lamity is too great to deprive New Yorkers of their lunch. In five minutes Speedy retrieved his good humor and confidence. He jerked sodas, sundaes, frappés and phosphates with the speed and ease of a veteran. But he also took time to notice that the man with the baseball extra had left the paper on top of the stool. Speedy reached over carefully and took possession of it, tucking it under the top of the counter.
At three o'clock came a lull. For the first time in three hours Speedy was not only customer-less but he had washed and dried all his glasses. He felt privileged now to rescue his newspaper and read the story about "Yanks Must Win Today." Smythe had left the shop temporarily. Speedy devoured the baseball dope like the rabid fan he was.
Gee, they would be playing even at that minute up at the Yankee Stadium. He envisaged the scene. Perhaps Ruth was at bat, with men on bases. Would he catch hold of one? The pitcher—
"Young man, is this a reading room or a soda fountain?" interrupted a gruff voice in front of him. "Is it too much trouble for you to take a large order and have it brought out to my car?"
"Smythe's Sweets Shop service, sir," brightly replied Speedy.
"Bologney," remarked the customer.
Speedy picked up a pad and pencil hanging inside the counter and poised expectantly. But his mind was still up at the Yankee Stadium. The man started reading from a slip of paper which a feminine hand, his wife's, had written upon.
