“Say, Reddy,” called Sam Hickson, a little later. A chance customer had prevented him from joining the group about the Italian woman. “Look down the aisle. There’s the buyer, if you’re dying to see him.”
“Oh, I saw him long ago,” drawled Teddy. “He was over there with that Eyetalion woman who was lost in the wilds of Martins’ basement.” He related the incident to Hickson who had been busy with a customer at that time.
Hickson laughed heartily. “And it took little Reddy to show ’em. I guess maybe Mr. Everett will know you the next time he sees you.”
But before the day was over, Mr. Everett was destined to receive a most vivid impression of Teddy. The long, dull afternoon was drawing slowly to a close. The wall clock at one end of the department pointed to a quarter to five.
“I’m not sorry this day’s pretty near done,” grumbled Sam Hickson to Teddy. “I haven’t sold enough to-day to earn my salary, let alone my commission.”
“If you don’t sell enough of this junk to earn your salary, will you get fired?” was Teddy’s anxious inquiry.
“Well, Martin Brothers haven’t said anything yet about keeping me for an ornament,” Hickson made humorous answer.
“Te, he!” snickered Teddy, “I guess they think these old kettles and pans are nicer ornaments than you are. All they have to do is to hang around here till somebody buys ’em, or they jump off the table,” he added, as, his arm coming into contact with a long-handled dipper, it bounced to the floor with a protesting bang. “I’m goin’ to take a walk down there where the wash boilers grow.”
Teddy slammed the dipper into its accustomed place and strolled down the aisle, his alert, black eyes roving over the department in search of adventure. He could never pass the rows of wash boilers without slyly lifting the lid of one of them and holding it in the position of a shield. He always wondered how cannibals and head-hunters could hold those great, clumsy things in one hand and fight with the other. To-day he peered sharply about to see if anyone was observing him. That end of the department was apparently deserted. Far up the aisle the Gobbler was expatiating on the glories of a clothes-wringer to a stolid-faced woman, who clamored for a bargain in wringers. The loud gobble, gobble of the saleswoman’s strident voice floated down the aisle to Teddy. It meant that the Gobbler was too much taken up with her customer to trouble herself about him. With the shield-like lid in his hand he flitted through a cross-aisle, like a mischievous little shadow, to a corner where a collection of clothes-poles stood. He ran his eye over the lot, then singling out the smallest one, reached for it. Again he glanced quickly about him. The coast was clear.
Holding his improvised shield in an attitude of defence, Teddy charged down the deserted aisle, the clothes-pole poised threateningly. His impish face was aglow with the excitement of his pretended warfare. At the end of the cross-aisle he paused to reconnoiter. No one was in sight. Teddy took a fresh grip on his shield and charged back again. Suddenly, to his amazed horror, his shield came in violent contact with something moving. The snarling, “Hi, there, whoda you think you’re hitting,” proved the “something moving” to be a very angry human being.