HARRY SPEAKS HIS MIND
For reasons best known to herself, Miss Breeden had chosen to make
Harry the scapegoat for Leon Atkins’ sins of omission. In her heart
she knew exactly who was at fault. Although she had shielded Leon from
the assistant’s displeasure she did not intend that he should escape
scotfree. The moment she had finished bringing order out of disorder,
she set out on a diligent hunt for him about the department. The object
of her search, however, was elusive as well as lazy. After a fruitless
march about the narrow aisles of 84, she gave up her quest and directed
her attention strictly to the business of selling books.
Thus the real culprit dodged at least one evil. After leisurely
strolling about the first floor on pleasure bent and being ordered out
of half a dozen departments in which he had no excuse for loitering,
he retired to the stock-room for a nap. But there he ran into another
evil, full tilt.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” was Harry Harding’s sharp salute as the
tall, ungainly youth slouched into sight.
“Well, you see me now, don’t you? Whada you want?” With Leon, this last
had become a challenge to be used on the world at large.
“I want to tell you that the next time you make a mess of a table, like
the one you fixed this morning, you are going to take the blame for
it.” Harry was advancing on the newcomer with an air of purpose that
brought the latter to a sudden standstill.
“What’s wrong with you, you boob?” he growled, doubling his ready
fists. “Whada you mean by such smart talk?”
“Just what I say. You took that last lot of books I brought down and
put them on the wrong table. You got me into trouble by it. I stood for
it because--well, it doesn’t concern you to know why. But I won’t stand
for it again. The next time I have books to bring down I’ll fix them
on the table myself and don’t you dare interfere with me. I thought
perhaps we could work together, just as Fred and I always did, but I
see we can’t. Hereafter you do your work and I’ll do mine; then I won’t
be blamed for your faults.”
“You’re a nut,” sneered Leon. “You’re so crazy you don’t know what
you’re talkin’ about. I guess I can fix a table a whole lot better’n
you, freshie.”
“Can you?” Harry smiled bitter sarcasm. “Just ask Miss Breeden about it
and see what she says.”
“You’ve been tellin’ lies about me! I’ll fix you!” Leon made a vicious
lunge at Harry, his voice rising to a howl.
“Here, here!” Mr. Atkins had recognized the familiar bellow of his
offspring and hurried to the scene. “What’s all this racket about?”
“He won’t let me alone, Pa. He keeps pestering me all the time.” Leon
pointed a grimy, accusing finger at Harry.
Mr. Atkins rose to the duties of fatherhood. “You let my son alone,
you young puppy, or I’ll report you to Mr. Rexford as soon as he comes
back,” he threatened, glowering at Harry. “Now get to work, both of
you.”
“I’m not bothering your son, Mr. Atkins,” burst forth Harry in
indignation, “and I’m not going to let him bother me, either.”
“Don’t talk back to me.” Mr. Atkins’ small, black eyes snapped fire.
“Do as I say. Get to work. Leon, you come with me.”
“I wish he’d stay with you,” muttered Harry under his breath, as the
persecuted one shambled off after his parental bulwark of defense. “I’d
like to tell Mr. Rexford a few things, too. But I won’t. I’ve warned
that boy to let me alone, and I’ll see that he does it without any help
from other people.”
Nevertheless, his sturdy determination to keep his grievances to
himself could not prevent Harry from seeing that his future path was
more than likely to be carpeted with nettles. It hurt his pride to feel
that, instead of advancing, he seemed doomed to be thrust back into the
unhappy rut from which Mr. Rexford had rescued him. What hurt him most
was the knowledge that he was in no sense to blame for the train of
unfortunate events that had dogged his return to the store. From those
who were most intimately concerned in them, he could expect neither
fair dealing nor justice.
As he took up his half-completed task of making the untidy stock-room
presentable, Harry mentally lined up the disturbers of his peace and
gave himself over to sombre speculation. First of all, there was Leon.
It was useless to dream that this slothful, quarrelsome boy and he
could ever be friends. They had nothing in common. The only solution of
this problem lay in an alert avoidance of the ill-natured youth.
Second came Mr. Brady. He was laboring under a false impression.
