Although only the width of an aisle separated Harry Harding from his former station at Exchange desk Number 10, it seemed to him as if he had entered into a new and wonderful realm. Three busy, happy weeks had glided swiftly by since that bitter morning when, crushed by Mr. Barton’s shameful accusation, he had been haled to the detective’s office and searched for the missing twenty dollars.
From the moment when, vindicated from the aisle manager’s unjust charge, he had walked out of that hateful office under the protection of Miss Welch and Mr. Rexford, he felt that he was leaving his misfortunes behind him, that for him the “better day” of which he had dreamed was, indeed, a reality. Five minutes confidential conversation between Mr. Keene and Mr. Rexford had resulted in the transferring of Harry from the exchange desk to the book department. Mr. Rexford had also insisted on taking Harry to Mr. Marsh. There was another short, private confab, then Harry was called upon to present his much-marked report card to Mr. Marsh. That kindly man tore it in bits and writing Harry’s name on a fresh card, handed it to him with a pleasant, “Well, my boy, I think you can be trusted to keep this card clear of demerits.”
But when Harry reached the department of which he had so often vainly sighed to be a part, the greatest joy of all was his. Mr. Rexford did not intend him to be a messenger. He was to be a stock boy, and his salary was to be increased to four dollars a week. Thus in one eventful day the current of his life was changed, and through shame and suffering he came into his own.
During those first, blissful days among the books, Harry’s affection for Mr. Rexford was so great that it made him feel like crying. Gradually, however, he regained his normal poise, and tried to show his gratitude by giving the best possible service to the man who had fought for him in his hour of need. Of Mr. Barton Harry saw little. To be sure, he was still aisle manager in the book department, but he passed Harry with averted head, or, if they chanced to meet face to face, with no sign of recognition. He had been lectured most severely by Mr. Seymour for his hasty accusation against Harry on that disastrous day. Mr. Prescott, the detective who had searched Harry, had also rated him scathingly, and Miss Welch, aside from business transactions, treated him with a sweeping contempt that was more humiliating to the crabbed man than he cared to admit even to himself. He had learned a lesson, however, that he was not likely to forget, and the boy who took Harry’s place at the exchange desk profited by Harry’s suffering in that Mr. Barton accorded him at least fair treatment.
December brought with it the great annual rush that precedes Christmas. Day after day the store was crowded with busy shoppers, and though the employees of Martin Brothers’ store had much to contend with, still the spirit of Christmas which is yearly being lived up to more faithfully by the customers in the treatment of those who serve their never-ending wants, pervaded the whole establishment.
Harry Harding spent little time in the department. All day long he worked like a beaver in the stock-room on the tenth floor of the store, coming into the department merely to bring down truckload after truckload of books to fill up the constantly diminishing tables. For, at the holiday season, the book department reaped its richest harvest, and the demand for its wares never seemed to lessen.
Those were halcyon days for Teddy Burke, too. Not because of the rush of business in his department, although trade was brisk, and a few new salespersons had been added to the house-furnishings force, but for the delightful reason that he was the most talked-of boy in school.
As the chief actor in the little play that was being daily given in Martin Hall, Teddy was covering himself with glory. Miss Verne had spared no pains in training him for his part of “Dicky Darrow,” the boy who didn’t believe in Santa Claus, and Teddy displayed a histrionic ability that astonished all who were fortunate enough to witness the musical play.
It may be said to Teddy’s credit that much adulation had not turned his head. Off the stage he was the same old Teddy, and far from given to swaggering he showed a positive distaste for crowing over the fresh laurels that he daily won.
“A lot of these people make me tired,” he grumbled to Harry as they trudged home together one snowy evening. “I wish they would not come around talking to me about my voice and all that foolishness.”