THE BOY WHO COULD FORGIVE
With the beginning of school a fresh era of interest arrived for Harry
and Teddy. As October waned, faded and finally gave up the ghost in the
icy arms of November, the two boys found themselves in the thick of
many happenings. Being soldiers was a never-ceasing source of delight
to them. They looked forward with the eagerness to their semi-weekly
drill which preceded lessons. Companies D and E were recruits to the
regular Minute Men of the store and were under the efficient guidance
of a retired officer of the National Guard. A wound received while with
his regiment on the Mexican border had unfitted him for the further
strenuous service required of the regular militia, but he proved an
admirable instructor and Martin Brothers were highly gratified to
obtain him for their purpose.
The night school was a true commercial institute. Its curriculum of
study included such subjects as would be most useful to a working
boy. Arithmetic, English, spelling and simple book-keeping were taught
in the first year’s course. One evening was devoted to arithmetic and
English; the other to spelling and book-keeping. As the night school
did not take the students from their store duties, it remained in
session until the last week of December to reopen immediately after the
annual counting of stock.
As a soldier boy Teddy was in his glory. When not at drill, he marched
about, his thin little body erect with military precision. At home
he was never tired of going through the manual of arms for his proud
mother’s benefit, and more than once in Department 40 an obliging broom
or mop furnished him with a make-believe gun with which to exploit his
newly learned tactics of war for the benefit of his friend Sam Hickson.
Affairs in house furnishings had been progressing a trifle more
smoothly of late for Mr. Everett. A two-weeks’ illness had removed his
guileful assistant from the lists. During that time the department
had thriven and rejoiced, and the worried expression on the buyer’s
clean-cut face had completely disappeared. In the fervor of being a
good soldier, Mr. Jarvis’ absence suited Teddy down to the ground. “I’m
sorry for anybody that’s sick, but I can’t cry because the Percolator’s
not percolating for a while. I gotta lot of business of my own to tend
to and if he was flying around here I’d just have to fly after him.”
Teddy had confided this to Hickson, who laughingly agreed that Mr.
Jarvis’ absence was a good thing for everybody all around.
In Department 84, Harry Harding was also proceeding far more peacefully
through November than he had hoped. Mr. Atkins was too much rushed
by the heavy consignments of books that daily poured in upon him to
trouble himself greatly about Harry. Since Mr. Brady had established
lazy Leon on the selling floor, where he could be watched, a load had
been lifted from both Mr. Atkins’ and Harry’s shoulders. The latter
could readily have given points to the proverbial busy bee. Work, when
uninterrupted by the disagreeable Leon, was a pleasure, and he waded
into it for all he was worth.
The early part of November found him dividing his time between
the stock-room and the department. On the selling-floor he was at
everyone’s beck and call, where he was so uniformly cheerful and
willing as to create a constant call from the various salespeople for
his services. Miss Breeden alone held aloof. Whatever she wished done
she ordered Leon to do and this showed Harry plainly that she had not
forgiven him for the unfortunate incident of last year.
It was while he was helping Mr. Denby arrange a table one snowy morning
that he made a discovery. Mr. Barton was missing from his usual
environment. As the day passed he failed to materialize and Harry
wondered vaguely where he was. Three days passed and still he was not
among those present. A strange young man walked about the missing aisle
manager’s domain and from Mr. Denby, Harry learned that Mr. Barton
was ill. In answer to his query, “What is the matter?” the salesman
shrugged and replied that he didn’t know, nor did he seem to care.
“What ails Mr. Barton, Miss Welch?” It was now the fourth day of the
man’s absence and after making fruitless inquiry about the department
Harry had come to the pretty exchange clerk for information. Why he was
so anxious to find this out he did not know. From within had sprung a
certain strange prompting to inquire into the cause of Mr. Barton’s
malady.
“Poor Smarty Barty’s in bad,” informed the exchange clerk. “He’s got
something the matter with his stomach, I guess. He was sicker than the
sickest the last day he was here. I almost felt sorry for him. After
all it ain’t no fun to be down and out in a boarding house with no one
to care whether you live or croak.”
“I thought he had a home.” Harry frowned thoughtfully.
“Now who’d wanta live with him?” demanded Miss Welch with fine disgust.
“He’d wear out the patience of a saint. Just like that.” She snapped
her fingers. “Say, it’s awful for me to talk so, now isn’t it? But
never mind, maybe I’m just a teeny bit sorry for him. Poor old Smarty.”
“Of course you are,” nodded Harry. “You are too nice and kind not to
care when someone’s in trouble.”
“Listen to him. Soft soap, Kiddy, soft soap.” Miss Welch dimpled
prettily at the compliment.
“It’s not soft soap. I mean it. Where does he live, Miss Welch?”
“You’ve got me, boy. Wait a minute now. Come to think of it his address
is kicking around this desk somewhere. Was you thinking of paying him
a visit?” The girl’s voice held a note of good-natured raillery. She
fumbled obligingly about her desk. “Here it is. Amos Barton, 6143
Wayland Street. That’s way up on the north side.”
From his pocket Harry took a note-book and gravely copied the address.
“Want to go with me, Miss Welch?” he asked. “I’m going there to-night
as soon as I’ve had my supper.”
“Sure I’d go, but I’ve got a date with a coupla girls to take in a
show. The tickets are bought, too. Don’t you get lost out there.”
“I can find it. I’m sorry you can’t go. I’ll tell you about how I came
out to-morrow.”
