The return of Mr. Rexford to Department 84 marked the beginning of a respite from the misfortunes that had visited Harry. Two days after his unexpected clash with Miss Breeden the buyer walked into the department and resumed his kindly but undisputed sway. Mr. Rexford was a man who thought twice and spoke once. Consequently, his speech was productive of instant results. Conscientious to a degree he worked untiringly for the good of the firm who employed him and insisted on the same loyalty from the members of his department.

It did not take him long to reach a correct estimate of Leon Atkins. After one exceedingly brief but crushing interview with the man in authority, Leon turned over a new leaf in a hurry and made craven promises to “do better.” Privately, however, he had no intention of redeeming himself. When under Mr. Rexford’s critical eye he proceeded with the utmost caution. When the stock-room sheltered him from the latter’s observation, his pretended energy fell from him like a cloak.

After the mid-summer sale was over and the stock that remained unsold was again put to rest in the tenth-floor bins, to reappear later when the fall trade had quickened, the book department settled down to the inevitable lull that August always brought. This did not mean that no one wanted to buy books. There were always the libraries which required attention at all seasons of the year. Their needs helped swell the summer trade, and many regular customers browsed about 84’s tempting aisles. The mail-order, also, gave good account of itself and with the various consignments of new books that were continually arriving, Harry Harding always found plenty to do.

The very fact that Leon was a shirker incited Harry to do his utmost to keep things moving. To frequently stumble upon the sluggard, asleep in a bin or deep in a book, was naturally an aggravation. Yet Harry never complained to Mr. Rexford of his companion’s worthlessness, neither did he appear to notice what went on day after day under his very eyes. For one thing he was at least thankful. Leon no longer persisted in his former mania to fight. Not that he had relinquished it. Although Harry could not then know it, the other boy was merely biding his time. While trade was dull and Mr. Rexford was so much in evidence about 84, it behooved him to go cautiously. Later, when the department had swung into its usual business stride and Mr. Rexford had his hands full, he resolved to renew his persecution of Harry. So long as the latter allowed him uninterrupted liberty to shirk and was foolish enough to do double work in consequence, Leon was content to let matters rest.

Yet patient, long-suffering Harry Harding was not the only one who knew the exact truth about Leon. Mr. Atkins was well aware of his troublesome son’s deficiencies. Far from taking him to task for them and insisting that Leon should do his share of the work of the stock-room, he stolidly ignored the truth and on all occasions treated Harry with a gruffness that was both unnecessary and unreasonable. The marked contrast between this neat, industrious, courteous boy and his own untidy, lazy, impudent son galled him beyond measure.

Instead of admiring Harry for his good qualities, he appeared to resent them. Harry’s devotion to duty made his son’s lack of it altogether too apparent to suit him. He was in constant fear that some day Harry might suddenly turn and make a complaint to headquarters that would result in Leon’s discharge from the store. With that thought ever before him, he kept up an attitude of menacing suspicion toward the boy, hoping thus to intimidate Harry into remaining silent regarding Leon’s laziness.

Quick-witted Harry was not slow to discover this. He understood that Mr. Atkins feared him on account of Leon and felt sorry, rather than indignant. More than once he was on the point of going to the man and assuring him that he could rest easy on that score. Only the possibility of being misunderstood held him aloof. Manfully ignoring that which he could not change, he delved unceasingly through the long, hot days of August, making silence and endeavor his watchwords. As the majority of his orders emanated from Mr. Brady, he was able to keep fairly clear of Mr. Atkins, whose work lay, for the most part, in the receiving room. Nevertheless, the lad was always on his guard against squalls which were quite likely to blow from that quarter in the twinkling of an eye.

The middle of September brought with it vast consignments of new books from the numerous publishing houses. It also brought a heat wave that July might well have envied. Day after day the sun beat down upon the city, as though determined to visit a special penalty upon its wilted inhabitants. Even the nights obstinately refused to be cool, and as one fierce, sultry, rainless day merged into another, the heat became well-nigh unbearable.

