with perfect nonchalance. The section he was working had evidently been virgin territory for quite a while, for business was very brisk.
"O.K., gents. Ginger ale?—sure! Sorry, can't change a five. Peanuts? Coming right up."
Through it all he took time to steal a glance down at the field now and then. Pittsburgh having been retired without a run in the first inning, the Yankees were now coming to bat. Two men went out on infield grounders and now Babe was to hit. Speedy rested his tray against his knee and, despite the clamors of his customers for his wares, watched the Babe take two healthy swipes at the ball without connecting and then send a long fly out to right field which the guardian of that pasture gathered in without moving more than a step or two. Speedy sighed. He started to dispense merchandise again.
"Why don't you pay attention to your job?" grumbled a pale, anemic fan who had been crying for lemon soda.
"Boy, if you can drink pop while the Babe's hitting, you don't belong here," replied Speedy tartly.
"That's right, kid," a well-dressed, elderly gentleman seated next to the complaining clerk approved.
Others took up Speedy's defense and in a few minutes the clerk was undergoing some good-natured razzing.
Speedy continued to do a rushing business. In another half hour his tray was completely empty. He had been allowing his interest to wander more and more to what was happening down there on the field and less and less to his business. It was
