"I know all about that. That's what you've written on these vouchers for Milliken and Carey."
He handed the tell-tale papers to Speedy. Sure enough, they were covered with baseball statistics.
The manager shook his head grimly and, strangely enough, more in sorrow than in anger. It was difficult to be angry with Speedy Swift. The boy's intentions were so obviously honest.
"It's no use," said Mr. Talbott. "You won't do here, Swift. We can't allow our accounts to be balled up this way. Your mind is not on your work. We'll have to let you go. You can finish the day here. But at five o'clock get the money due you from the cashier. You're through."
Before Speedy could offer explanation or protest, the office manager turned and strode briskly away.
Speedy's lips quivered. It was the old story. Fired again. Coming at this particular time, the blow was doubly hard. For he had only worked at the Consolidated a week. He needed money. He owed the hard-faced proprietress of the little single room he occupied over on De Lacey Street a month's rent now and she had said she would wait no longer than tomorrow, pay day. Moreover, she had asserted definitely, after this it would be "pay in advance or out you go." And there was the fifteen dollars he owed to Pop Dillon. Pop would never press him for payment, but Speedy knew that the old man needed money almost as badly as he did and he had meant to pay him within the next couple of weeks out of his wages at Consolidated. Now
