A BELATED RECOGNITION
When Teddy Burke left the store that night to make his call on Mr.
Everett he was in a most jubilant frame of mind. A great honor had come
to his friend Sam Hickson. Hardly had Teddy left him to interview Miss
Newton when Hickson had been summoned to the system manager’s office.
There he received the surprise of his life. He was notified that he had
been selected to replace Mr. Jarvis as assistant buyer. Mr. Everett
had been consulted by telephone and approved the proposed change. It
was expected that Mr. Everett would be able to resume his duties on
the following week. Hickson thrilled with joy at this news. It was
equivalent to saying that his chief had not resigned after all.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Everett _had_ done so, by formal letter,
on the day previous to Mr. Jarvis’ downfall, his resignation to
take effect one month after date of notification. Beyond the terse
statement, “for personal reasons which I shall not divulge,” the buyer
had set forth no direct cause for his act. The system manager was in
possession of numerous facts which he shrewdly brought to bear upon
the matter. Mr. Everett had not advocated Mr. Jarvis’ appointment as
his assistant. Instead, he had wisely recommended Samuel Hickson as
best fitted to serve in that capacity. He had been overruled, however,
by others, who had believed Mr. Jarvis to be the right man for the
position. As the system manager himself had emphatically sided with Mr.
Everett, it now gave him exquisite pleasure to be able to say, “I told
you so.” A long telephone conversation had ensued between him and Mr.
Everett, which resulted in the removal of Mr. Jarvis to the Bureau of
Adjustment.
Teddy Burke was ushered into Mr. Everett’s comfortable bachelor
quarters that evening, his freckled face alive with friendly joy. He
had planned to conduct himself in a manner befitting one who makes a
call. The sight of his beloved buyer completely banished his laudable
ideas of dignity. He behaved exactly like red-haired, roguish Teddy and
no one else. Seated opposite Mr. Everett, who lounged luxuriously in
a big easy chair, Teddy forgot himself and proceeded to convulse his
chief with a somewhat sheepish account of his numerous experiments in
the canning line. He proved himself such good company that Mr. Everett
insisted that his young entertainer should dine with him. Accordingly,
Mrs. Burke was consulted by telephone and Teddy, in the seventh heaven
of bliss, remained to break bread with his chief.
That was a gala evening for him. For days afterward he was prone to
dwell fondly upon the glories of that dinner to Harry Harding. On his
part, Harry was only too willing to listen to whatever it pleased Teddy
to tell and retell. During the long winter so much unpleasantness had
befallen the chums that their common misfortunes had strengthened
wonderfully the bond between them. With Leon Atkins’ discharge from the
store, peace and safety had come to Harry. With Mr. Everett again in
Department 40 and Sam Hickson acting as his assistant, Teddy’s cup of
happiness overflowed.
“There’s only one thing that makes me feel sorry that the perky
Percolator’s gone into the adjusting business,” confided Teddy to Harry
as they strolled home under a reddening March sunset. “To-morrow’s
April Fool’s Day. I wanted to give him the Zoo’s number and ask him
to call up Mr. Lion. I might write it and leave it up at the Bureau
to-morrow before he gets there.”
“Don’t you do it,” advised Harry. “Let him alone and stick to kettles
and pans. Then you won’t get into trouble. You’ve had enough for one
year.”
“I guess that’s right.” Teddy squinted reflectively. “Mr. Everett says
if I watch my p’s and q’s I might be his assistant some day. Only I’ll
have to grow a lot. I’m an inch taller’n last year, anyhow. That’s
growing up some.”
“I’m almost three inches taller than I was last year,” said Harry with
pardonable pride. “I hope I’ll grow up to be as tall as Father was. He
was six feet.”
“You better get a grow on then,” grinned Teddy. “I saw Miss Verne
to-day. She wants me to sing at an entertainment. It’s to be the last
of May in Martin Hall. It’s a benefit for another sick man in the
store.”
“That reminds me, Mr. Barton’s coming back next week. Miss Welch told
me. He wrote her a letter. He said in it he was going to write to me,
too. He’s entirely well. Isn’t that fine? He’ll be back at a busy
time. Next week’s the big silver sale. I suppose Mr. Prescott’ll be
in jewelry. He must hate me. He scowls at me every time I meet him as
though he’d like to gobble me up.”
“I guess I’ll have to give him a name,” suggested Teddy. “Let me see.
Three Eyes sounds pretty good. He’s s’posed to have one eye in the back
of his head. If he’d used it, p’raps that woman wouldn’t’ve got away
with the ring.”
Harry laughed a little at Teddy’s inspiration. “You can’t ever make him
believe she took it,” he remarked with some bitterness. “I hope nobody
tries to steal anything next week while I’m looking at him or her. If I
reported it, Mr. Prescott wouldn’t believe me.”
“Oh, I don’t s’pose anyone will,” was Teddy’s cheerful comment.
