"Where's Wagner?"
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment. Finally, the Sheriff answered him. "He's in the can, sneaking a smoke."
David thanked him and walked down the back aisle to the washroom.
The foreman was talking to another man, a cigarette in his hand. David came up behind him. "Mr. Wagner?"
Wagner jumped. He turned around, a strange expression on his face.
"What's the matter, David?" he asked angrily. "Can't you get those heralds up?" David stared at him. The foreman was in on it, all right. They were all in on it.
He laughed bitterly to himself.
And Uncle Bernie had said it was going to be a secret. "Well," the foreman said irritably, "if you can't do it, let me know." "They're up here now.
I just want to know where to put them."
"You got them up here already?" Wagner said.
His voice lost the faint note of sureness it had contained a moment before.
"Yes, sir."
Wagner threw his cigarette in the urinal. "Good," he said, a faintly puzzled look on his face. "They go over on Aisle Five. I'll show you which bins."
It was almost ten thirty by the time David had the racks empty and the bins filled.
He pushed the last package of heralds into place and straightened up.
He felt the sweat streaming through his shirt and looked down at himself.
The clean white shirt that his mother had made him wear was grimy with dust.
He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and walked down to the foreman's desk.
"What do you want me to do next?"
"Were there five hundred bundles?" the foreman asked.
David nodded.
The foreman pushed a sheet of paper toward him.
"Initial the receipt slip, then."
David looked over the paper as he picked up a pencil.
It was the bill for the heralds: "500 M Heralds @ $1.00 per M-$500.00." Expensive paper, he thought, as he scribbled his initials across the bottom.
The telephone on the desk rang and the foreman picked it up.
"Warehouse." David could hear a voice crackling at the other end, though he could not distinguish the words. Wagner was nodding his head.
"Yes, Mr. Bond. They just came in."
Wagner looked over at David. "Get me a sample of one of those heralds," he said, shielding the phone with his hand.
David nodded and ran down the aisle.
He pulled a herald from one of the bundles and brought it back to the foreman.
Wagner snatched it from his hand and looked at it.
"No, Mr. Bond. It's only one color."
The voice on the other end of the telephone rose to a shriek. Wagner began to look uncomfortable, and shortly afterward, put the receiver down slowly.
"That was Mr. Bond in purchasing." David nodded. He didn't speak. Wagner cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Those heralds we just got. It was supposed to be a two-color job."
David looked down at the black-and-white handbill.
He couldn't see what they were so excited about. After all, they were only throw-aways. What difference did it make whether it was one color or two?
"Mr. Bond says to junk 'em."
David looked at him in surprise. "Junk 'em?"
Wagner nodded and got to his feet.
"Get them out of the bins and downstairs again," he said. "We'll need the space.
The new ones will be here this afternoon."
David shrugged.
This was a screwy business, when something could be junked even before it was paid for.
But it was none of his concern.
"I’ll get right on it."
It was twelve thirty when he came out on the loading platform, pushing the first rack of heralds.
The platform boss yelled.
"Hey, where yuh goin' with that?"
"It's junk."