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, if--if----"

"If what, Mister Sheridan?"

"--if, oh well, just charge it."

Billy Simmons paused in the act of reaching for a sundae glass. The smile
left his face.

Pudge, though he did not once look up from that absorbing little operation
with the fat forefinger, felt this pause and knew that Billy's grin had