Teddy hung his head, but, wise child that he was, said nothing.
“What is your name and your number? Mr. Keene must hear of this. He is responsible for putting such boys as you in the store.”
Teddy gave his name and number, which was 65, and the tall man flapped off down the aisle with the air of one who has done his duty, leaving poor little Number 65 to collect his scattered burden.
“You better watch yourself, kid.” The laughing voice caused Teddy to straighten up, the big dishpan in his hand. A young man with hair as red as Teddy’s own and twinkling blue eyes was regarding him amiably. “That’s Mr. Seymour, the floor superintendent.”
“I guess his name oughta be talk more,” grumbled Teddy, reaching for the last spilled article and setting it down hard. “Stewpan hats aren’t goin’ to be the style this year,” he grinned, placing the troublesome pan where it could not roll off.
“You’re a funny one,” commented the salesman. “You and I are in the same class when it comes to red hair. I’ll bet you’re chuck full of mischief. I used to be, too, when I was a kid like you.”
“I guess you ain’t got over it yet,” said Teddy slyly. “Say,” the young man’s friendly manner invited confidence, “will that guy report me to Mr. Keene?”
“He will if he happens to think of it again, but it’s not likely he’ll remember. He’s a lot on his mind all the time. He looks grouchy, but he’s not so bad. Now you better get over to that desk with that stuff. Got your checks?”
“Yep.” Teddy exhibited them, clutched in one hand.
“All right. Run along, youngster.” Teddy had also made a friend, and a true one.