“All right,” nodded Harry. “Good-bye, Teddy. Don’t forget to tell your mother all about your first day in the store.”
“I will,” promised Teddy. Then he was off down a side street like a flash, leaving Harry to pursue the rest of his walk home alone.
The pleasant aroma of newly-made coffee and broiling beefsteak greeted his nostrils as he opened the door of their tiny apartment. His mother was so busily engaged in bending over a pan of biscuits which she was in the act of removing from the oven that she did not hear the boy enter. Slipping quietly up to her he wound both arms about her waist, just as she straightened up.
Crash! The pan of biscuits fell to the floor, but obligingly landed right side up and in the pan.
“Mercy, child, how you startled me!” exclaimed Mrs. Harding. “It’s a good thing those biscuits landed right side up with care. Well, dearie, how did you get along to-day? I suppose you got the position, or you’d have been home long ago.” Mrs. Harding set the biscuits safely on the end of the table and, turning, gave Harry an affectionate hug and kiss.
“Yes, Mother, I’m a working man at last. My, but I’m hungry and how good the supper smells! I didn’t know until this minute just how starved I was. It’s splendid in you to have beefsteak. It’s just what a hungry fellow likes best. And creamed potatoes, too!” He had stepped over to the stove, lifted the lid of a saucepan, and was peering into it.
“I thought we could afford to have a little beefsteak to-night. I knew you’d be hungry. I had to ask the man in the meat market to trust me for it until Saturday, but I wanted you to have a good supper, son. Let’s sit right down as soon as you’ve washed your face and hands. Everything’s ready. Then you can tell me what happened to you to-day.”
“I’ll be ready, too, in a jiffy,” declared Harry. Going over to a stand on which stood a china bowl and pitcher, Harry took the pitcher and filled it with water from the sink. One room served the Hardings as kitchen and dining-room. Pouring the water into the bowl, he began a vigorous splashing. Five minutes later, his boyish face shining with health and cleanliness, he seated himself opposite his mother at the table.
“Now, eat first and talk afterwards,” she commanded, as she heaped her son’s plate with beefsteak and creamed potatoes and passed it to him.
When his first hunger had been appeased, Harry began an account of the day’s happenings. His mother listened in interested silence. Harry said nothing about Mr. Barton’s evident dislike for him, or of the fat boy who had sworn to “be even” with him. He felt that these tales were better left untold. His mother would merely worry if she knew that things had not gone quite smoothly. Besides, it was a poor sort of boy who couldn’t fight his own battles.