“Silverware’d be pretty hard to steal.”
Harry agreed that it would and dropped the subject. Mr. Prescott’s
appearance in the jewelry department on the following Monday afternoon
again brought it to mind. The big sale had begun with a rush of
customers that made jewelry a hive of industry. The sale was an annual
event and many persons took advantage of it with a prudent eye to
future wedding or holiday gifts.
Up and down the humming aisles walked Mr. Barton, strangely transformed
from the crabbed, hard-faced aisle manager of the past to a pleasant,
mild-mannered man whose eyes still held a hint of suffering. He was
thinner than of old, but moved with an alertness that bespoke a return
of strength and health. Whenever he chanced to encounter Harry he
smiled at him in a fashion that bespoke his everlasting gratitude. As
for Miss Welch, she and “Smarty Barton” were in a fair way to become
excellent comrades of work.
Though jewelry buzzed with importance, books had slid into an unusual
state of placidity after an early Easter. Gardening and nature study
were now coming rapidly to the front and a great changing of tables
went on daily.
As the week progressed, the jewelry department grew busier.
“Beats everything I ever saw the way these people spend their money,”
grumbled the cashier in jewelry, whose cage was situated next to the
exchange desk. Her remark was addressed to Miss Welch. The latter had
just concluded an elaborate argument with an irate woman who insisted
that she exchange a damaged cut glass bowl for a perfect one.
“You’re lucky,” was Miss Welch’s grim assurance. “You can take their
money and keep your mouth shut. But me! I have to take their sass and
talk like an angel. If I told that customer once, I told her ten times
to take that bowl to the Bureau of Adjustment. But no, she couldn’t
see it. She bought it here and here’s where she’s going to stick till
she gets another. ‘Madam,’ I says to her, ‘you can stand here till the
store closes if you want to, but I can’t do nothing for you.’ But she
wouldn’t believe I was giving it to her straight. So I had to call
Barton and he led her away, she telling him about ‘that snippy girl’
as far’s I could hear her. If I don’t come to work to-morrow you’ll
know I died of a broken heart over being called a snip. If to-morrow
wasn’t Saturday I’d take a rest. This desk is the main pavilion of
Trouble-hunters’ Resort.”
“I’m glad to-morrow’s Saturday,” sighed the cashier. “This has been a
heavy week. Three or four times a day this cash box runs over. I’ve got
about a thousand dollars in it now. I hope Mr. Wiggins sends someone
down pretty soon to get it. He generally has a messenger down here
after it before this. Must be he’s forgot.”
“It oughtta be a man,” declared Miss Welch reprovingly. “It ain’t safe
to trust all that money to a girl.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The elevator’s only a step and these boxes the
messengers carry are safe enough. They’re lock boxes. He’s always had
special messengers to do it. They’re not cash girls. They’re grown up
women and oughtta know their business. All this talk about girls not
being able to do as well as men makes me sick.” The cashier pouted,
looking rather nettled. “I b’lieve in woman’s rights, I do.”
“Don’t get huffy,” dimpled Miss Welch. “I’m something of a suffragette
myself. I was only saying what _I_ thought. This is a free country,
ain’t it, Kiddy?” This to Harry Harding, who had stopped before her
desk to speak to her. Harry was the bearer of a note from his mother
asking Miss Welch to take supper with the Hardings on the next Friday
evening. Harry had intended to deliver the note that morning. A call to
the stock-room had caused him to forget it until that very moment. He
now extended it to her, saying, “Here’s a note from my mother, Miss
Welch. What was it you asked me?”
“Forget it. I’m busy.” Miss Welch began a hasty exploration of the
square white envelope. “Aren’t you the nice kid?” she beamed as she
finished reading the prettily worded missive of invitation. “I’ll be
there, both feet first. For goodness’ sake, don’t tell your mother
that. She’ll think I was brought up in a barn. I’ll write her an
answer to this before I go home. I hope the whole town don’t get the
exchange craze while I’m trying to do it. I’m liable to write, ‘Dear
Mrs. Harding: No, we don’t exchange men’s shirts at this desk. You
better see the aisle man. I accept with pleasure your kind invitation
to go two aisles to the right and all the way back, etc.’ That’s about
what I’d be writing.” Miss Welch indulged in a merry laugh at her own
expense in which both Harry and the cashier joined.
“You’re awful funny,” giggled the cashier. “I--oh, here you are! About
time someone got busy with this.” She wagged her head toward the
well-filled cash box.
A slender, fair-haired young woman dressed in the customary store
black, relieved only by a wide, white collar, stood before the desk,
lock box in hand.
“How much have you for me? Tell me quickly. I must get back upstairs.”
She spoke imperiously, at the same time producing a small receipt pad
and pencil.
“Oh, I guess you can wait a minute. You kept me waiting,” was the
cashier’s stolid retort.
Shrugging her shoulders, the young woman stepped into the cage beside
the cashier and began to transfer the bulk of the money to the now
open lock box, leaving only a small percentage of notes for change.
