from outside, by means of a flight of iron steps, and the department was presided over by a small, wiry man named Jim Hobb. He had very black hair and the palest blue eyes Tom had ever seen. When Joe introduced them, Jim stopped to wipe his hands carefully on a bunch of very dirty waste before offering it to Tom. There was another man down there and a grinning youth of about Tom’s age, whose face was streaked and plastered with dirt and grease. His name was Petey. Tom never heard the rest of it. And the other man’s name was Connors. A bell in the stock room rang shrilly and Joe Gillig hurried back upstairs, explaining to Tom that the signal meant that a customer had come in. In this case, however, Joe was mistaken, for it was Mr. Wright who had summoned him. “Why aren’t you up here attending to things?” he demanded of Joe. “Anyone might come in and walk off with half the stock for all you’d ever know!” Then, seeing Tom, he stared doubtfully a moment and finally grunted as recognition came. “So you’ve turned up, eh?” “Yes, sir.” “What’s your name?” “Tom Pollock, sir.” “Colic?” “No, sir, Pollock.” “Well, what are you doing?” “Nothing yet, sir. I just got here and Mister--he was showing me around.” “Better get to work then. Can’t afford to pay wages to idlers.” “Yes, sir. What shall I do?” “Do? Do?” Mr. Wright got quite peevish at the question. “Do anything! Find something to do! That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Seems to me there’s plenty to do here. You don’t see me standing around _looking_ for work, do you?” Tom looked doubtfully at Joe. Joe gravely winked across a counter. Mr. Wright, fuming to himself, hurried back to the office. “What shall I do?” asked Tom. “Oh, just get behind a counter and make believe you’re busy. He never knows the difference. Tell you what, though, Tom. You might take the stuff out of the tool case down there and clean it out. You’ll find dust-brush and cloths downstairs behind the packing-room door. Be careful not to get things mixed up. Better lay everything on top of the case. I’ll show you when you come up.” Mr. Cummings entered while Tom was emptying the showcase and stopped to shake hands with him. “Got you at work, have they?” he asked. “That’s right. Those cases need cleaning.” Presently, having conversed for a few moments with his partner, he was back again. “Did you speak to your uncle, son?” he inquired. “Yes, sir. He--he wasn’t willing to have me pay his bill like that. But of course I’m going to do it. He says that pump isn’t his; says it belongs to you and that you owe him for storing it.” “What!” Mr. Cummings stared and then burst into a laugh. “Well, of all the tight-fisted old rascals! Suppose I oughtn’t to say that before you, though,” he added apologetically. Tom maintained a composed silence. “Wants me to pay him storage, does he? By George, he certainly has plenty of cheek!”