"Three chocolate sodas," read the man and glanced sharply at the soda jerker.
"Three home runs," Speedy wrote on his pad in a daze.
"Two fudge pecan sundaes," dictated the customer.
"Two two-baggers," wrote Speedy.
"A lemon phosphate and a milk shake," finished the man.
"An error and an assist," scribbled Speedy's pencil.
The owner of the thirst had been eying Speedy's writing suspiciously. He now leaned over the counter to observe it more closely. Then he seized the pad from Speedy's hand and read it wonderingly.
"What's this!" cried the man. "As I suspected—plum crazy! Where's the manager of this joint?"
Smythe came trotting up from the rear of the shop, attracted by the noise.
"What can I do for you, sir," obsequiously asked Smythe.
"Read this! Read it!" urged the customer, holding out Speedy's memorandum.
Smythe read. He turned to Speedy.
"You're fired!" he roared. "Take off your uniform and leave this store at once. Stop at the cashier's cage on your way out for what I owe you."
Speedy's face fell. But there was nothing to do but obey. He slowly retreated to the clerks' dressing room. He doffed his white suit and replaced it with his street clothes. He hung the uniform carefully back on its peg, and walked out of the
