"My name ain't Pudge."
"Very good, Mister Sheridan. What'll it be?"
"One of those chocolate marshmallow nut sundaes, I guess, if—if——"
"If what, Mister Sheridan?"
"—if, oh well, just charge it."
Billy Simmons paused in the act of reaching for a sundae glass. The smile left his face.
Pudge, though he did not once look up from that absorbing little operation with the fat forefinger, felt this pause and knew that Billy's grin had gone; and his own mouth drooped and drooped. It was a tense moment.
"You see, Pudge," Billy began in some embarrassment, only to conclude rather sharply, "I'll have to ask Mr. Humphrey. Your sister said we weren't——"
"Oh, well!" sighed Pudge. Getting down from the stool he waddled slowly out of the store.
It was no use going up against old Humphrey. He had tried that. He went as far as the fire-plug, close to the corner, and sank down upon it. Everybody was against him. He would sit here awhile and think it over. Perhaps he could figure out some way of breaking through the conspiracy. Then Mr. Martin Jaffry drove up to the curb and he had to move his legs. Mr. Jaffry said, "Hello, Pudge," too. It was all deeply annoying.