His mother tousled his hair. "Don't be a mule, Bert," she counseled.
Nevertheless, he did not go back; and Mr. Quinby, absorbed in the work, did not seem to miss him. The days passed and finally came the time when the store was to open. Leather souvenirs were to be given away that night, and Bert had promised Dolf and Bill that they should each have one. Early in the evening they came looking for him.
"Going down to Washington Avenue?" Dolf asked.
"No," Bert said shortly. He hoped they would not mention the souvenirs and was relieved when they avoided the subject. Yet, after they were gone, he felt that he had been belittled in their eyes.
Night came, and he rebelliously choked his natural desire to see the store in the glory of its new lights. Long after he should have been in bed he sat up in his darkened room, waiting. Between 10 and 11 o'clock his father came in.
"How was business?" his mother asked anxiously.
"Not what I expected." His father's voice was tired. "I wonder if I opened this store before the town was ready for it?"
The boy experienced a queer, baffling sense of satisfaction. "That's what he gets for chasing me," he told himself, and went to bed.
He was young, and moody—and he did not understand.
