“Say, Reddy,” called Sam Hickson, a little later. A chance customer had prevented him from joining the group about the Italian woman. “Look down the aisle. There’s the buyer, if you’re dying to see him.”

“Oh, I saw him long ago,” drawled Teddy. “He was over there with that Eyetalion woman who was lost in the wilds of Martins’ basement.” He related the incident to Hickson who had been busy with a customer at that time.

Hickson laughed heartily. “And it took little Reddy to show ’em. I guess maybe Mr. Everett will know you the next time he sees you.”

But before the day was over, Mr. Everett was destined to receive a most vivid impression of Teddy. The long, dull afternoon was drawing slowly to a close. The wall clock at one end of the department pointed to a quarter to five.

“I’m not sorry this day’s pretty near done,” grumbled Sam Hickson to Teddy. “I haven’t sold enough to-day to earn my salary, let alone my commission.”

“If you don’t sell enough of this junk to earn your salary, will you get fired?” was Teddy’s anxious inquiry.

“Well, Martin Brothers haven’t said anything yet about keeping me for an ornament,” Hickson made humorous answer.

“Te, he!” snickered Teddy, “I guess they think these old kettles and pans are nicer ornaments than you are. All they have to do is to hang around here till somebody buys ’em, or they jump off the table,” he added, as, his arm coming into contact with a long-handled dipper, it bounced to the floor with a protesting bang. “I’m goin’ to take a walk down there where the wash boilers grow.”

Teddy slammed the dipper into its accustomed place and strolled down the aisle, his alert, black eyes roving over the department in search of adventure. He could never pass the rows of wash boilers without slyly lifting the lid of one of them and holding it in the position of a shield. He always wondered how cannibals and head-hunters could hold those great, clumsy things in one hand and fight with the other. To-day he peered sharply about to see if anyone was observing him. That end of the department was apparently deserted. Far up the aisle the Gobbler was expatiating on the glories of a clothes-wringer to a stolid-faced woman, who clamored for a bargain in wringers. The loud gobble, gobble of the saleswoman’s strident voice floated down the aisle to Teddy. It meant that the Gobbler was too much taken up with her customer to trouble herself about him. With the shield-like lid in his hand he flitted through a cross-aisle, like a mischievous little shadow, to a corner where a collection of clothes-poles stood. He ran his eye over the lot, then singling out the smallest one, reached for it. Again he glanced quickly about him. The coast was clear.

Holding his improvised shield in an attitude of defence, Teddy charged down the deserted aisle, the clothes-pole poised threateningly. His impish face was aglow with the excitement of his pretended warfare. At the end of the cross-aisle he paused to reconnoiter. No one was in sight. Teddy took a fresh grip on his shield and charged back again. Suddenly, to his amazed horror, his shield came in violent contact with something moving. The snarling, “Hi, there, whoda you think you’re hitting,” proved the “something moving” to be a very angry human being.

The clothes-pole clattered to the floor. The victim of his spirited charge was none other than his old enemy, Howard Randall, the fat boy. Teddy hastily flung aside his shield and doubled his fists.

“Thought you’d lick me, didn’t you,” sputtered Howard. “Had to get a clothes-pole and a boiler lid to do it, though. I c’n lick you with my two fists, and I’m goin’ to do it right now while no one’s lookin’.” Howard aimed a savage blow at Teddy, who dodged nimbly, placing the width of a narrow aisle table between them.

“’Fraid of me, ain’t you, baby,” sneered Howard, following Teddy up menacingly. “I’ll show you.”

Both boys reached the end of the protecting table at the same instant and met in the narrow aisle. Intent on what promised to be a real battle, neither had noted the approach of a very short, stout man, who, equally occupied in trying to gaze on both sides of the aisle at once, had not yet perceived them.

“Take that, you red-head.” With unseeing rage Howard lunged viciously, putting all his strength into the blow. Teddy again side-stepped.

A groan of deep anguish, followed by an angry snort rent the air.

Howard’s fist had missed Teddy but it had not missed the stout man. The force with which Howard had delivered his blow had caused him to lurch forward. Before he could recover his balance, he was seized in an iron grip.

“You young rascal,” growled the enraged recipient of the blow, “I’ll teach you to go about attacking customers!”

Teddy stood transfixed. Things had happened with most amazing suddenness.

The fat boy wriggled ineffectively to free himself. “Aw, let me go, mister. I didn’t mean to hit you. I was tryin’ to hit him,” he begged, wagging his head toward Teddy.

“Let you go! I guess not, you young ruffian. Why don’t you pick a boy of your own size, if you want to fight?”

“I guess it was some my fault,” put in Teddy. “I ran into him, and he thought I did it on purpose. That’s why he was goin’ to fight me. Please don’t report him, mister. He didn’t mean to hit you. There isn’t a boy in this store that would do such a thing on purpose.”

Teddy’s black eyes were fastened on the man with desperate pleading. The fat boy stared at Teddy in amazed unbelief.

The man looked from one lad to the other. His grim face softened. He relaxed his hold on Howard’s arm. “I ought to report you both for fighting,” he said, “but I’ve a boy about your age at home. So I’ll let you go. You’d better be careful in future whom you hit. The next person might not see things as I do.” He turned abruptly and walked off in the opposite direction.

The belligerents watched him out of sight, then their glances met. The fat boy looked somewhat sheepish. Teddy was grinning broadly.

“I’m glad he had a boy of his own,” he commented.

“You got me into that mess, but you got me out of it, too,” said Howard slowly. “Say, honest, did you mean to upset my dinner that day?”

“Of course not,” sniffed Teddy, “but you had no business to try to stick me for five cents. That was just the same as stealing.”

The fat boy colored hotly. “I don’t know what made me do it,” he muttered. “You hadn’t any business to call me an elephant and Fatty Felix. I can’t help being fat any more’n you can help having red hair.”

“I guess I know that.” This time it was Teddy who blushed.

“Say, I don’t think you’re a baby. You’re a real scrapper for a boy of your size. I kind of like you.”

“You’ve got an awful punch in that right arm of yours,” was Teddy’s magnanimous tribute. “I’ll bet you hurt that man, all right.”

Both boys giggled.

Down the aisle floated the Gobbler’s voice, “Boy, boy. Num-ber 65.” She had triumphantly put over the sale of the wringer.

“That’s my number. I’ll have to go. See you in school Thursday.” Teddy’s little thin hand shot out. A fat hand clasped it half-way, and marked the beginning of a friendship between the two lads that was to be the making of Howard Randall.

As Teddy hurried up the aisle and the fat boy lumbered off about his business, a man emerged from a small room not far from where the disastrous encounter had taken place. His face wore a broad smile. Seated in his office, through the partially-closed door, he had heard the boyish altercation, and had decided not to interfere. The surprising turn the affair took had convulsed him with mirth, despite his efforts to sympathize with the maltreated customer. He had also witnessed the end of the scene, and as he watched Teddy’s wiry, lithe body speed up the aisle, he murmured, “Mischievous as that youngster seems to be, he’s a boy with a future.”