# Speedy (Holman)/Chapter 2

New York.—Bustling harassed men speeding hither and yon, clutching bits of paper in their hands on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Wildly clacking tickers emitting tape, to be seized by eager fingers, read by sharp eyes and then allowed to fall into white snarls in huge waste baskets.
Outside, Wall Street and Broad Street and Nassau Street, and all the adjacent asphalted chasms amid the tall cliffs of concrete and stone, black with hastening throngs. Fast moving crowds of men and women who not only pack the sidewalks but also overflow into the streets. Downtown New York; in the financial district, at the noon hour. Bankers, brokers, messenger boys rushing from their burrows to snatch a bite of lunch. Seemingly fearful that the world will slip into chaos in their absence from their posts if they delay a moment longer than necessary. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
A boy darted from the milling throngs on the west sidewalk of Nassau Street and defied New York's god, Speed, by stopping stock still in front of a red-headed urchin who, newspapers spread in piles in front of him and the piles held in their places against the swirling winds by stones, was shrilly shrieking, "Waddeya read! Baseball extra! Yanks Face Croocial Game! Waddeya read! Paper, mister?"
​The question was shot at the youth who stood in front of the newsboy. The youth's pleasant, eager brown eyes were lowered upon a pile of papers. He was reading the headline: "Yanks Face Crucial Game."
He looked up as the custodian of the papers addressed him rather sharply. He flushed. He fancied he was being rebuked for trying to secure his baseball information without paying for it. He was right. He put his hand into the pocket of his well-worn coat and separated out three cents from the few coins he found there.
"Sun," he said pleasantly and held out his ransom. The newsboy stooped, flicked a paper from the top of the pile without disturbing the stone and delivered the almost wet sheets to his customer.
"Goin' up to the game?" asked the newsboy, feeling better now that the sidewalk reader had been turned into a paying account.
"Can't," said the youthful customer, his eyes still darting over the headline.
"Neither can I. But, gee, I bet it'll be a corkin' game," regretted the newsboy.
"You bet. The Yanks'll win though. Babe'll bust one."
The new owner of a copy of the New York Sun sighed. The noonday crowds kept streaming by. Suddenly remembering that he too must be getting along, he folded his paper under his arm and darted into the maelstrom of arms, legs and paws chewing gum. He was a nice looking youth of twenty-odd years. The lock of hair just showing under his ​straw hat was dark and a little curly. Alert, almost merry brown eyes looked out upon the busy world from behind tortoise-shelled glasses. He wore a gray suit that was obviously cheap and readymade, but neat and clean. But it was the face that made you look twice at him. It was not the usual downtown New York face—drawn, shrewd, sullen, irritable. This was a good-natured, fresh and somehow wistful face.
It was the face of Harold "Speedy" Swift, formerly of Smythe's Sweets Shoppe.
A block or two farther along on Nassau Street, Speedy edged again out of the sidewalk mob and passed through swinging doors. The region which he now invaded was one of tiled floors, white walls and ceiling. The walls were lined with glassed-in shelves containing edibles of all kinds. People were hurrying with empty trays toward these shelves, performing rites involving money in front of the shelves, filling the trays with food and drink and then dashing to tables. Usually several tables had to be visited before an empty seat was discovered. Success thus achieved, the fortunate tray bearer rested his burden upon the table and set to work eating as if every mouthful would be his last on this earth. Throngs continually passed in and out of the place. All New York seemed to be absorbing sustenance there.
It was the Automat, known facetiously in Speedy's office as the "Automobile Club" and the "Nickel Grabber."
Harold paused in front of the hard-faced gentle ​man at the money-changing machine near the door. He proffered this busy factotum a quarter. The man punched a button and five nickels sprayed down a metal runway. Speedy captured them, claimed a tray from the near-by pile and made for the white, glassed shelves over against the wall. He thrust two nickels into a slot, turned a handle and transferred a ham sandwich from its cosy white compartment to his tray. For a similar price he won a cheese sandwich. He squandered his last nickel upon a cup of coffee procured by holding his cup under a faucet, pressing the faucet and causing a muddy stream to jet into the coarse porcelain cup. With the fluid an inch from the top of the receptacle, the stream dried abruptly.
