“It was my fault, my lad,” smiled the man. “I was so busy thinking I was not looking where I walked.”
His gray eyes took in the boy from head to foot with a searching glance that contained decided approval.
“What a nice man,” was Harry’s thought as he turned away. “I wonder who he is. He must be a salesman in the books. He had all those books. My goodness! It’s twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. What will Mr. Barton say, I wonder. Still, I couldn’t help taking that man to the perfumes.”
Harry was soon to learn what Mr. Barton had to say. He had hardly reached the exchange desk when he saw the aisle manager bearing down upon him, looking like a cross old bird.
“Look at that clock,” began Mr. Barton in a voice that could be heard the length of the department. “Eleven minutes late. Give me your card. If you play along the way, you mustn’t expect I’m going to excuse you. Oh, no!”
“Mr. Barton, I would have been here on time if——”
“You hadn’t stopped to fool with some other boy,” supplied the man sarcastically. “Where’s your card? Give it to me, I say.”
“But, Mr. Barton,” protested Harry, “I had to show an old gentleman where the perfume——”
“That’ll do,” roared the aisle manager. Harry’s mild protest had aroused his temper. “Either give me your card, or up to the front you go.”
Harry said no more. With his boyish face white and set he handed Mr. Barton his precious card, the card he had dreamed of keeping clear and fair.