AN UNPROMISING DAY
On entering the stock-room the following morning Harry was agreeably
surprised to find no trace of his unwilling fellow-worker. Far from
feeling the loss of the pugnacious Leon’s presence, he flung himself
energetically into loading his truck with tempting bargain books,
designed to arouse the enthusiasm of heat-fagged shoppers, and put new
life into sluggish mid-summer trade. During the hot, breathless days of
July and August those who have the wherewithal to buy books, turn their
steps resolutely away from the scorching cities to the revivifying
atmosphere of seashore and mountain. At such season, the lure of even
the newest fiction wanes into insignificance. It is only when hazy
September flashes forth her first faint signals of nearing Autumn that
the reign of literature begins anew and comes rapidly into its own as
the nights gradually chill and lengthen.
Due to Mr. Rexford’s tireless effort, the book department of Martin
Brothers’ never languished, even during the sultry summer months.
Year after year he had labored to build up trade that would withstand
the attacks of hot weather and vacation flitting. The sale for which
Harry was now preparing was an annual event, which invariably brought
satisfactory patronage. As he placed pile after pile of gaily-jacketed
books for boys and girls into the deep truck, he halted briefly now
and then to peep between the alluring covers, wistfully wishing that
he might own them all. Purchased by Mr. Rexford from a firm that had
fallen into the receiver’s hands, this particular lot of juvenile
literature, though undamaged, had been marked down from higher prices
to the modest sum of fifty cents.
“My, but I’d like to have some of these,” murmured the lad, as he
fingered an especially attractive volume. “Fifty cents is too high for
me, though. If I ever get rich I’m going to have all the books I want.
But I must stop looking at these beauties or I’ll never get my truck
filled.”
Thrusting temptation resolutely aside, Harry rapidly emptied the
contents of the bin into the waiting truck and trundled it out of the
stock-room in the direction of the freight elevator.
“Jerk those books out o’ there and hustle back t’ the stock-room,”
ordered a surly voice, as he wheeled his load into the midst of the
tables reserved for the sale. “Think I c’n wait all day for you? I
gotta get this table filled up.”
“Oh, good morning. I was wondering what had become of _you_. I thought
you might be lost or overcome with the heat. It’s very warm this
morning, isn’t it?” Harry addressed the black-haired, scowling youth of
the previous afternoon’s encounter with ironic politeness.
“Fresh as ever, I see,” sneered the other. “But I ain’t going to notice
you now. I gotta work. Put those books on that table and don’t be all
day about it.”
His loud tones were purposed to reach the ears of a man who was
striding down an adjacent aisle. The man paused. Three or four long
steps brought him to where the lads were standing.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he snapped. “You go on about your business
and let this boy alone. He wants to work if you don’t.”
The rebuke fell directly upon Harry, for the man was Mr. Barton and he
had deliberately and without justice espoused the cause of the real
offender.
Harry measured the aisle manager with a cool, direct glance. Without
a word he turned to the truck and began the work of unloading his
freight. For an instant Mr. Barton glared at the boy’s back, then went
on his ill-natured way minus the satisfaction which an angry retort
on Harry’s part would have afforded him. He had never forgiven the
lad; the very sight of him aroused animosity. After the trouble over
the missing money he had deemed it prudent to keep very quiet. In
Mr. Rexford, Harry Harding had a champion whose influence Mr. Barton
respected and feared. Now though he had come upon Harry purely by
chance, he had been unable to resist showing his spite.
His blue eyes blazing, poor Harry was making short work of his task. He
was perfectly sure that Leon Atkins had designed to make him appear in
the wrong. Knowing Mr. Barton’s fault-finding disposition he had thus
raised his voice with malicious intent.
“He, he, he!” chuckled Leon. “That’s the time you got yours. How do you
feel now, Smarty?”
Harry made no reply to the taunt. Diving into the truck for the
remaining books, he piled them on the table, then paused, undecided
whether to commence their arrangement or to take his truck and be off.
As it was his usual custom to help with the tables, he peered about in
search of the highest stack of one title. Finding it, he shoved it into
position at the back of the table and began to build up smaller piles
around it.
“Never mind that, 45. Hurry back to the stock-room and bring down some
more books.” The querulous voice of a saleswoman interrupted his
cogitations. “Don’t stand there and dream. Mr. Brady is anxious to have
these tables ready before the customers get here. I am to have charge
of them during the sale. Leon will fix the books as soon as you bring
them down. Now run along and don’t keep me waiting.”
“All right.” Pleasantly obedient, Harry started away, pushing the
truck before him. As assistant buyer, Mr. Brady’s wishes were law in
Mr. Rexford’s absence. Yet, as he proceeded toward the elevator, the
boy experienced vague resentment toward the dictatorial saleswoman. He
had frequently suspected that she disliked him, and he often wondered
why. Now he pondered a trifle bitterly on the change that two short
weeks had wrought in his beloved realm of books. Yesterday he had been
briefly disappointed at the absence of Mr. Rexford. Following that had
come the annoying meeting with Leon Atkins and the news of Fred Alden’s
departure from the store. This morning it was again Leon Atkins;
and Mr. Barton, too. Harry had fancied himself free from the aisle
manager’s further persecution. Now Miss Breeden had spoken sharply to
him. He longed with all his heart for Mr. Rexford’s speedy return.
