CHAPTER XII

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.”