Myricks had gone. In spite of being busy I had gotten rid of him that Tuesday. I had caught him again putting money in his pocket, and Mr. Pinkham, who bought a saw, also told me that he had noticed Myricks didn't ring up the money.
I had kept my eye on Myricks, and then, when there was a little lull in trade, I had called him into my little office and ordered him to turn out his pockets.
"What's that for?" he asked impudently.
"I want to see how much money you have got there," I said.
"I don't see that it's anybody's business what money I have got in my pockets," he replied.
"Well, it has something to do with me," I returned sternly, "for you told me yesterday you were carrying my money in your pockets. Now, I insist on knowing what you have got in your pockets."
"All I've got is money of my own, and I don't see that it's any of your business!"
"You are going to turn out your pockets before you leave this office," I said angrily. My voice was raised and the others in the store were gazing in our direction. "If not, I'll call a policeman."
"Call him in and be damned," he said, and he struck at me.
I lost my temper, and for once I was glad of it, for I landed on him and hit him fair and square under the jaw. He fell against the desk, upsetting a vase full of flowers that Betty had put there. He got up, holding his head, and blood was trickling from a cut in his cheek where he had caught the edge of the desk.