At precisely two o’clock that afternoon, Leon Atkins sought the seclusion of the cradling bin, where he was wont to take his afternoon nap, and shoved a sheltering truck in place before it. After a strenuous morning’s labor in the book department, to which he had been driven by Mr. Brady like a lamb to slaughter, Leon felt the need of rest. But the god of sleep had scarcely weighed down his willing eyelids when he was brought back to earth by the loud, protesting rumbles of the screening truck.

Forgetting his limited quarters, the slumberer sat up with a jerk that brought his head in violent contact with the top of the bin. “Ouch!” he ejaculated, ruefully rubbing the injured member. This mishap faded into insignificance, however, as his drowsy eyes came to rest on an angry face peering into his stronghold.

“Come out of there, you young loafer,” commanded a sharp voice. “This is a nice time to sleep! Where do you think you are? If this is a sample of these bins, I guess they do need inspecting.”

Leon hastily emerged amid a torrent of sarcastic rebuke that fell from the lips of a small, energetic man whose sharp eyes seemed to cut straight through him.

“Whada you want?” The usual challenge fell from the lips of the transgressor.

“You’ll find out.” The man turned on his heel and began a shrewd peering into the adjoining bin. Around the stock-room he went, examining every nook and corner of it with the air of a bloodhound hot on the scent of a criminal. Every now and then he ran his finger over a stack of books, or about the inside of a bin, then examined it with the air of a scientist.

Leon watched him in open-mouthed consternation. As it happened he had been alone in his glory until disturbed by this strangely-acting intruder. As the man continued to peek and prowl, the watcher began to wonder if he were crazy. A coward at heart, he promptly decamped for the security of the receiving room. His father, not he, should deal with this lunatic.

“Pa, there’s a nut in the stock-room,” was his alarmed cry, as he sighted his parent. “He’s peekin’ in the bins and actin’ like he was crazy. He jumped all over me.”

“In the stock-room?” Mr. Atkins raised startled eyes from a pile of books and headed for the scene of danger on the run. He, at least, was valiant. Several young women who were engaged in marking books dropped their pencils and followed him. From the safety of the door a group of frightened faces viewed the little that was to be seen of the madman. For the moment the major part of him was lost in the depths of a bin.

“Stand back, girls.” Mr. Atkins forged boldly toward the danger spot. The lunatic was now slowly backing out of the bin. His attention arrested by the sound of voices, he peered owlishly over one shoulder. Mr. Atkins gave a gurgling gasp of amazed disgust. In the madman he recognized an inspector whose business it was to wage unending warfare against dust.

The dust man straightened up and favored the unexpected audience with a scowl. He was far from pleased with the results of his investigation. The immaculate cleanliness of both books and bins did not accord with the typed notice which he found on his desk, which stated, “Kindly inspect bins in book stock-room, tenth floor, at 2.00 P. M.” Trained to implicit obedience of orders he had followed this particular command to the letter, expecting to discover a liberal coating of his enemy, dust, on everything in that vicinity. He had set forth on his mission with blood in his eye only to stumble upon a lazy boy and lay bare a dustless condition of affairs that filled him with indignant disappointment. He had a feeling of having been cheated and he determined that the sluggard who had roosted in the bin should pay for it.

“You won’t find any dust in this place.” Mr. Atkins had fully recovered from his recent shock. “I’d like to know who reported such a thing.”

This was exactly what the dust man yearned to know. Still, he had no intention of admitting it. Someone had made a mistake, that was certain. He had not the slightest suspicion that he had been sent on a wild-goose chase. At the “front” was an august body of individuals who explained their motives to no one. He had been sent on the trail of dust and dust was missing. All he could do now was to return whence he had come. His mission had not been without fruit. He would at least have something to say to the book buyer. Without deigning to reply to Mr. Atkins’ hostile comment he marched out of the stock-room and to the nearest elevator.

The total collapse of Leon’s madman theory sent a very sheepish group of employees back to the marking room. Mr. Atkins lingered, however, to inquire into details. But Leon had none to give him. He was craftily mute regarding his interview with the indefatigable dust destroyer. Now that he knew the man’s business he was no longer alarmed at his threat. Very likely the fellow had forgotten about him already.

