p. 9 | SIXTY-FOUR’S MISTAKE by Mary B. Sleight

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 14, 1898

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 24, No. 28.

SIXTY-FOUR’S MISTAKE.

By Mary B. Sleight

It was a warm spring day, the close, lifeless sort of a day that makes the spring shopper feel like a wilted dandelion, and sets city folks to longing for a whiff of air from meadow and sea.

All the morning the store had been crowded with customers; for it was one of the most popular stores on the avenue, and the fact that it was a bargain day had helped to swell the throng. The saleswomen had their hands full, and by twelve o’clock some of them began to feel too jaded, in their own estimation, at least, to be more than half civil to the equally jaded customers.

“Pardon me,” said an elderly woman to a pert-looking girl who was carrying on a giggling confab with one of her companions, “but can you tell me whether my change has come back?”

She was plainly dressed, and it was easy to see that she was from the country, but her face, as well as her manner of speech, showed that she was a gentlewoman. The girl of whom she had asked the question simply stared at her, and went on talking with her friend.

“She ain’t the one,” volunteered a young woman who stood on the other side of her, doing up a package. “She’s Sixty-four. The saleslady that waited on you was Fifty-six, and she’s gone to her lunch.”

“And must I wait till she comes back?” asked the customer in dismay. But the saleslady was giving her attention to some one else.

“I’ll see to your change when it comes, madam,” said a gentle-voiced girl who had overheard the question. And, pointing to an unoccupied seat at the end of the counter, she advised her to sit down.

“It is tiresome standing so long,” she said with friendly sympathy.

“Mercy, Forty-five! Anybody’d think that countrified-looking creature was the queen o’ Sheba, the way you perlite to her,” jeered Sixty-four, in a stage whisper.

“O, Forty-five’d be perlite to a street sweeper!” chimed in another.

“Every one to their likin’,” said Sixty-four, with a shrug. “For my part, I don’t think it pays.”

“She makes me think of my mother,” said Forty-five gently. “And, besides, she looks so tired.”

“Guess we’re tired, too, and nobody asks us to sit down,” complained Sixty-four.

The elderly woman did not seem to be listening; she was evidently watching some one at the farther end of the room, but she had sharp ears.

“Sh-sh! Here comes the boss,” whispered Sixty-four. The next girl nudged her neighbor, and in an instant all the talking and tittering came to an end. The “boss” was the manager of the department, and when he made his rounds, the most indifferent of the girls took good care to seem absorbed in business.

Forty-five, who at the moment was hurrying to the other end of the counter, did not see who was coming.

“Here’s your change at last,” she said. “It’s too bad you had to wait so long.”

“O, thank you, my dear!” said the old lady, in her kind, motherly voice. “I was only afraid of losing my train.”

She had thrown off her jacket, and Forty-five stopped to help her put it on.

“Why, Aunt Phebe!” cried some one at her elbow. “Well, well, this is a surprise!” And there was the “boss,” standing in front of the old lady, with both her hands in his.

Forty-five, who had just finished buttoning her jacket, slipped quietly back to her place.

“That girl, David, is a lady,” said “Aunt Phebe,” as she took her nephew’s arm. “I don’t know her name, but her number is ‘Forty-five.’ If all the shop girls were equally courteous, they would prove their right to be called ‘salesladies.’”

“‘Forty-five,’ I must remember that,” said the “boss,” stopping to jot down the number.

Forty-five was promoted the next day. Her courtesy, which had been born of no selfish motive, did not fail of receiving reward and recognition.—Mary B. Sleight, in Christian Intelligencer.