readmill
and--not even running very fast." She had given him back the
quarter-carat ring tearfully, but Johnny hadn't argued. Jo-Anne had a
stubborn streak and he knew when Jo-Anne's mind was made up. So Johnny
had gone and gotten drunk for the first time since the night after
college graduation, not too many years ago, and the result was a
nationally-distributed forecast of snow.

Chief Botts' first flush of anger had now been replaced by self-pity.
His red, loose-jowled face was sagging and his eyes became watery as he
said, "At least you could have double-checked it. As a member of this
Bureau you only have to fill out the forecast once every ten days. Is
that so hard? Is there any reason why you should predict snow for July
25th?" His voice became silky soft as he added, "You realize, of course,
Sloman, that if this was anything but a civil service job you'd be out
on your ear for a stunt like this! Well, there are other ways. I can
pass over you for promotion. I _intend_ to pass over you until the
crack of doom. You'll be a GS-5 the rest of your working life. Are you
satisfied, Sloman? Snow in July ..." Chief Botts' voice trailed off, the
Chief following it.

Johnny sat with his head in his hands until Harry Bettis, the GS-5
weatherman who shared his small office with him, came in. Naturally,
hangover or no, Johnny had reported for work first. Johnny was always
first in the office, but it didn't seem to do any good. Now, Harry
Bettis could come in an hour late and read the funnies half the day and
flirt with the secretarial staff the other half and still be Chief
Botts' odds-on favorite for the promotion that was opening next month.
Harry Bettis was like that.

He came in and gave Johnny the full treatment. First the slow spreading
smile. Then the chuckle. Then the loud, roaring belly-laugh. "Gals
outside told me!" he shouted, loud enough so the girls outside would
know he knew they had told him. "Snow! Snow in July! Sloman, you kill
me! You really do!"

"Do you have to shout?" Johnny said.

"Do I? We all ought to shout this. To the rooftops! Sloman, my foot.
You have a new name, sonny. Snowman! Johnny Snowman."

[Illustration: Thick mud held him while terror ravened at his heels.]

Johnny groaned. Instinctively, he knew the name would stick.

"Hear you had a little trouble with the gal-friend this past p.m.,"
Harry Bettis clucked in a voice which managed to be both derisive and
sympathetic.

"How did y