“You don’t catch me walking home this night,” grumbled Teddy Burke, as he and Harry met on the corner at the end of a particularly trying afternoon. “Me for a street car. I don’t b’lieve it’s ever going to get cool. Maybe it wasn’t hot in 40 to-day. Even the old wash boilers and coffee pots were jawing about it.”

“You don’t say so!” Harry raised amused brows. “I suppose you heard them?”

Teddy grinned. “Well,” he confessed, “I fell over a wash boiler and it groaned, and I dropped a coffee pot and it rattled. I s’pose that was about as much as they could do. Mr. Hickson says that even the ice-boxes had a grouch. One of ’em pinched his finger when he went to shut the door of it.”

“You’re a funny boy.” Teddy’s quaint fancies were always vastly entertaining. “Sometimes I almost wish I were down there in house furnishings with you. You and Mr. Hickson always find something to laugh at.”

“What’s the matter with books?” inquired Teddy. “Don’t you like ’em any more?”

“Oh, books are all right and so is Mr. Rexford,” sighed Harry. “Only I wish some of the people in 84 were like Mr. Hickson. I miss Fred Alden a good deal. He was always cheerful and funny and wasn’t afraid of work.”

“How’s the Clothes-pole behaving?” On first glimpse of the lengthy Leon, Teddy had immediately likened him to the above wash-day prop. “He’s about as fat as one,” had been his discerning comment, “only he isn’t half so useful. Still, that’s what he looks like, and that’s what I’m going to call him when he isn’t around.” Thus named, Leon was destined so to remain in Teddy’s imaginative mind.

“The Clothes-pole, as you will call him, is the laziest boy I ever saw.” Harry’s voice quivered with vexation. “When he’s in the stock-room he doesn’t do much except read and sleep. It’s a shame! I’ve been doing his work all summer, but I’m getting pretty tired of it. His father knows it, too, but he doesn’t seem to care much. I just wish Mr. Rexford would come up some day and catch him asleep in one of those bins.”

“Maybe he will.” A daring idea had sprung to life in Teddy’s fertile brain. His freckled face grew preternaturally solemn; a sure sign that he was planning mischief.

“He hardly ever comes up to the stock-room.” Harry had failed to catch the significance that lay behind Teddy’s casual remark.

“Is that so?” Teddy relapsed into sudden silence, as he considered ways and means of bringing Leon’s ill-timed siestas to an end. “Aw, see here!” He had become aware that they had left the corner behind them and were well up the street. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to hoof it home?”

“Come on,” urged Harry. He had slyly begun the homeward walk, knowing that Teddy would keep pace with him from sheer force of habit. “You don’t want to ride in one of those crowded cars. It’s a lot better for us to be out in the air, even if it is so warm.”

“Might as well keep on now,” grumbled Teddy. “Say, when does the Clothes-pole generally take his nap?”

“Whenever he gets a chance. There’s one big bin at the end of the stock-room that he is fond of. He goes to lunch at one o’clock and as soon as he gets back he crawls into it. He puts a truck close to the bin. After he gets in he rolls the truck in front of it and then no one can see him.”

“Lazy loafer,” was Teddy’s scornful opinion. “But see here, Harry. You ought to report him. Don’t you know what it says on the application card about reporting anyone you see doing something against Martin Brothers? You signed it, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve thought of that a good many times, but I can’t make up my mind to report him. I’ve tried to even up for it to the store by doing his work. You see I know what it is to be poor. My mother had a hard time taking care of just the two of us before I went to work. Even with what help I give her, it’s pretty bad. Everything costs so much now. If it’s hard for us, what must it be for poor Mr. Atkins with that large family of his? It’s better for this boy to be with his father. He might be a good deal worse off away from him. Mr. Atkins is afraid I’m going to make a fuss about Leon. That’s why he is so cranky to me. He never used to act like that before his son came to the store to work.”

“You make me tired.” Teddy’s impish face registered his disapproval. “I wouldn’t be good to folks that treated me so mean. I’d treat ’em mean, too. What’s the use of working your head off for that Atkins pair? Either one of ’em would get you fired if he could. I’d do as I promised on my application card, if I was you. Suppose somebody found out about the way the Clothes-pole loafs? Then you might get blamed for knowing about it and not saying a word.”

