drug store was given over to the
immense marble soda fountain and the dozen or more wire-legged tables
and the two or three dozen wire chairs that served to accommodate the
late afternoon and evening crowd.

At the moment the fountain had but one patron--a remarkably fat boy of,
perhaps, fifteen, with plump cheeks and drooping mouth.... The row of
windows across the second floor front of the building, above Humphrey's,
bore, each, the legend--_Remington and Evans, Attorneys at Law_.

The fat boy was Percival Sheridan, otherwise Pudge. His sister, Betty
Sheridan, worked in the law offices directly overhead and possessed a
heart of stone.

Betty was rich, at least in the eyes of Pudge. For more than a
year (Betty was twenty-two) she had enjoyed a private income. Pudge
definitely knew this. She had money to buy out the soda fountain. But
her character, thought Pudge, might be summed up in the statement that
she worked when she didn't have to (people talked about this; even to
him!) and flatly refused to give her brother money for soda.

As if a little soda ever hurt anybody. She took it herself, often
enough. Within five minutes he had laid the matter before her--up in
that solemn office, where they made you feel so uncomfortable. She had
said: "Pudge Sheridan, you're killing yourself! Not one cent more for
wrecking your stomach!"

She had called him "Pudge." For months he had been reminding her that
his name was Percival. And he wasn't wrecking his stomach. That was
silly talk. He had eaten but two nut sundaes and a chocolate frappe
since luncheon. It wasn't soda and candy that made him so fat. Some
folks just were fat, and some folks were thin. That was all there was
_to_ it!

Pudge himself would have a private income when he was twenty-one. Six
years off... and Billy Simmons in his white apron, was waiting now, on
the other side of the marble counter, for his order--and grinning as
he waited. Six years! Why, Pudge would be a man then--too old for nut
sundaes and chocolate frappes, too far gone down the sober slope of life
to enjoy anything!

Pudge wriggled nervously, locked his feet around behind the legs of
the high stool, rubbed a fat forefinger on the edge of the counter, and
watched the finger intently with gloomy eyes.

"Well, what'll it be, Pudge?" This from Billy Simmons.

"My name ain't Pudge."

"Very good, Mister Sheridan. What'll it be?"

"One of those chocolate marshmallow nut sundaes, I guess,