HEN Miss King came into the office the next morning she had a large bunch of bachelor’s buttons in her hand. They were blue—all shades of blue—and they looked very pretty against the clear white of her dress. She had hardly taken off her hat before the telephone rang hard.
Billy heard her say, “Yes, Mr. Prescott.”
“Mr. Prescott says he’s not coming to the office till after lunch,” she said, turning to Billy. “It’s something about the new part of the mill.
“We got along all right the other day, didn’t we? I was anxious all for nothing, wasn’t I, William?
“Now, please get me some water for the flowers, and we’ll settle down to work.”
Billy didn’t feel, that morning, much like talking to anybody, not even to Miss King, so he didn’t say anything.
When he brought back the tall glass vase, Miss King took three of the bluest flowers and broke off the stems.
“I should like to put these in your buttonhole, William,” she said. “They’ll look pretty against your gray coat.
“August is late for bachelor’s buttons; we shall have to make the most of these. Really,” she went on, as she fastened them with a pin on the under side of his lapel, “they’re just the color of your eyes.”
Miss King didn’t usually say very much. It was a surprise to Billy to have her keep on talking.
“How nice the office looks, William! We never had a boy before that knew how to dust in anything but streaks.”
“My Aunt Mary,” said Billy, speaking at last, “is very particular. She showed me how to dust.”
Then Miss King sorted the orders, and Billy started out with them.
It was still very hot. The latest thing that Mr. Prescott had done to try to make the office a little cooler was to move a pile of boxes and to open an old door at the other end of the corridor opposite the door with the great key.
That door hadn’t been opened for a long time. Hardly anybody had realized that there was a door on that side. It opened over the end of an old canal that had been used in his grandfather’s day. Filling up that “old ditch,” as Mr. Prescott called it, was one of the things that he was planning to do.
When he had the door opened, he put up a danger notice, and left in place, across the door, an old beam that had once been used as a safety guard.
Billy stood in the corridor a moment, and looked back through the old door. If it ever rained, that would be a pretty view.
But the old willow beyond the ditch was green on one side, even if it was dead on the other where its branches stuck out like—like——
Billy, trying to decide what they did look like, began, almost unconsciously, to walk toward the door.
By the time that he decided that the branches looked like the antlers of two great deer, standing with their heads close together, Billy reached the door.
He stood a moment looking down at the old canal. He was surprised to see how far below the door the canal really lay. The dry spot at the end had some ugly stones in it, too. Just as well to have a place like that filled in.
Looking again at the old willow, Billy turned and went slowly back down the corridor and out the great door.
When Mr. Prescott finally came back, Billy was on his afternoon rounds.
Things were very quiet, but that was to be expected at that time of the day.
Were things unusually quiet?
Just then Mr. Prescott heard a faint cry. In an instant he was at the door.
Somebody was crying, “Fire!”
Who was he? Where was he? Why didn’t he call louder?
He met Billy, who was fairly flying back from the other end of the yard, with his hands at his throat as if he were trying to make the sound come out.
“The new part is on fire!” he cried; “the new part of the mill is on fire!”
Mr. Prescott rushed to the fire alarm.
Billy kept on to the office and burst in, crying, “The new part is on fire!”
Miss King started for the door. Mr. Prescott had given her orders what to do if there ever should be a fire.
Billy himself was part way down the corridor when something in his head began to say faintly:
“Stand—by—your—job—every—minute—that—you—belong—on—it!”
Though Billy slowed down a little, he did not stop, but kept right on until he reached the door, and had one foot out.
Then the graphophone in his mind began again, a little louder than before:
“Stand—by—your—job—every—minute—that—you—belong—on—it!”
Billy drew his foot back. He felt as though he must do something, so he shut the great door. He turned and stood against it for a minute. Then he started slowly down the corridor.
The graphophone had stopped; but Billy’s quick ears heard another sound. Somebody was trying to open the great door!
Billy remembered the little closet. He could see the office from that. He hurried on, and had barely slipped into it when the door opened.
In came the man with the fierce black eyes and the coal black hair, and he was carrying something in both hands.
Billy fairly held his breath. The door was a little too far open, but he didn’t dare to touch it.
The door was too far open. It was open so far that, hitting it as he passed, the man gave it an angry kick.
The door went to so hard that Billy heard the click of the spring lock as it fastened the door, and made him a prisoner in the closet.
Keep still he must till the man was out of the way. That was the only thing to do. Billy took out his jack-knife. It felt friendly, so he opened it.
Sooner than he expected he heard the man come out, heard him go heavily down the corridor, and heard him close the great door.
Cracks between the boards let in light enough for Billy to find the lock. He began to pry away at it with his knife. He thought he had started it a little, when snap went the blade.
Then he tried the other, working a little more carefully; but, in a moment, snap went that blade, broken close to the handle.
He tried kicking the boards where he saw the largest cracks, but not a board could he move.
Then he grew so excited that he hardly knew what he was doing.
What was going on in the office? Was that on fire? He threw himself against the sides of the closet, one after the other.
He wasn’t sure whether it was his head or the closet that began to rock. It seemed to be the closet.
Once more he threw himself against the back of the closet. That time he was sure it was the closet that rocked!
He threw himself three times, four times, five times. Suddenly he landed on his head in the top of the closet on a heap of clothes. Light was coming in from somewhere. His head was rocking so that he could hardly move, but, in a minute, he managed to turn and to crawl out of the bottom of the closet, where the cleats had given way.
It was easier, just then, for him to crawl than it was to walk. So he crawled across to the office, reached up, and opened the door.
Surprised he certainly was, for everything seemed to be all right.
Billy, beginning to feel pretty sore in several places, pulled himself up into Mr. Prescott’s chair.
Then he heard a faint tick, tick, tick.
No, it wasn’t the clock. Billy had kept his ears open too long not to know that.
Where was it? What was it? It seemed very near!
Billy looked under the desk. Nothing there but the waste basket.
His heart was going thump, thump. But, when a boy is standing by his job, he doesn’t stop for a thumping heart.
Billy didn’t. He took hold of the basket. It was very heavy. The ticking was very near.
Then Billy knew!
It was what Uncle John called an “infernal machine,” with clock works inside!
Billy dug down among the papers till he found the thing. He took it in both hands and pulled it out—it was a sort of box. He started for the door. All he could think of was that he must take the infernal thing away from Mr. Prescott’s desk.
Out he went with it. The old door was still open. Billy, holding the box in his arms, made a frantic dash for the door.
When he reached it, he leaned against the old beam and, gathering all his strength, threw the box over into the old dry ditch. He heard the box fall.
Then, with a creaking sound, the old beam broke from its rusty fastenings and followed the box.
After that there was another fall, for the boy that had thrown the box went down with the beam.
But that was a fall that Billy did not hear.