“I’ve thought of that, too,” confessed Harry, “but I guess I’ll have to take chances against it. As long as I keep the stock-room looking neat and tidy, no one can say much. What Leon does when he’s downstairs on the floor is none of my business.”

“I hope he does something awful then,” scowled Teddy. “Anyway, he won’t last long. See if he does.”

On just what grounds the resourceful Teddy based his prophecy he neglected to mention. The following morning, however, he was hardly in his department before he approached good-humored Mr. Duffield and asked solemn permission to leave the floor.

“Very well, Teddy, you may go. Don’t stay away long and don’t get into any mischief.” The placid little aisle manager felt it necessary to add this last mild admonition.

“I never get into mischief.” But the roguish gleam in the boy’s black eyes told a different story.

Mr. Duffield merely smiled behind his stubby gray mustache. He knew Teddy Burke.

Straight through Department 40 toward the nearest basement stairs Teddy flitted.

“What’s your hurry?” called out Sam Hickson as Teddy flashed past him with a grin.

“I’ve got business to ’tend to,” he flung back over his shoulder.

“More likely it’s mischief,” muttered the salesman. “I can always tell when that youngster is up to something.”

Up the stairway route to the third floor Teddy scurried, scorning to wait for an elevator. Reaching the third-floor landing, he steered directly for Mr. Keene’s office. There Teddy had a friend on whom he proposed to call.

“Why, good morning, Teddy.” The brown-haired, pink-cheeked girl glanced up from her typewriter with a welcoming smile. She had ushered himself and Harry into Mr. Keene’s office on the day they had applied for work.

“Good morning, Miss Phelps.” In the presence of this delightful person for whom Teddy cherished unbounded respect, Teddy’s usually ready speech left him.

“Did you come to see Mr. Keene?”

Teddy shook his ruddy head. “No; I came to see you.” His bright eyes met the young woman’s surprised gaze rather shyly. Since his advent into Martin Brothers he had come to know Miss Phelps fairly well, but he was now not at all sure of how she might regard him once he had explained the nature of his visit.

“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Miss Phelps, quickly noting the lad’s embarrassment.

“Oh, I thought—I wanted to ask you—— Say, do they use this kind of typewriters all over the store?”

“Yes.” Miss Phelps secretly wondered at the question. “At least, I believe so.”

“If you wrote a notice on this,” Teddy touched the machine, “and didn’t sign any name to it, then no one would know where it came from?” he continued eagerly.

“I suppose not. But what a funny question!” A faint pucker appeared between Miss Phelps’ dark brows.

“Um-m!” Teddy studied the typewriter with due solemnity. Fishing in his coat pocket he brought forth a bit of paper on which appeared a single sentence. “If I asked you to typewrite this for me, would you do it?”

Miss Phelps took the paper and studied it with some curiosity. “I can’t do it unless you tell me why you want it,” she said.

Teddy turned red and was silent. Then his impish grin came slowly and widely into evidence. “All right. I’ll tell you.”

He had not proceeded far before his listener began to smile. Then she laughed outright. “You are a naughty boy,” was her indulgent reproof, “but I’ll help you out this time. Your intentions are good and I don’t know but I’d do the same if I were you. Wait a minute.”

Opening a drawer of her desk she selected a small-sized sheet of office stationery, fastened it in the machine and began a rapid clicking of the keys. “There you are. Take it and run, and don’t you ever tell anyone I typed it.”

“Thank you ever so much. Hope I can do something for you some day.” Teddy clutched the sheet of paper and darted away with as much speed as was decorous to that vicinity. The further progress of his plan meant the climbing of two additional flights of stairs, but he mounted them with gleeful abandon.

At the extreme end of the fifth floor was a tiny railed-in space that held a single desk. As Teddy approached it he became joyfully aware that it held no occupant. Luck was certainly with him. Noiselessly swinging the wooden gate behind him, he slipped to the desk, and, drawing out a slide, deposited his precious paper carefully upon it, then discreetly fled from the spot. He had successfully carried out his part of the plan. It remained for others to carry out the rest.