It was with a racking headache and a fevered frame, that Arthur took his place in the store that morning. He could not plead illness as a pretext for absence, for there was one who he knew would be there that knew his secret all too well, and he could not trust him with it. As there were but few customers in that morning, however, he drew a
stool behind the counter, and seated himself; an act which placed at defiance one of the strictest rules of the establishment.
He had scarcely done so when Mr. Delancey entered the door, and passed up between the lines of clerks, with his cold eyes, as usual, turning rapidly hither and thither, never looking for the right, but always for the wrong.
As his glance fell upon Arthur he stopped short, and, in a tone loud enough to be heard all over the store, exclaimed:—
"Haven't you been here long enough, young man, to know better than to sit down during business hours?"
Arthur rose and put away his stool with a flushed cheek, stammering out something about not feeling quite well that morning.
"It's very evident," returned the merchant, running his practised eye over the wan lines of Arthur's face, "that you've been having a Sunday night spree, in order, I s'pose, to have a Monday morning benefit. But it won't do here; stick to your post, and if I catch you in that lounging position again, you lose your place."
Without another word the merchant walked to the big desk, holding the head of his walking stick against his lips as he went.
Arthur raised his eyes, and although he had striven all the morning to avoid it, he caught the gaze of Charley
Quirk fixed upon him, and received a quick, sly wink from his left eye.