CHAPTER XVII

DECORATING A DÉBUTANT

Sick with humiliation, Harry hurried from the office. He was conscious of having done his duty, yet the woman’s amazing willingness to submit to search filled him with consternation. He had seen her drop the ring into her coat pocket. If it were not there now, then where could it be? What had become of her companion? Ah, that was it. In some mysterious fashion, known only to a shoplifter, she had passed the ring into the blonde girl’s keeping. Yet she declared that her companion at the counter was not her companion but a stranger. Harry did not believe this statement. Yet how was he to prove that she had spoken falsely? If the ring were not found in the woman’s possession, it would place him in an unenviable position. He was quite sure of that.

The moment he returned to the department, Mr. Brady pounced upon him. “Where were you, 45? I’ve been looking for you for the last twenty minutes.”

On receiving the summons from Mr. Prescott, Harry had not asked permission to leave the floor. His work took him so constantly from the department to the stock-room that he had not counted on being missed. Not wishing to explain the nature of his brief withdrawal, he had for once taken a chance.

“Mr. Prescott sent for me,” he replied in a low tone.

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Brady. Sudden suspicion leaped into his face. “Why did he send for you? What have you been doing?”

Harry grew distressed. “_I_ haven’t been doing anything wrong,” he faltered. “A woman took a ring; I saw her take it and reported her to Mr. Prescott.”

“Humph! You’ll gain more by attending to your work and letting the detectives run their own affairs,” grumbled the assistant. “Now get busy and finish those shelves. Then go up to the stock-room and bring down a load of those ‘Children’s Classics.’ Miss Porter’s waiting for them.”

Harry was thankful that Mr. Brady did not exhibit much interest in his disastrous attempt at sleuthing. He wished with all his heart that he had not seen the theft of the ring. Where and how would the affair end?

Directly after luncheon a second summons came from Mr. Prescott. This time Harry was careful to obtain Mr. Brady’s permission. It was grudgingly given and the boy had hardly turned away before the assistant made straight for Mr. Rexford’s office, disgust written in his face.

Harry’s second interview with Mr. Prescott was one that lingered long and painfully in his memory. The prisoner had departed, vindicated and threatening. A thorough search of her clothing by a woman detective had revealed no trace of a ring. The salesman had been interviewed and declared that he had missed none of his stock. Privately he was not at all sure of this, but he was too cowardly to say so. A missing ring meant trouble for him.

Mr. Prescott was in a fine fury. He had taken too much for granted and he knew it. Were he to complain of Harry to the front, he was quite likely to court censure for acting merely on the word of a boy, without waiting to see for himself. He had been too sure of Harry. On this account he was doubly bitter and the scathing words he hurled at the cause of his discomfiture would ordinarily never have issued from his lips. He ended with, “You’ve made a nice mess of things. This woman will sue the store for heavy damages and it’s all _your_ fault. But _I’ll_ be the one that will have to take the blame. Now get out of here, and, after this, try to mind your own business.”

Harry went with flaming cheeks and quivering lips. But another ordeal was still before him. He had hardly returned to the floor when he received notice from Mr. Brady that Mr. Rexford wished to see him.

“What is this Mr. Brady tells me, Harry, about you seeing a woman steal a ring?” Although the buyer’s tone was kindly, it lacked much of its old heartiness.

Harry’s heart sank. He read faint disapproval of himself in the question. Briefly he rehearsed the sordid details of the affair. Mr. Rexford listened thoughtfully and not without interest.

“You may be right about the other woman being a confederate,” he mused. “Still the whole thing looks rather bad for you. I wouldn’t think too much about such things if I were you, Harry. Leave them to the detectives. That’s their business.”

“But I _saw_ her take it, Mr. Rexford,” was Harry’s distressed cry. “If I saw someone stealing a book from your department, wouldn’t you want me to report it to the detectives before they got away with it?”

This was a poser. Mr. Rexford’s grave face relaxed a trifle. “I suppose I would. Still you may have been mistaken to-day.”

“I wasn’t mistaken. I saw her take it. I know the other woman slipped away with it. I’m going to keep my eyes open. If I ever see that light-haired woman again I’ll know her.”

Mr. Rexford frowned. “I’m afraid that Farley affair put foolish ideas in your head, my boy,” he said with a touch of impatience. “You must remember that you belong to the book department, not the detective bureau. Brady tells me that you are not so dependable as you were last Spring before that happened. I think a great deal of you, Harry, and I’m anxious to give you every opportunity. But you can’t succeed in this business if your mind is on something else. Think it over and see if I’m not right.”

“I try to do my very best, Mr. Rexford.” Utterly crushed by the unexpected and undeserved lecture, Harry could think of nothing else to say. “I’m sorry about to-day. I thought I was doing right.”

“I won’t say that you weren’t. Still you’ll find it better in the long run to busy yourself so thoroughly with your own work that you won’t have time to watch what goes on outside your department. I’m saying this to you in all kindness.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to follow your advice.” For a moment he stood silent, fighting back his outraged feelings. He longed to tell Mr. Rexford that Mr. Brady had somehow received an entirely wrong impression of him. He wished he could find words to tell him about Miss Breeden and Leon Atkins, but he could not bring himself to the point of doing so. With a long, sorrowful glance at the man whom he revered, the man who did not understand, Harry turned and left the office. His wonderful Year of Promise bade fair to be a Year of Failure.