Everything went so smoothly when he was about.
“It’s babyish in me to mind such little things,” was his inward
reproof, as he shoved his truck out onto the tenth floor. “That Atkins
boy isn’t worth minding, and I am not surprised to have Mr. Barton call
me down. I always thought he’d do it if ever he got the chance. I guess
Miss Breeden didn’t mean to be cross. She’s only anxious about getting
the tables fixed.”
This philosophical view of things brought a ray of comfort to light the
gloom of the morning. Bravely shaking off his depression, Harry rolled
the truck into position before a partially filled bin of cheaper books
for boys that would presently flash forth their own special merits
for public approval and purchase. He was back on the selling floor
with them in an incredibly short time, where Miss Breeden not being in
evidence he had surly directions from Leon to “dump ’em down there on
the floor and get out.”
Directly afterward he was sent out to a neighboring store to purchase a
copy of a book which was out of stock. Failing to secure it there, he
went on to another store, and, still unsuccessful, tried a book shop
several blocks further down Commerce Street. In so doing Harry knew
that he was within his own particular province. Mr. Rexford himself had
issued the instruction that whenever he was sent out of the store in
quest of a special book he was privileged to go from shop to shop until
he obtained it.
It was twenty-five minutes past nine when he left Martin Brothers, but
it was a quarter to eleven when he returned, the product of his search
under his arm. Casting his eyes over the stretch of tables he spied the
assistant buyer in the clutches of a customer, whose flushed, indignant
face showed patent indications of her displeasure. On one side of Mr.
Brady ranged Mr. Barton, wearing a thundercloud frown; on the other was
Miss Breeden, looking equally glum.
“But, Madam,” Harry heard Mr. Brady expostulate, “you can see for
yourself that the price mark in this book is ‘50 cents.’” His
forefinger pointed out the pencilled symbols on the white of the pasted
inside leaf at the back of the book. “It was originally a dollar book,
marked down to half price.”
“Then why do you stick up a sign advertising your books at thirty-five
cents, when they’re fifty? That’s what I’d like to know. This salesgirl
takes the book and makes out a check for thirty-five cents. When it’s
handed to the girl at the desk, _she_ says it’s half a dollar. How am I
to know that you’re not overcharging me? I must say this book doesn’t
look as if it was worth half a dollar, let alone its ever having been a
dollar. I can go to Dunlap’s and buy all the boys’ books I want for a
quarter apiece.”
“Come with me, Madam. I will show you that there is a noticeable
difference between this and a thirty-five cent book. No doubt this
book has merely been laid on that table by mistake and become mixed
with the cheaper stock.” With the patient air of a martyr, Mr. Brady
led the way to the fatal table. He was followed by a procession of
three. Picking up the first volume on which his hand chanced to rest,
he said: “There, you can judge for yourself, Madam.”
The customer stared, then judged. “Why, they’re almost alike!” she
exclaimed. “If that,” she touched the book the buyer had chosen for
comparison, “is thirty-five cents, this one isn’t worth any more.”
Before she had finished judgment, Mr. Brady’s face had turned a dull
red. He cast a dark glance at the pricemark of his unlucky choice,
muttered unintelligibly and, one after another, hastily examined
a succession of books. Fixing stern eyes on Miss Breeden, he said
shortly: “This is really too bad. You have made a thorough jumble of
this table. Part of these books are one price; part another.” His tone
prophesied further reckoning when the customer had departed.
“But do I get this book for thirty-five cents?” persisted the customer
impatiently. “Please don’t keep me waiting. I have to make a train.”
“No, Madam, that book is fifty cents. I regret to say that a serious
mistake has been made in the arrangement of this table.”
“Then I don’t want it. Give me my money back. I’ll go to Dunlap’s,
then I’ll know what I’m paying for.” The now irate woman made a
determined bolt for the desk, pursued by Mr. Barton and Mr. Brady.
Miss Breeden’s face also registered wrath, as she watched the trio
descend upon the desk of remittal. Happening to catch sight of Harry,
who was quietly awaiting the opportunity to deliver his purchase into
Mr. Brady’s hands, she darted up to him.
“_You_ made all that trouble,” she hissed. “That was all _your_ fault.
I told you not to meddle with the books on that table. Now the store
has lost a customer who will go out and tell people that we have two
prices for a book. Mr. Brady will blame me for your carelessness, and
Mr. Barton will rave because he has to void my check. This isn’t the
first trouble you’ve made for me, either. Last Spring----”
Angry as she was, the young woman broke off abruptly, leaving Harry
uninformed of the nature of at least one offence. Under the scathing
tirade he had grown very white. He had heard the beginning of the
customer’s complaining, and, although he had not followed the quartette
to the table, he guessed what had happened. He knew if no one else
knew that Leon Atkins rather than he was the author of the unfortunate
mix-up.
