“I’d go to him,” advised Teddy. “I wouldn’t let him put it all over me like that. I’d fight him.”
“Perhaps I had better go to Mr. Marsh,” Harry spoke with indecision. “If he gives me another demerit, I’ll go.”
Harry had reason to remember his resolve when, early in the afternoon, Mr. Barton set him to straightening the cubby-hole where he kept his various effects and dignified with the title of his “office.” It was dusty work and when Harry had finished, there was a long streak of dirt across one cheek, his white collar bore evidences of his work, and his hands were dark with dust. Just as he was putting the last box in place, he heard Mr. Barton’s strident voice raised in a cry of “Forty-five, forty-five.”
Forgetting his unsightly appearance, Harry rushed in the direction of the call. The habit of obedience was firmly ingrained. The aisle manager stared hard at him. “What do you mean by coming out on the floor in such an untidy condition?” he thundered.
For the first time Harry remembered his disheveled and dusty appearance.
“I came straight to you when I heard you call, sir. I forgot how I looked. I had just finished cleaning your office, sir, and I hadn’t time to wash my hands.”
“You should have tidied yourself before daring to appear on the floor, even if you did hear me calling. Suppose Mr. Martin had seen you? What would he say of such a slovenly boy? Give me your card. You deserve half a dozen demerits. You’re lucky to get off with two. Now go and wash your hands and face, at once.”
“Mr. Barton,” choked an indignant voice, “you had no business to give that boy those demerits. You did it on purpose, and I know why.”
Mr. Barton whirled and faced the exchange desk. Miss Welch’s blue eyes flashed with quiet fury.
“You tend to your own affairs, Miss Welch. Don’t interfere with me. That is, if you know what’s good for you.”