harry heard him say. He glanced
cautiously up and down the aisle, still with his back toward Harry. The
woman hastily opened her traveling bag, dropped the book into it and
hurried out of the department. The man watched her out of sight, then
he strolled off in the opposite direction without looking back, but as
he went, Harry’s watchful eyes saw him thrust the hand that held the
money into his trousers pocket. When he withdrew his hand it was empty.
“He’s going to keep that money,” sprang to Harry’s mind, then, anxious
to give the man the benefit of the doubt, “Perhaps he has put it in his
pocket until he gets his sales book.” The boy strolled slowly behind
the salesman, determined to see what Mr. Farley intended to do with the
money. It soon became evident that the man was not searching for his
book on which to record the sale. He walked to the end of the aisle,
then crossed over to the other side of the department. Harry dodged
behind a high pile of large dictionaries that had been stacked at the
end of the aisle. From this point of vantage he watched Mr. Farley for
at least ten minutes. During that time the man made no effort to record
the sale. Instead, he approached one of the saleswomen and entered into
a conversation with her. Spying a customer who was examining a set of
Thackeray, he made his way to his own stock, with Martin Brothers’
money still reposing in his trousers pocket.
Here Harry’s watch ended. He could spend no further time shadowing the
man. He went slowly back to the table on which he had been at work,
hardly knowing what to do. He had seen Mr. Farley pocket the money, but
how could he prove what he had seen, were he to accuse the man openly?
He had no way of finding out who the customer was, or where she lived.
If Mr. Farley were confronted with Harry’s story he would no doubt deny
the whole transaction, or make some sort of clever explanation that
would entirely discount Harry’s accusation.
“I’ll tell Miss Welch,” decided the boy. He made his way to the
exchange desk, but his friend was too busily engaged with a row of
more or less patient women, afflicted with the exchange habit, for
confidences.
“I’ll tell her as soon as she isn’t so busy,” he decided. Before that
time arrived he was sent up to the stock-room for a small consignment
of books for which a saleswoman had an order on the following morning.
When he returned to the floor the second closing gong had rung and
Miss Welch’s desk was deserted.
“I suppose I’d better go and eat my supper.” Harry turned in
disappointment from the exchange desk and went downstairs to the
basement, pondering what he had best do. As is the custom in large
department stores, the employees who work after the store’s regular
hour for closing receive their supper at the management’s expense. They
are usually given from thirty to fifty cents and allowed time enough
to go to an outside restaurant for their evening meal. Certain stores,
however, make it a point to serve supper to their salespersons working
overtime. Martin Brothers were among the latter, and served their night
workers with a substantial meal in the basement restaurant.
Harry had just begun his supper when he saw Mr. Farley enter the
restaurant in company with a slender young man whose black eyes and
hair, together with a small black moustache, gave him a decidedly
foreign air. The two seated themselves at a table some distance from
Harry, and with their heads close together began what appeared to be an
extremely confidential conversation. He noted that when the waiter came
to take their order they stopped talking and waited until he was well
out of hearing before resuming their confab.
“I wonder who that man is,” was Harry’s thought. “I don’t believe I
ever saw him before.” As he sat watching the two salesmen, Fred Alden,
the other stock boy for Department 85, slid into the chair opposite
Harry.
“Any objections to the pleasure of my company for supper?” he grinned
cheerfully. He was a tow-headed, homely youth, older by two years than
Harry, and his unfailing good humor was proverbial in the department.
“I’m glad to have you. I hate to eat alone. I’d have waited for you to
go to supper, but I wished to see Miss Welch. She’d gone home, though,
so I came on down stairs,” explained Harry. Seized with a sudden idea
he asked carelessly, “Who is that man with Mr. Farley? They’re over
there.” Harry indicated them with a nod of his head.
“Who’s he? Oh, he’s a salesman in the upholstery. He’s a Frenchman,
and thinks he’s a whole lot. He talks like an American, though.
Sometimes when he gets mad or excited you can tell he’s a foreigner.
The messenger kids used to tease him to see him get wrathy. He’s got an
awful temper.”
Harry’s heart gave a sudden leap. The unfamiliar voice he had heard
that morning of some weeks past had held a curious note which he knew
to be out of the ordinary, yet was at a loss to guess why. Now it was
all clear. The peculiarly accented words were the speech of an alien.
At last he was on the trail of at least two thieves. Whether that
trail led out of the book department and through the store, he could
not know. He only knew that Miss Welch’s random suspicion had hit the
mark.