Thus comforting himself, Leon made a pretence of work until his father had vanished into the receiving room. After a few minutes’ interval, during which no one appeared, he deemed himself safe from interruption.

Again coiling his lazy length to fit the limits of the bin, he was about to draw his truck in place when the sound of brisk approaching footsteps assailed his ears. Giving the truck a vigorous shove he was about to crawl from the bin when a stern voice addressed him.

“So this is the way you do your work, young man.”

Leon scrambled awkwardly to his feet to confront a person who in no sense resembled a lunatic. This severe-featured person, who fixed him with a withering eye, was Mr. Brady.

“I wasn’t doing nothin’,” he mumbled, hanging his head.

“I know you were not, but I propose you shall. If you can’t be trusted in the stock-room we don’t want you. If I catch you lounging in a bin again, or even hear that you are shirking I’ll see that you don’t stay long in this store. Now get downstairs and don’t come up here again this afternoon unless I send you. Go to Mr. Denby and he’ll give you something to do that will keep you awake.”

Mr. Brady waited only long enough to see Leon on the move, then he strode into the receiving room.

“Atkins,” he called sharply, “if you can’t make that boy of yours work, he can’t stay in this department. We are not going to pay him for lounging in the bins when he ought to be hustling.”

“I am sure there has been some mistake,” began Mr. Atkins apologetically. “Leon never——”

“Don’t tell me that. I caught him coming out of a bin. I’m not the only one who has seen him using the bins for a bed, either. See that he keeps busy or out of the store he goes.”

Without further words Mr. Brady stalked from the receiving room. The discomfited father muttered under his breath, then hurried into the stock-room in time to meet his erring son at the door.

“Were you in one of those bins when Mr. Brady came up here?” he snapped, taking Leon by the collar.

“Aw, let me alone,” whimpered Leon. “I was just lookin’ in the bin and he thought I was loafin’. He don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. I’ll bet that fresh Harding kid tattled somethin’ about me and that’s why Brady hot-footed it up here.”

Mr. Atkins slowly relaxed his hold. Mr. Brady’s words, “not the only one who has seen him using the bins for a bed,” struck him forcibly. Strangely enough he did not connect the dust man’s visit with that of the assistant. Resentment of Harry made it easy for him to fix the blame on the industrious lad.

“Where is Harding?” he growled.

“Downstairs, I s’pose. How could he send Brady up here if he wasn’t? That smarty has it in for me, I tell you. He’s jealous of me.”

“I’ll ’tend to him,” menaced the wrathful father, “but you see to it that you behave yourself.”

“I’m behavin’. Now quit jawin’ me. I gotta go downstairs and help Denby. Brady just said so.”

“Go on then, and don’t fool along the way.” Mr. Atkins gave his son an ungentle push through the doorway and returned to his own domain, inwardly vowing vengeance on that “tattle-tale” Harding.

Serenely unconscious of the shoals ahead of him, Harry entered the marking room late that afternoon to meet with a stormy reception. Mr. Atkins pounced upon him with a flow of vituperation of which every word was “tattle-tale.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Atkins,” he said helplessly. “I haven’t said a word to Mr. Brady about your son.”

“Don’t lie to me. Who told him Leon used the bins to sleep in, if you didn’t? You know it isn’t so.”

“I know it is so.” Harry sprang into nettled defense at the ugly word “lie.” His blue eyes grew steely. “Your son takes a nap in that end bin every day. I supposed you knew it.” Harry could not resist this one thrust. “But you must not say to me that I told Mr. Brady so, because I didn’t.”

“I’ll say what I please. You told Brady and I know it. You don’t like Leon and you pick on him all the time. But it’s got to be stopped. You let him alone or you’ll be sorry.”

“I came up here to say to you that Mr. Rexford wishes to see you in his office before you go home.” Completely ignoring the man’s threat, Harry wheeled and walked into the stock-room, wondering with all his might what had happened to raise such a storm.