Scribbling a receipt for the amount she had taken, she signed it with
an illegible scrawl and prepared to depart in a hurry.
“Wait a moment.” A boyish form resolutely barred the messenger’s path.
A determined hand caught her by the arm. With a haughty stare at the
offender she jerked herself free.
“Let me go,” she hissed. “What----”
Harry Harding’s fingers clutched the young woman’s arm in a tighter
grip. Her appearance at the desk had awakened in his brain a curious
recollection of something unusually unpleasant. As he continued to
stare at her, that which at first had been merely a disagreeable
impression deepened to an alarming knowledge.
“I will _not_ let you go,” he returned, his young face set and stern.
“Mr. Barton!” Raising his voice he hailed the aisle manager, whom he
sighted a short distance off. Miss Welch and the cashier were staring
in dumb surprise. An instant and Mr. Barton was at his elbow.
“What’s the trouble here, Harry?” he asked, amazed at the strange
tableau.
“Make this boy let go my arm. He must be crazy. I’m in a hurry. Make
him let go, I say.” A pair of pale blue eyes, scintillating with rage,
flashed an accompaniment to the furious command.
“She’s not a messenger from Mr. Wiggins’ office,” Harry cried out. “I
know she isn’t. Send for Mr. Wiggins and let him identify her. She’s
the ring woman, Miss Welch!”
“Great goodness!” exploded Miss Welch. “Hang on to her, Mr. Barton,
good and hard. I’ll bet Harry knows what he’s talking about.”
Dropping the cash box the young woman made a furious struggle to break
away. Her action was in itself so suspicious as to condemn her. Harry
relinquished her to Mr. Barton’s stronger guardianship. By this time a
crowd had begun to collect. Miss Welch was already busy telephoning Mr.
Wiggins. A man at the far end of the department glimpsed the crowd and
now came toward it on the run.
“What’s all this?” he asked gruffly.
“Mr. Prescott,” Harry’s tones held a suspicion of triumph, “this is the
woman who got away with the ring last Christmas. I told you I’d know
her if ever I saw her again. Ask her about it. Ask her, too, what she
was trying to do with that cash box.”
Before Mr. Prescott could answer, a second man pushed his way to the
center of the crowd. “Is this the girl?” he questioned, his voice
unsteady with fright.
“That’s the one.” It was Miss Welch who answered.
“I never saw her before. Where’s the money?” The query ended almost in
a shout.
“It’s here, and you may thank this boy for it.” Mr. Barton nodded over
one shoulder, still holding firmly to the now cowering imposter. “This
is your case, Prescott. Better take charge of it.”
The detective’s face was a study as he moved forward to collect his
own. “You’d better come with me,” he said to Harry. “I may need you.”
Harry was not at all proud of making one of the trio that set out for
a neighboring elevator. Yet this time he knew that what he had done
was beyond criticism. It remained now for Mr. Prescott to extract the
true story of the ring from his prisoner. Once shut off from all means
of escape, the woman’s remarkable assumption of bravado in a measure
left her. She could not very well deny the raid on the cash box, but
pretended ignorance of the affair of the ring. It was a long, wordy
battle to which Harry was compelled to listen. In the end the woman
broke down and confessed not only the theft of the ring, but that she
was also one of a gang of professional thieves. No amount of argument,
however, could persuade her to reveal either their identity or their
whereabouts.
It was at this juncture that Mr. Prescott allowed Harry to go, with,
“I’ll see you later, my boy. I’ve a good deal to say to you.”
Meanwhile, down in the jewelry department a radiant-faced young woman
was singing Harry’s praises to Mr. Barton.
“That boy’s shooting upward like a rocket,” she exulted. “What’s more
he’s going to stay up. He’s got a wise head on his shoulders. I’m glad
he got a chance to show Prescott a thing or two.”
“He’s a smart boy and a good one,” agreed the aisle manager. “He did a
great deal for me. You know he spoke to Mr. Keene about me when I was
sick. That’s how Mr. Keene came to know of it and started the plan for
the benefit.”
“Mr. Keene nothing,” retorted Miss Welch. “He’s the one that cinched
the idea for that benefit. Him and that red-headed kid he runs with.
They planned it out, but kept it under their hats because they was
afraid to let folks know it for fear they’d think the show wasn’t much
if two youngsters steered it. He’s a wonder, that boy. I supposed you
knew the rights of it, if no one else did. Well, I guess Mr. Keene and
me must have been the only ones in the know. It’s only one more star in
Harry’s crown.”
“I never knew. I----” Mr. Barton wheeled and walked away, too much
overcome for further speech. He wondered if Mr. Edward Martin knew the
truth. He determined to find out from Mr. Keene. If the senior partner
were not in possession of the facts, then his own duty lay before him.
Mr. Martin should learn from his lips the story of one boy’s golden
deed.