Conscientious, daily work, perfectly performed, would perhaps
counteract it. Third, Mr. Atkins was now arrayed against him by
reason of the family tie. Then, too, there was Miss Breeden’s strange
hostility to be considered. If only Fred were here, he might be able
to discover the source of it. He had always cheerfully affirmed that
he “knew the book department like a book.” Without his help there was
small chance of learning the cause of the saleswoman’s grudge.
Last of all, there was Mr. Barton. Harry regarded him as the least of
his woes. Mr. Rexford could be relied upon to see that _he_ kept his
place. Mr. Barton always “walked softly” when the energetic buyer was
about the premises of 84. The very fact that the crabbed aisle manager
had dyspepsia was sufficient to excuse him. Harry wondered if Miss
Welch knew that the man was thus afflicted. As his mind reverted to the
pretty exchange clerk, he was inspired with a sudden idea. He would
privately ask Miss Welch to find out for him, if she could, what it was
that Miss Breeden cherished against him.
At lunch time he paused at exchange desk Number 10, only to find Miss
Welch busily engaged in ministering to a long line of petitioning
shoppers. Directly after luncheon he left Teddy to volubly mourn his
loss and hurried back to the exchange desk, determined to devote the
last fifteen minutes that were his to the business of inquiry. To his
deep disappointment, the line had lengthened and he was forced to leave
the questions he longed to ask until a more convenient season.
Afternoon brought him the task of moving and rearranging a colony of
popular-priced shelved books that were to take up their residence on
the other side of the department. He did his work so well as to win
from Mr. Brady the somewhat grudging admission, “I see you can do
things right when you try, Harding.” Even this doubtful praise sounded
sweet to Harry and he forgivingly crossed Mr. Brady off his black list
of oppressors.
It was well after five o’clock when the last of his charges found
itself tightly fitted into its new home. Harry glanced at the clock,
then at the exchange desk. It was invaded now by a lone woman of
meek aspect. He saw Miss Welch’s dimples in evidence as she called a
messenger, then pointed down the aisle with her pencil. This meant that
she was in a good humor.
“This ought to be a good time to ask her,” decided Harry, as he watched
the customer leave the desk. “I won’t wait to wash my hands. I’ll go
over there now while I have the chance.”
“There goes one woman that’s willing to do as she’s told. Ain’t it
funny, the difference in some people?” Miss Welch straightened up with
a sigh of relief and pushed back a refractory curl. “Well, if here
isn’t 45! What have _you_ got to be trotted back into stock? I s’pose
that cut glass punch bowl you bought don’t go good with the kitchen
furniture. Or mebbe you bought the ‘Lives of the Presidents,’ thinking
it was ‘My Great Aunt’s Last Stand as a Cook.’ If you’ve read it you
can’t bring it back and exchange it for a tennis racquet. We’re strict
here, we are.”
Miss Welch’s ferocious scowl vanished in a merry laugh as she saw
Harry’s grave face break into smiles. “That’s more like it, old
Sobersides. I thought you’d come to tell me you was dead and what kind
of a floral piece you wanted us to take up a collection for. But now I
see you’re no dead one. What’s on your mind, Kiddy? Tell your troubles
to your old friend Irish.”
“That’s just what I’m going to do. I mean, I’m going to ask you if
you’ll help me about something.”
“Sure I’ll help you. What is it?” Miss Welch leaned forward, her blue
eyes two shining signals of good will.
“It’s about Miss Breeden,” began Harry in a low voice. “She--I--always
had an idea she didn’t like me, and----”
“You should worry,” interrupted the listener with a boyish grin. “She
didn’t put the ‘u’ in universe. You ought to feel happy. She’s got some
healthy little hate for yours truly, but I’m not crying my eyes out
about it. After what happened in 84 last Spring you couldn’t expect
we’d be her bosom friends, could you?”
Harry pricked up his ears at the words “last Spring.” It looked as
though he had come to the right person for information. Miss Welch
evidently knew something hinging on that fateful season that he did
not. His hands nervously gripped the edge of the desk as he regarded
the exchange clerk with a puzzled frown. He could think of but one
incident in which he and Miss Welch had been concerned at that time.
“But I don’t see how----” His perplexity deepened.
