“I’ll tell Miss Welch,” decided the boy. He made his way to the exchange desk, but his friend was too busily engaged with a row of more or less patient women, afflicted with the exchange habit, for confidences.
“I’ll tell her as soon as she isn’t so busy,” he decided. Before that time arrived he was sent up to the stock-room for a small consignment of books for which a saleswoman had an order on the following morning. When he returned to the floor the second closing gong had rung and Miss Welch’s desk was deserted.
“I suppose I’d better go and eat my supper.” Harry turned in disappointment from the exchange desk and went downstairs to the basement, pondering what he had best do. As is the custom in large department stores, the employees who work after the store’s regular hour for closing receive their supper at the management’s expense. They are usually given from thirty to fifty cents and allowed time enough to go to an outside restaurant for their evening meal. Certain stores, however, make it a point to serve supper to their salespersons working overtime. Martin Brothers were among the latter, and served their night workers with a substantial meal in the basement restaurant.
Harry had just begun his supper when he saw Mr. Farley enter the restaurant in company with a slender young man whose black eyes and hair, together with a small black moustache, gave him a decidedly foreign air. The two seated themselves at a table some distance from Harry, and with their heads close together began what appeared to be an extremely confidential conversation. He noted that when the waiter came to take their order they stopped talking and waited until he was well out of hearing before resuming their confab.
“I wonder who that man is,” was Harry’s thought. “I don’t believe I ever saw him before.” As he sat watching the two salesmen, Fred Alden, the other stock boy for Department 85, slid into the chair opposite Harry.
“Any objections to the pleasure of my company for supper?” he grinned cheerfully. He was a tow-headed, homely youth, older by two years than Harry, and his unfailing good humor was proverbial in the department.
“I’m glad to have you. I hate to eat alone. I’d have waited for you to go to supper, but I wished to see Miss Welch. She’d gone home, though, so I came on down stairs,” explained Harry. Seized with a sudden idea he asked carelessly, “Who is that man with Mr. Farley? They’re over there.” Harry indicated them with a nod of his head.
“Who’s he? Oh, he’s a salesman in the upholstery. He’s a Frenchman, and thinks he’s a whole lot. He talks like an American, though. Sometimes when he gets mad or excited you can tell he’s a foreigner. The messenger kids used to tease him to see him get wrathy. He’s got an awful temper.”
Harry’s heart gave a sudden leap. The unfamiliar voice he had heard that morning of some weeks past had held a curious note which he knew to be out of the ordinary, yet was at a loss to guess why. Now it was all clear. The peculiarly accented words were the speech of an alien. At last he was on the trail of at least two thieves. Whether that trail led out of the book department and through the store, he could not know. He only knew that Miss Welch’s random suspicion had hit the mark.
During the remainder of the meal he let Fred carry on the greater part of the conversation, a proceeding which exactly suited the other boy, who was a chronic talker. Harry’s thoughts were busy with his discovery. He could not be sure of his man until he heard the dark young man speak. But while he pondered as to his next move he saw Mr. Farley and his companion rise from the table. Harry sprang to his feet, leaving his dessert half eaten. “I’m sorry I can’t wait for you, Fred,” he apologized, “but I—I—must go.” Without further words he hastened toward the stairs.