mixture of nuts and hot chocolate syrup mixed with marshmallows.
"Yep, all dressed up in my sundae clothes," chortled Speedy, edging behind other swift, busy "dispensers" up to the end of the counter near the door, the official post of the absent Leslie.
Speedy surveyed the scene in front of him. Smythe's was in the midst of the noon rush. The chairs around the tables were all crowded. Fast, sure-footed clerks were rushing orders from fountain to lunchers. The stools lining the counter were all occupied, and clamoring customers were standing two deep awaiting service none too patiently.
The heaps of sandwiches piled on marble slabs behind the fountain were fast disappearing. Electric toasters were toasting at top speed. Electric mixers were whirring industriously, flinging together milk shakes and other delicacies. Pound cake, chocolate éclairs and doughnuts were making rapid journeys from their glass-encased crocks to hungry lips.
"Young man, are you waiting on me or aren't you?" a fat, over-dressed matron overflowing her stool asked Speedy sharply.
"I'm not, but I'd like to," answered Speedy promptly.
The dowager glared.
"A chocolate malted milk shake and a ham sandwich," snapped the woman.
Speedy seized a nickel, plated container, sluiced chocolate syrup out of a faucet, ladled a slab of ice cream and spooned some malted milk. But when
