he would have to take up the old burden of hunting for a job.
What the dickens was the matter with him anyway that he couldn't hold a job? He tried to work hard and master what was required of him. He couldn't help it if he was crazy over baseball, if batting averages came easier to him than steel statistics. He hadn't cared particularly for this job at Consolidated. Being cooped up in a stuffy office all day long irked a youth of his quick, energetic temperament. Driving a taxi cab, for instance, would be great fun. He had even enjoyed it when he was selling papers down by the Brooklyn Bridge, until he had grown too old for it and Pop Dillion had persuaded him that it was high time he settled down inside and learned some more dignified business with a future in it. Pop Dillon and Jane would be mighty disappointed when he told them that night that he had been fired again. And that hurt.
Speedy sighed. Well, he might as well put in his time until five o'clock. There were a lot of entries to be made in that musty ledger in front of him. He bent over the ruled pages and went to work. At five o'clock he was still toiling. The other clerks put out the lights over their heads, closed up their books and departed. Speedy scribbled on. It was quarter to six before he had finished. He straightened up, stretched the kinks out of his back, shut up the ledger and slid down from his high stool. He walked over to the safe, swung the massive doors open and deposited the book inside. Then,
