“I’m glad it’s almost five,” he confided to Miss Welch, when at last there came a lull in the day’s business. “I guess there’s a jinx on my shoulders to-day. Everything’s gone wrong.”
“Half an hour more and it’ll be over,” she sympathized. “I’m dead tired myself. Some of these customers would give you the hydrophobia.”
“Boy! Forty-five!” came Mr. Barton’s raucus call from the direction of the silverware section, which was a part of the jewelry department.
Harry trotted obediently up the aisle. Mr. Barton stood at the end of the cut glass and sterling silver counter. Just as Harry approached, an elaborately-dressed woman walked down the aisle. As she passed Harry, she switched close to the flat-topped glass show-case. Her silk sleeve brushed against a row of cut-glass powder-boxes with silver tops. There was a jingling, then a crash, and one of the larger boxes lay on the floor in fragments. Harry stood rooted to the spot. The woman hurried down the aisle and around the corner without a backward glance.
“Now see what you’ve done,” snarled Mr. Barton. “You are the clumsiest boy I ever saw. Miss Winton,” a dark-faced woman came forward with a scowl, “how much was that powder box? This careless boy just broke it. I’m going to sub-slip him for it, too.”
“Give me that lid,” ordered the woman, turning to Harry.
White with righteous indignation, Harry picked it up and handed it to her.
“Seven-fifty,” she announced, after scrutinizing the silver top.
“I won’t pay it,” burst forth Harry. “I didn’t break it, and I won’t be sub-slipped. I’ll go to Mr. Keene, first. That customer broke it. I saw her with my own eyes. Her sleeve brushed the show-case. That box was right close to the edge and——”
“None of your made-up yarns,” roared Mr. Barton. “You broke it and now you’re trying to lay it to——”