The Sturdy Oak

As if a little soda ever hurt anybody. She took it herself, often enough. Within five minutes he had laid the matter before her--up in that solemn office, where they made you feel so uncomfortable. She had said: "Pudge Sheridan, you're killing yourself! Not one cent more for wrecking your stomach!"

She had called him "Pudge." For months he had been reminding her that his name was Percival. And he wasn't wrecking his stomach. That was silly talk. He had eaten but two nut sundaes and a chocolate frappé since luncheon. It wasn't soda and candy that made him so fat. Some folks just were fat, and some folks were thin. That was all there was to it!

Pudge himself would have a private income when he was twenty-one. Six years off ... and Billy Simmons in his white apron, was waiting now, on the other side of the marble counter, for his order--and g