“Miss Breeden,” he replied, his low, even accents contrasting sharply
with the woman’s shrill tones, “you told me not to stop to fix those
books, but you _didn’t_ tell me not to put them there. You _saw_ me
do it and you didn’t say a word about that. When I brought down these
cheaper books you weren’t around and that new stock boy told me to put
them on the floor. I supposed they were to go on another table. I would
have had more sense than to mix them like that.”
“That’s right. Try to crawl out of it. Just you wait until I tell Mr.
Brady.” Miss Breeden flounced off in a rage, leaving Harry to stare
soberly after her. It was evident she did not believe him.
“I guess I’m in for it,” he shrugged. “If she had let me fix that table
I’d never have made such a mistake. Where was she that she didn’t
notice it herself? It was Leon who mixed those two lots of books, but
it’s her fault that they stayed mixed. I can’t tell Mr. Brady that.
It isn’t nice for a man to shift the blame onto a woman’s shoulders.”
Harry had decided ideas on the subject of chivalry.
Though Harry did not know it, the charge of the special sales tables
had not troubled Miss Breeden seriously. On entering the store that
morning she had immediately asked for a shopping pass, returning to her
post only a moment or two before Harry had deposited his first load of
books. After giving him directions to go back to the stock-room, she
had wandered up the aisle to gossip with another saleswoman, leaving
Leon to arrange the books at his own sweet will.
As has been already stated, Leon Atkins and the proverbial busy bee
were not even distantly related. While Miss Breeden’s eyes were upon
him he worked, but the instant she went shopping his brief energy
vanished. The number of fifty-cent books that Harry had brought down
had been sufficient to fill the table. Due to his lack of skill in
arranging them, a good-sized vacant space appeared on the table when
he had finished. His knowledge of books and prices being limited and
his interest in them still less, he carelessly bundled the second
consignment of cheaper books into that vacant space. To complete the
outrage, he hastily consulted the back of one of that lot, confiscated
one of the two “35 cts.” signs that graced the next table, and hoisted
it triumphantly over the havoc he had created.
The instant the customer was lost to view around an elevator shaft, Mr.
Barton and Mr. Brady formed themselves into an inquiry committee.
“What do you mean by allowing that table to get in such a mess, Miss
Breeden?” censured the assistant.
“Give me your book,” ordered Mr. Barton. “That check must be voided. It
seems to me----”
With lips compressed for fight, Miss Breeden tendered her salesbook to
the aisle manager. He made cabalistic signs on it with a blue pencil
and scrawled a huge “voided” across the page. Before he could deliver
the stinging reproof that lay on his lips, a summons from the exchange
desk sent him galloping up the aisle.
“That table was all right when I came back from shopping,” was Miss
Breeden’s angry defence. “It was 45 who put those books there. I told
him not to when he brought down the first load, but you can see for
yourself how much good it did.”
“You should have noticed it,” was the unfeeling rebuke.
“How could I? I was busy. I never thought 45 would keep on putting
books there when I told him not to. I waited on several customers for
thirty-five cent books and didn’t notice anything out of the way.” Miss
Breeden craftily refrained from stating, however, that the books she
had sold were from the next table.
Her excuses, however, were not sufficiently good to ward off Mr.
Brady’s sharp lecture. Strange to say she made no mention of Leon’s
disastrous hand in the matter. Unfortunately for Harry, Mr. Brady also
had not observed the other boy at work at the table. The assistant had
been engaged with a traveling salesman in Mr. Rexford’s office. From
there he had been called to the selling floor in time to officiate as
pacifist to the offended customer.
In consequence of all this, Mr. Brady was not in a lamb-like mood as
the boy approached to deliver the book he had been sent out to buy.
Harry squared his shoulders to meet the impending scolding. He knew he
was doomed to receive a rebuke which he did not merit.
“See here, Harding,” lashed out the man, “why don’t you do as you are
told? If you can’t, this department doesn’t need you.” The arraignment
that followed cut Harry to the quick. He longed to cry out the truth,
but boyish chivalry to a woman and the distaste for shifting the blame
on the shoulders of a boy who needed work held him silent. All he could
find words to utter was, “I am very sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“You won’t be here if it does,” were the assistant’s parting words.
Seizing the book Harry proffered, he turned on his heel and strode into
the buyer’s office.
Sick at heart, Harry walked dejectedly toward the table of disaster.
Miss Breeden was already there, engaged in separating the figurative
sheep from the goats. Pausing uncertainly for a moment, he directed
his course toward the elevator. Again he wondered painfully why it
was that the young woman appeared to dislike him so heartily. What
did she mean by saying he had already made trouble for her? He could
recall no such instance. Why had she said “last Spring,” then abruptly
checked her speech? His distressed mind reviewed the events that had
transpired since his advent into Department 84. He could recall but one
disquieting incident. It had to do with the exposure of Mr. Farley, the
thieving salesman, and in no respect even remotely touched Miss Breeden.
“I am afraid my Year of Promise isn’t going to be very promising,” was
his rueful thought. “I don’t know why Miss Breeden doesn’t like me and
I certainly sha’n’t ask her. I’ll just find out for myself. As for that
Atkins boy, I’ve a few things to say to _him_, and I’m going to say
them before this day is over.”