When on the way home from work that night Harry poured forth his woes to Teddy, the little boy was divided between the excitement of the shoplifting episode and wrath against Leon Atkins.

“The old Clothes-pole’s to blame for it all,” he sputtered. “All the things he is Mr. Brady thinks you are. It’s a shame. Why didn’t you tell Mr. Rexford every single thing? Catch me keeping my mouth shut and gettin’ blamed for what that dub does. Mr. Rexford must be a fathead or he’d see with his eyes.”

“You mustn’t speak so of Mr. Rexford.” Harry became immediately on the defensive. “He’s a splendid man. Just think of all he’s done for me.”

“He’d better get busy and do some more then,” grumbled Teddy. “I’m going to watch out an’ can the Clothes-pole before he cans you.”

“Let him alone, Ted,” Harry warned sharply. “I’m not going to see you get into trouble on my account. I’ve told you that before. I oughtn’t to have said a word to you about it.”

“Huh, I’d find it out anyhow,” boasted Teddy. “Don’t you worry. I c’n take care of myself and you, too.”

“Thank you.” Harry smiled at Teddy’s boast. “I know you’d fight for me to the finish. You mustn’t bother trying to get even with Leon. It isn’t worth while.”

Teddy’s views in this matter differed widely, however. Although he said no more on the subject, he privately singled out Leon Atkins as his next experiment in the canning line. With the innocence of a dove and the eyes of a hawk he made it a point now and then to ask permission to leave the floor. Once out of house furnishings he was prone on these occasions to bob up in the aisles of 84. As it happened, Harry never chanced to meet his little friend on one of these brief excursions. The nearer drew the holidays the more he was confined to the stock-room. Leon Atkins, however, was much in evidence on the selling-floor, and Teddy had a splendid chance to study Harry’s enemy and decide what he could do to worst him.

This proved a hard nut to crack. Teddy was not at home in books, therefore he dared take no liberties. Still, he did not despair. According to his philosophy, something was sure to turn up at the psychological moment.

Several evenings after he and Harry had enjoyed their confidential chat regarding Harry’s troubles, Teddy received the glorious privilege of an early pass home. It meant that instead of waiting until twenty minutes to six for the closing bell, he was free to leave the store at fifteen minutes past five. With the gracious sanctioning bit of paper in his hand, Teddy scudded joyfully for the time desk. Slipping on his overcoat as he ran, he hurried out into the keen, wintry air. A minute saw him hustling confidently in a customer’s entrance of the store. Straight toward the book department he headed. His bright eyes peered eagerly over that realm of literature until they glimpsed Harry at the far end laboriously bending over a truck.

“Have you ‘The Stock Boy’s Revenge; or, Cutting the Clothes-pole up for Kindling?’” squeaked a high falsetto voice in Harry’s ear.

Harry straightened up with a start to see an impish, freckled face grinning down at him.

“Teddy Burke! How you startled me! What in the world are you doing here, with your hat and coat on?”

“I’m out early. It’s a reward for bein’ good.” Teddy’s grin widened. “Ain’t you glad I came?”

“Of course. Wish I was through work, too. Never mind, it’s almost half past five. Take a walk around the department, Teddy. I’m busy just now. You’ll have to go as soon as the bell rings. Wait for me across the street.”

“All right. So long.” Teddy strolled away on the hunt for the Clothes-pole. He had seen Leon at a distance as he entered 84, now he yearned for a closer inspection. “Don’t he think he’s it?” was his mental opinion as from behind a protecting table he watched the ungainly youth. His black head cocked a little to one side, Leon was trying the effect of a large black and white picture at various points of a table he had apparently just finished arranging. Disposing of the picture to his satisfaction, he next fished a fat blue pencil from his pocket and proceeded to sharpen it, glancing about furtively as he did so. A stentorian call of “56” from the aisle man sent him suddenly ambling off in the direction of the voice.

Hardly had he responded when Teddy left his post of observation and planted himself squarely in front of the table. With a gurgle of joy he pounced upon the pencil that Leon, for some unknown reason, had left lying on a pile of books. Teddy examined it thoughtfully. He was about to tuck it securely between two towering piles of books where it would defy detection, when his eyes came to rest on the picture which Leon had jauntily set upright on a central wedge of books. It represented a very pretty young woman in a low-cut, much befrilled evening frock. Underneath the figure appeared the words, “The Débutante, by Marcia Sheldon.”

Teddy slowly spelled the one mystifying word. It did not specially please his fancy. “Some name,” he murmured. “Maybe it’s Rooshun.” Making a face at the smiling girl, Teddy went back to the pencil. He drew it gently across the back of his hand. The result was a wide blue mark. With the mild eyes of a ministering angel, he glanced calmly about him. No one was paying the slightest attention to him. Scattered about the department the salespeople were busily engaged in counting up their books.

Teddy reached a stealthy but powerful hand toward the lonely young débutante and whisked her off her literary perch. A thin little hand, clutching a blue pencil, traveled with amazing swiftness over the young woman’s radiant features.

“There, I guess she is ready to go most anywheres,” he chuckled, as he set the picture in place.

Clang! It was the first closing bell.

“Guess I’ll have to leave you.” Teddy giggled and wagged his head at the picture in derisive farewell. “Good night, Deebuttanty. Don’t be s’prised if some other folks are s’prised when they see you to-morrow morning.” Hastily depositing the blue pencil at the foot of the picture, Teddy shook the dust of 84 from his feet and flitted through a nearby entrance to the street, well pleased with his fantastic conception of art.