Miss Welch’s keen mind had already grasped the situation. “So _that’s_
the way the wind’s began to whistle, has it?” A knowing smile curved
the corners of her red lips. “I guess I ought to of wised you to a
few things, Innocent, but I never thought of _her_. Anyway, you ain’t
supposed to run a social register. You see it was just like this,
Kiddy. When you spotted Farley helping himself and a few others to
Martin Brothers’ goods, you put an awful crimp in Breeden’s plans. She
was, mebbe she is now for all I know, getting ready to be Mrs. Farley.”
“What?” Harry gasped his amazement.
“You heard me say it. They was going to get married. Just like that.
Now you know why Farley was trying to annex upholstery and a few other
departments. Poor Breeden didn’t know he was crooked. I give her credit
for that. Still, she wasn’t exactly hilarious when he got fired for
stealing. That’s why you can’t never be her little brother Harry. She
isn’t thinking about adopting me for a sister, neither.”
“Oh!” A sorrowful expression settled on Harry’s sensitive features. “I
never knew. I’m sorry all that had to happen. But I couldn’t----”
“Course you couldn’t,” comforted Miss Welch. “You did what was right,
Harry. You wasn’t to blame any more’n I was. Nobody was to blame, but
Farley. When you’ve held down a store job as long as I have you’ll know
that such things can’t happen without hurting some innocent party.
What’s she been doing or saying to you?” Miss Welch became fiercely
inquiring.
Harry reluctantly repeated the saleswoman’s words to him. “I couldn’t
think what she meant,” he ended. “I suppose she thought I knew. I can’t
blame her now, but I’m sorry she feels that way toward me.”
“You can’t stop Niagara Falls, so you might as well let ’em go on
falling,” consoled Miss Welch. “Just you keep out of her way and don’t
let her get anything on you. If she gets too gay, put me wise and I’ll
read her a few lines that she won’t find on her application card.”
“Oh, you mustn’t ever say a word to her, Miss Welch,” entreated Harry.
“Now that I understand, I’ll try not to make her mad. I’m not afraid,
you know. My mother says no one can really hurt a person if that person
isn’t doing wrong himself.”
“Some straight talk,” nodded Miss Welch, “but it don’t always work in
a place like this. I’ve seen pretty good people get theirs because
somebody else had a knife out for ’em. You can’t always squash the
trouble-bug by being an angel. Mind, I ain’t saying she’s out for
_your_ scalp. Only just you be careful and don’t let her double-cross
you.”
“I will,” promised Harry. “Thank you ever so much, Miss Welch.”
“Anything else on your mind? Now’s the golden dumping time.”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “Oh, yes; there is. I wanted to ask you if
you knew what makes Mr. Barton so cross?”
“Ask me something easy. I never could guess riddles. I don’t believe he
knows himself.” Miss Welch shrugged her shoulders.
“A boy told me that he has dyspepsia,” informed Harry. “He says Mr.
Barton goes up to the hospital almost every day.”
“I’ve heard that myself. I never sent him a card of sympathy, though.
Dyspepsia don’t excuse the way he performs. I tell you he’s got
crankitis and there isn’t no cure for that. Forget him. What do you
care what he has, so long as he lets you alone? Here he comes now, the
precious pet. Beat it before he chases you.”
Harry glanced over his shoulder, but did not move from his stand before
the desk. He had no mind to scurry off like a frightened rabbit at
Mr. Barton’s approach. Nevertheless, he braced himself for a scolding.
The aisle manager was sure to accuse him of loitering. Greatly to his
surprise, the man paid no attention to him, but passed on hurriedly in
the direction of the little room where he kept his supplies.
“Never even saw you,” congratulated Miss Welch. “I guess you was wise
not to run. He looked kind of sick, didn’t he? Mebbe I’d better send
him that card, after all.” She giggled at the thought.
Harry smiled absently. His thoughts were on the tall, gaunt aisle
manager, who had made his early days in the store so unhappy. But it
was not of those dark days he was thinking. He dwelt only upon the
haggard face and pain-filled eyes of the man who had just passed. A
curious wave of sympathy swept over him. He wondered if Mr. Barton had
a home and someone to care for him when his hard day’s work was done.
But he did not dream as he stood there how much was yet to come from
that random, kindly thought.