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“He did, as a matter of fact,” Billy told them coolly. “There's the bell. We'll have to hurry.” Within a few days the little furry of excitement over the ques tionnaires had died completely away, lost in the larger excitement of the approaching party to cele brate the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the Curtis Store. Prizes for the men, it developed, were to be awarded on the basis of increase of sales during the an niversary sale, a time-honored cus tom which had hitherto extended to the women employes also. The Curtis Store band had prac ticed almost every evening; Miss Simmons, head of the personnel de partment and teacher of the classes in salesmanship, buzzed about frantically, immensely concerned with plans for “The Pageant of Progress,” in which the store's prettiest girls were to take part; the Curtis Store Dramatic Society daily rehearsed a one act play, written by that jaunty, go-getting advantising manager, Mr. Brenner, and N. T. Q. himself seemed to be so infeated with the excitement of anticiption that he could not con fine himself to his office, but prowled from floor to floor, smiling his wry grin at customers and ap pearing a embarrassing moments, at the elbow of a girl who was losing a s e@ because she was too right befor sold anythir ate rehearsals the to care whether she or not. On the d Billy was an tive as head meat by gly of her two promptu less, before the party cising her preroga “ the glove depart Julie Barker, one istand, an inn salesmanship, “I've told you no less than nine hundred and ninety-nine times, Julie, that you can be pleasant to a customer without calling her pet names. That girl's name is Miss Dennan, not ‘dearie’ or ‘honey’.” A low chuckle behind her caused her to whirl and face T. Q. Curtis. He had been watching her so fre quently lately that she was not sur prised, nor was she embarrassed As a customer came sailing up to the glove counter she half turned her back on him, but as she did so she deliberately winked one shin ing blue eye at him. He remained near her counter, watching her make the sale, that familiar, wry smile tugging at the corners of his stern mouth. Then, while she was making out her sales slip, he moved away, and when she looked about her in a momentary lull, she saw him stand ing near the perfume and cosmet ics department, his bushy brows drawn down over eyes that were fixed on Nyda Lomax. “Funny,” Billy told herself, as she began to stow away boxes of gloves, “he's buzzing around the pretty girls’ counters like a lady killing floorwalker. Don’t know but what I'd better warn Clay if he doesn't hurry home he's likely to find a flapper stepmother there ahead of him. Who'd have thought that old T. Q. would turn sheik on us? But, she was forced to admit, if old T. Q. was really “sheiking,” he was going about it in an odd way. He made no effort to talk to the girls; just stood at a safe distance. Again her queer conviction that old T. Q. was “up to something” reared its head, and disturbed her more than she would admit to her self. Stanley Powers, assistant credit manager, had dated Billy more than a month before for the party, and he was hospitably invited for supper, since both he and Billy, as entertainers for the evening, had to be at the store early. Mrs. Wells’ casual mention at the breakfast table of their prospec tive guest had a queer effect upon Clay. “Powers? Who's Powers?” he demanded, completely losing inter est in the waffle which Mrs. Wells had just brought in from the kitchen. “The boy friend.” Billy told him calmly, though she was watching his face from under the long fringe of her red-brown lashes. “Stanley Powers, assistant credit manager My nice little pet boyfriend, who plays the cornet in the Curtis band.” “I won't be home for dine sup per,” Clay told Mrs. Wells a few minutes later, after he had fin ished his third waffle in moody Silence. “Well, I like that!” Billy stormed after he had left the dining room “What does he think this is? His own private home? Well, if he wants to squander his hard-earned money on cheap restaurant food he's certainly welcome to do it, I don't have to ask him when I want to have a boyfriend for supper!” “I think, honey,” her mother reasoned amiably, “that he though it would be embarrassing for Stan ley as well as himself. You know Stanley wouldn't feel free and easy sitting at the same table with his boss's disinherited son—a son that’s how working in a factory.” “Clay disinherited himself, and you know it!” Billy flashed at her, then reddened painfully as her mother smiled understandingly, Billy was moody, troubled, dim cult all that long day which was to end in the big party. She wished her mother hadn't been so darned hospitable to that tiresome Stanley Powers, who was interested in only three things—talking ship, playing his cornet and making love. The very thought of the wrestle she would have with him to keep him from kissing her good night when he brought her home from the party nauseated her. Strange how impossible he and all the other boys she had been going about with had become lately . She wished she hadn’t promised to go to the party, that she didn't have to play her violin for then— they didn’t know anything about real music. If she could only af ford a real teacher for a year or so, then throw up her job at the store and go to New York and force the managers to give her an audition! But what a fool she was to plan and dream like that! She wasn't even clever enough to win a prize in a department store contest. Im pudent little Smart-Alec! She'd probably be fired in a week or two .There's the doorbell, honey,” her mother called from the kitchen. “You run and answer it, I'm making white sauce for the asparagus tips.” Billy stuck out her tongue at her own sulky face in the hideous gol den oak sideboards before she turned reluctantly to obey her mother. Darn Stanley Powers and his eternal chatter about the Cur tis Store! Darn the Curtis Store. And—and darn Clay Curtis for not coming home to supper! Stuck ur idiot! (To Ne Continued) The ble party and the announce ment of prise winners in the ques tionnaire contest are described in the neat chapter, “I bet papa’s black-haired boy was able to give you some good tips.”
Newspaper Details
Centralia Sentinel
Centralia, Illinois, US
Tue, Mar 29, 1927
Page 6
Full Page
Clipped by
Anonymous