During the remainder of the meal he let Fred carry on the greater
part of the conversation, a proceeding which exactly suited the other
boy, who was a chronic talker. Harry’s thoughts were busy with his
discovery. He could not be sure of his man until he heard the dark
young man speak. But while he pondered as to his next move he saw Mr.
Farley and his companion rise from the table. Harry sprang to his feet,
leaving his dessert half eaten. “I’m sorry I can’t wait for you, Fred,”
he apologized, “but I--I--must go.” Without further words he hastened
toward the stairs.
The two men were half way up the stairs when Harry set foot on the
first step. Up he sped, so quietly that they did not hear him. At
least, they did not turn around. He was only three steps behind them
as they reached the first floor. To his intense chagrin they stopped
short at the head of the stairs. There was nothing left for Harry to do
but pass them. Mr. Farley cast a sleepy glance at the boy, but did not
speak. He invariably treated the lad as though he were a part of the
department furnishings. The slender, dark man paid no attention to him
whatever.
“How can I hear his voice if I can’t get near enough to him to hear
it?” was Harry’s disgusted reflection. “I’ve got to hear it, but how
can I manage to?”
From behind a concealing screen of books some distance from the
stairway, Harry peered at the two men. Acting on a flash of impulse,
he suddenly walked boldly toward them. He had happened to recall that
there was to be a sale of sets, too, along with the miscellaneous books.
“Do you want me to help you with your sets, Mr. Farley?” At the sound
of the boyish voice the men at the stairway whirled about. They had
turned their backs to the book department and had not heard his almost
noiseless approach.
“When I do, I’ll let you know,” frowned Mr. Farley. His sleepy eyes
awoke and gleamed angrily at the interruption. The Frenchman glowered
reprovingly at the lad. “Go away, boy,” he rebuked. “Why haf you
interropted os?”
“I beg your pardon.” There was a mocking inflection in Harry’s tone.
Then he obediently removed his undesired presence to the other end
of the department. He was quite ready to go for he had attained his
object. The dark man had spoken, and in the voice was the inflection he
had reason to remember.
“It’s the same voice,” he breathed half aloud. “Now that I know, I
suppose I’d better tell Mr. Rexford about it, and let him see to it.
He’ll believe me, but if I told somebody else he might not. Well, I’ve
found out what I wanted to, so now I’ll get to work as fast as I can.
It’s after six and I have to be out of here by eight o’clock.”
“Here, Harry,” directed a pleasant voice. “I need you.” It was Mr.
Denby, the man who had charge of the new fiction, who called out. “This
table is to be cleared and those books put on it.”
“All right, sir.” Harry attacked the job with vigor.
It was twenty minutes past seven when that task was finished. Harry
stood eyeing his grimy hands. “I guess I’d better wash my hands,” he
decided. The water faucet was situated in a small room devoted to the
book mail-orders, at one side of the department, and opened into it by
two doors. There was no light and as Harry did not know the situation
of the switch he felt his way to the faucet in the dark.
He had washed his hands, dried them on his handkerchief, and was about
to pass out through the upper door when he heard subdued voices. Two
men entered by the lower door and began to converse in low tones.
“You go and get it,” drawled a familiar voice. “Here’s the set, all
wrapped. Keep to the lower end of the department. I’ll wait here until
you bring my stuff. Make it flat, so I can button it inside my coat.
You’d better take the books out one at a time. That’s a peach of a set.
It’s full morocco. If Rexford ever misses it there’ll be some yelling.”
A dark, indistinct figure slipped from the lower door, another dimly
outlined figure drew close to the side of a high desk out of sight
of any chance intruder, while a third boyish figure sped across the
department in search of Mr. Rexford, who had announced his intention of
returning that evening to direct the preparation for the sale.
“Have you seen Mr. Rexford, Fred?” Harry’s eyes blazed with excitement,
as he paused for an instant to question the other stock boy whom he met
coming toward him, his arms full of books.
“Nope,” was the answer. “I don’t b’lieve he’ll show up. He hardly ever
comes around when the fellows are workin’ at night.”
“But he _said_ he’d be here.” Harry’s face was full of anxious concern.
“Well, mebbe he will, then. Don’t cry about it,” jeered Fred.
Harry did not answer this jibe. He merely smiled and set off in the
direction of the buyer’s office. The door stood half open, but the
office was dark, except for the faint light which shone into it from
the department. “He isn’t there,” muttered the boy. “I’ll have to tell
someone else.” He realized that if he did not act quickly the two men
would have exchanged packages and gone. To prove their guilt it was
necessary to surprise them in the mail-order room.
