don't come near the office again—I'll mail you your day's pay. Go ahead, driver."
The taxi door slammed and the machine started off, leaving Harold standing there, open-mouthed and deeply chagrined. He shook his head slowly. His weakness for baseball had lost him another job. For a second he felt like crying. Jane and Pop would be so disappointed. Then Speedy's buoyant good humor came rushing to his rescue. Well, it wasn't such a good job anyway—not worthy of his talents. He preferred something with more excitement in it, driving a racing car, for instance. His face recovered its usual cheerful, happy-go-lucky expression. There was nothing to do now but go home. Tomorrow he would look for another job. He walked up to Brooklyn Bridge and boarded a subway local uptown.
Ten minutes later he was walking up De Lacey Street and the sun was setting. He debated whether or not he should go to the Dillons for supper. They had their evening meal early, he knew, and he decided they would be finished and there was no use putting Jane to extra trouble. Besides, there might be plenty of meals for the next week or so that he might have to sponge upon them for—until he found a job. He stopped at the quick lunch emporium at De Lacey and Candler and had a plate of steaming beans and a cup of coffee.
Coming out, feeling at peace with the world, he thought he might as well get the bad news for the evening over with and tell the Dillons that he had lost his job again.