“Be sure you do, Harry. Is this the pattern counter?” She repeated the
question of a sad-faced man who peered timidly at her through his
glasses. “I hope not yet.” Her dimpling sally made the sad man smile.
“Over the other side, two aisles to the right.
“Now what do you think of that?” she giggled, after watching the man
depart. “The idea of sending a _man_ out to buy a pattern. I’ll bet he
can’t tell a bath-robe from an evening dress. No wonder he looked like
a whole buncha gloom.”
“Maybe he’s a tailor,” guessed Harry. “I must go. Thank you for the
address.”
“Keep the change and buy an aeroplane. Give my regards to _Mister_
Barton and tell him I miss him. You needn’t say it’s a good miss,
though.”
More than once during that day Harry debated within as to whether or
not he had best call on Mr. Barton. He had told Miss Welch that he
intended to go, but still he was not quite sure that it was the thing
to do. On the way home he confided his project to Teddy, who received
it with derisive hoots. “Catch me going to see that old crank!” was the
little boy’s scornful exclamation.
Mrs. Harding, however, viewed it from a different angle. “If you feel
that it is right to go, Harry, then go by all means. I am glad to see
you can sympathize with another in distress.”
That settled it. The moment he had finished his supper, Harry put
on his hat and coat and set out through a blinding flurry of snow
that had begun to fall before Teddy and himself had reached home that
evening. It was several blocks to the point where he could catch a
Wayland street car, but he plodded manfully along, frequently brushing
the snow from his face.
It was a fairly long car ride to 6143 Wayland Street. The house in
which Mr. Barton lived was a four-story brick structure set in the
middle of a row of similar residences. A stout, gray-haired woman with
hard blue eyes answered his ring. When he timidly asked for Mr. Barton
she frowned as though seized by an unpleasant memory.
“He’s not here,” she said shortly. “They took him to the hospital
yesterday. I’m too busy to wait on a sick man and he didn’t have any
place else to go. He groaned and took on something awful. He owes me
for his board for this week, but I suppose I’ll get that. Are you any
relation of his?”
Harry smiled faintly. He was dreadfully disappointed. “No; I work in
the same store he does. Will you please tell me to what hospital he was
taken?”
“To the Cameron. Did you come here with his salary? If you did, I’ll
just take care of it. I can keep his board out of that.”
Harry had hard work not to betray the indignation he felt as he
answered: “I only came to see how he was. I don’t know anything about
his affairs.” The woman’s unfeeling attitude made him doubly sorry for
the helpless man left to the mercy of strangers.
“Well, he’s not here. You’d better go to the hospital.” She closed the
door in his face with a decisive slam.
Harry walked away from the house undecided what to do next. He had no
idea of the location of the Cameron Hospital. “Maybe I’d better look
for a drugstore and telephone. I can’t go home and rest until I find
out about him,” was his thought. Two blocks further up the street the
red and green light of a drugstore shone. He hurried there, hastily
consulted a telephone directory and taking his only nickel, his carfare
home, telephoned the hospital.
He was informed that Mr. Barton was there and “doing nicely.” Harry did
not know that this trite phrase was used to describe all conditions of
a patient, whether lightly or seriously ill. No, he could not see Mr.
Barton in the evening. He was in a ward. Visiting hours were on Monday
and Friday afternoons between two and four o’clock. He could come then.
“A lot they know about it,” smiled the nettled lad, as he hung up the
receiver. “I’ll have to ask for some time off and go. Thank goodness,
to-morrow’s Friday. It looks pretty bad. Poor Mr. Barton. Now I’ll have
to walk home. I’ll get there late, too. Mothery’ll be worried.”
It was half-past ten when a veritable snow-man stamped into the
Harding’s little living room. Harry was wholly correct in thinking that
his mother would worry.
“Child alive, what made you stay so late?” she cried, her brown eyes
full of anxiety. “I thought something awful had happened to you.”
“Not a bit of it. Wait till I get off my coat and I’ll kiss you.”
“Take off those wet shoes and clothes and get into your pajamas and
bathrobe. Hurry now, or you’ll catch cold. I’ll fix you some hot milk.”
The little woman bustled about in behalf of the returned wanderer.
Ten minutes afterward Harry was comfortably arrayed and curled up at
his mother’s feet, a cup of steaming milk in his hand. “My, but this is
comfy. Now listen, Mothery, while I tell you about Mr. Barton.”
“The poor thing!” Mrs. Harding brimmed with sympathy at Harry’s story.
“Be sure you get off to-morrow and go to see him. But why didn’t you
wait till morning, Son, to telephone? That was an awful walk for you to
take.”
“I couldn’t, dear. I couldn’t rest until I found out about him. Are
they good to folks in hospitals?”
“If you have the money.” Mrs. Harding’s reply was tinged with
bitterness. “It’s all right if you can pay. If you can’t they do the
best they can for you, I suppose. They have so many patients who are
too poor to pay their way that they get so they don’t sympathize much
with them. I should think an aisle manager could pay his way. He must
get twenty-five dollars a week.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to find out.” Harry viewed his cup of milk
with a sober gaze. “I was just thinking how much I’ve got to be
thankful for. You and health and work and a home. And Mr. Barton hasn’t
anyone. I never told you, Mothery, but he wasn’t very good to me last
year. I thought then that I hated him. I found out just lately the
reason he was so cross. He’s had dyspepsia for years. He might have
been real pleasant if he’d been well. It just shows that one person
never knows much about what’s going on inside another person, after
all.”