“I guess I know that.” This time it was Teddy who blushed.
“Say, I don’t think you’re a baby. You’re a real scrapper for a boy of your size. I kind of like you.”
“You’ve got an awful punch in that right arm of yours,” was Teddy’s magnanimous tribute. “I’ll bet you hurt that man, all right.”
Both boys giggled.
Down the aisle floated the Gobbler’s voice, “Boy, boy. Num-ber 65.” She had triumphantly put over the sale of the wringer.
“That’s my number. I’ll have to go. See you in school Thursday.” Teddy’s little thin hand shot out. A fat hand clasped it half-way, and marked the beginning of a friendship between the two lads that was to be the making of Howard Randall.
As Teddy hurried up the aisle and the fat boy lumbered off about his business, a man emerged from a small room not far from where the disastrous encounter had taken place. His face wore a broad smile. Seated in his office, through the partially-closed door, he had heard the boyish altercation, and had decided not to interfere. The surprising turn the affair took had convulsed him with mirth, despite his efforts to sympathize with the maltreated customer. He had also witnessed the end of the scene, and as he watched Teddy’s wiry, lithe body speed up the aisle, he murmured, “Mischievous as that youngster seems to be, he’s a boy with a future.”