Harry darted from the buyer’s office and collided violently with a man
who had stepped into his path from between two tables.
“I beg your pardon,” he began, “I didn’t---- Oh, Mr. Rexford, I was
looking for you.” The man with whom he had collided was the man he
sought. “Please come quickly, or it will be too late. Two men are
trying to steal some books. They’re in the mail-order room. That is,
they were there, if they haven’t got away. We must slip in at the upper
door without making any noise.”
Mr. Rexford followed Harry without question. To the boy it seemed an
hour since he had stolen from the mail-order room on his anxious quest
for the buyer. In reality not more than four minutes had passed. “I’ll
stay back,” he whispered as they neared the door. “You go in.”
Just inside the upper door stood a tall filing cabinet. It effectually
screened Mr. Rexford’s noiseless entrance into the room. By crouching
to one side of it he could lean forward and thus view all that went
on, the darkness of the room protecting him from observation. Outside
the doorway Harry waited in an agony of suspense. No sound came from
within the room. He wondered if the Frenchman had returned while he was
hunting Mr. Rexford, if the quick exchange of packages had already been
made and the two thieves had stolen away.
Mr. Rexford, however, had heard someone moving in the vicinity of the
desk. He knew, if Harry did not, that one of the men was still there.
Who they were he could not guess. The sight of Harry’s troubled face as
he cried out to him to come quickly was sufficient to convince him of
the seriousness of the situation.
It was not long before the watcher heard a stealthy footfall. Someone
had entered through the lower doorway. A dark figure left the
protection of the desk. “I thought you’d changed your mind about coming
back,” drawled a low voice.
Mr. Rexford started in astonishment.
“It is not long--ten minutes, perhaps,” rebuked the newcomer. “Here is
the portiere. The package is small. You can----”
The room was suddenly flooded with a penetrating light, revealing
the Frenchman in the act of holding out a package to the sleepy-eyed
salesman, Mr. Farley.
“What does this mean, Farley?” Mr. Rexford confronted the astonished
pair. The man Farley turned deathly pale. The package dropped from his
hand. The Frenchman evaded Mr. Rexford and leaped for the door. The
next second there was a rumble, followed by a loud crash. The man had
stumbled over an empty truck, sending it rumbling against a book table,
while he sprawled headlong to the floor.
The noise, coupled with the man’s fall, brought several workers to the
scene. The Frenchman scrambled to his feet and was about to slink off
when Mr. Rexford’s authoritative voice called out from the mail-order
door, “Don’t let that man get away. I want him. Take him to my office
and keep him there until I come.”
Two of the salesmen hustled the man unceremoniously toward the buyer’s
office. Mr. Rexford retired into the mail-order room, only to appear
almost instantly with Farley. The salesman’s face was ghastly, his
usually sleepy eyes were dark with fear. He walked quietly beside the
buyer, however, making no effort to flee.
Mr. Rexford stopped and said something in a low tone to Mr. Denby, the
man who had charge of the fiction. The salesman hurried out of the
department, while the buyer motioned Farley into his office, stepped in
after him and closed the door.
A little group of workers gathered at one side of the department to
discuss the meaning of the scene they had just witnessed.
“I suppose they’ve been stealing. Looks like it,” advanced one young
man. “Who’s that dark fellow? I’ve seen him around the department
talking to Farley. _He’s_ the last person I’d accuse of stealing. He’s
been here for ten years.”
“It’s cribbing, all right enough. Here comes Prescott, the head
detective,” murmured one of the men who had escorted the Frenchman into
the office. “I wonder who spotted the game?”
Harry Harding might have given that information, but, instead, he stood
in silence, listening to the talk that went on among the men. Glancing
at the clock he saw that it was five minutes to eight. The law forbade
any boy of his age to work after that hour. He was glad of it. He would
go at once. He feared he might be called behind that closed door to
testify against the offenders, and he shrank from doing so. He was not
really needed. Mr. Rexford had caught the men in the act of exchanging
stolen goods. Now the detective could do the rest. Harry lost no time
in turning his night pass over to the man on the door and leaving the
store behind him.
He had been gone perhaps fifteen minutes when Mr. Rexford emerged from
the office and asked for him.
“He went home on the dot of eight,” reported Mr. Denby, the fiction
salesman. “You know these boys have to keep within the labor law.”
Mr. Rexford smiled. “That boy has done a good deal more to-night than
keep within the labor law. He’s been of untold service to Martin
Brothers and to me. He has rounded up the ringleaders of a gang of
thieving employees that have been profiting at the store’s expense for
a long time. What I’d like to know is where he got his first clue?”