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