Had the question been put in any other form, the boy would have melted. But he read the words as holding accusation instead of sympathy and they rasped along an old wound. His spine stiffened.
"You haven't heard me complain," he said.
"Oh!" The man drew back, baffled, helpless, thwarted. His expression said plainly, "I can't understand you," but Bert was not looking at his face. The boy himself was conscious, the next moment, that his reply had been foolish and headstrong. The right word then would have saved them both. Neither seemed able to say it.
The day after Christmas. The Shoppers' Service reopened. The Christmas school vacation meant no classes, and at nine o'clock Bert came down to Washington Avenue. Sam was in the rear of the store cleaning one of the burners of the gas stove. A newspaper lay on the counter opened at the help wanted page. Two of the ads, calling for the services of an experienced clerk, had been checked in lead pencil. Bert was standing with the newspaper in his hand when Sam emerged from the kitchen.
"Running away?" the boy demanded bitterly.
Sam took the question calmly. "You know where we stand."
"I'm going to stick it out to the finish."
"That's all you can do," Sam observed practically.
