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, 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 gone; and his own mouth drooped and drooped. It was a tense moment. "You see, Pudge," Billy began in some embarrassment, only to conclude rather sharply, "I'll have to ask Mr. Humphrey. Your sister said we weren't----" "Oh, well!" sighed Pudge. Getting down from the stool he waddled slowly out of the store.