straw hat was dark and a little curly. Alert, almost merry brown eyes looked out upon the busy world from behind tortoise-shelled glasses. He wore a gray suit that was obviously cheap and readymade, but neat and clean. But it was the face that made you look twice at him. It was not the usual downtown New York face—drawn, shrewd, sullen, irritable. This was a good-natured, fresh and somehow wistful face.
It was the face of Harold "Speedy" Swift, formerly of Smythe's Sweets Shoppe.
A block or two farther along on Nassau Street, Speedy edged again out of the sidewalk mob and passed through swinging doors. The region which he now invaded was one of tiled floors, white walls and ceiling. The walls were lined with glassed-in shelves containing edibles of all kinds. People were hurrying with empty trays toward these shelves, performing rites involving money in front of the shelves, filling the trays with food and drink and then dashing to tables. Usually several tables had to be visited before an empty seat was discovered. Success thus achieved, the fortunate tray bearer rested his burden upon the table and set to work eating as if every mouthful would be his last on this earth. Throngs continually passed in and out of the place. All New York seemed to be absorbing sustenance there.
It was the Automat, known facetiously in Speedy's office as the "Automobile Club" and the "Nickel Grabber."
Harold paused in front of the hard-faced gentle