A pastmaster in Automat eating, Harold found an empty seat easily. He set the contents of his tray upon the table and shoved the empty tray under his chair. He propped his paper against the holder containing salt, pepper and other condiments. Then he devoured his lunch and the story under the screeching baseball headline at the same time. He paused to turn the pages of the paper, following the fortunes of the New York American League Baseball Club back into the sporting section.
The Yankees were tied with Detroit for the league lead. The end of the season was very near. Today's game would undoubtedly determine which team would face Pittsburgh, sure National League pennant winners in the World's Series. Excitement was at fever heat. Harold's nice eyes flashed as he read of the prospects of Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig, ​the Yanks' powerful sluggers, settling the struggle once and for all with one of their accustomed home runs at Yankee Stadium that sunny September afternoon.
Having finished the leading baseball news, he turned to the other items about the national game on the sporting page. He carefully studied the batting average of both leagues, though he already knew them nearly by heart.
At the tables around him other lunchers were also reading papers. But their interest was chiefly in financial sections, as befitted their occupations. A pale broker's clerk, chewing a toothpick, opposite Harold was engrossed in the account of how the New York Inter-City Railways Company, in the effort to consolidate its far-flung system, would probably seek to acquire the last remaining crosstown horse car line and replace it with electricity. He checked the market quotation of Inter-City stock and resolved to risk a month's wages in acquiring some on margin.
Harold was a Wall Street clerk too. But his passion was baseball. Possessed of a lively imagination, he could even now envisage the multitudes pouring through the turnstiles up at the Yankee Stadium. The rival teams would be taking the field about now for their practice rounds. Babe Ruth would pole a preliminary few over the fence to humble the hopes of the Detroit cohorts in advance.
"Hey, watcher self!" came a sharp voice from Speedy's right. Speedy had been unconsciously imitating the swing of the mighty Babe with his rolled ​newspaper as a bat and had nearly hit the coffee cup which his neighboring luncher was conveying to his lips.
"Sorry," replied Speedy, smiling but undisturbed.
But the spell was broken. He consulted his watch, drank the last of his own coffee, thrust the newspaper into his pocket and rose briskly to his feet.
Five minutes later he swung into the marble and brass entrance of the Consolidated Steel Company building on lower Wall Street. An elevator crowded with returning lunchers whisked him up to the sixteenth floor. Speedy smiled at the blonde chewing gum behind the combination information desk and telephone switchboard as he passed her and hurried through the swinging gate into the office. She smiled back, though she was not the smiling type. There was something about the blithe Speedy's smiles that made you return them. At the same time the girl felt like shaking her head a little dolefully. This good-looking young man had only been there a week and she feared he would not last much longer. He was too cheerful and happy-go-lucky to appeal to the boss, Mr. Talbott, office manager of Consolidated. Moreover, the office gossip was that Talbott had already reprimanded him severely upon several occasions.
Speedy hustled into the wardrobe located just off the big office and took his somewhat frayed working coat and green eyeshade off his hook. He changed his coat, donned the eyeshade and was ready for the afternoon's toil. Other clerks were ​crowded in the room shifting into their alpacas or pulling black sleeve guards up over their elbows to save wear and tear.
"Thought you'd be up at the game, Speedy," bantered one of them.
"Hasn't Manager Huggins sent for you to advise Babe and the boys what to do yet, Speedy?" asked another.
The remarks were good-natured. They liked Speedy despite his newness among them. But his predilection for baseball was already well known around the office and a topic for kidding. Speedy only grinned. He transferred his well-worn newspaper to his working coat and walked out into the office. He mounted the high stool and opened in front of him the huge book into which he was recording shipments of steel. He dipped his pen into the ink.
But his mind was elsewhere. After a moment's hesitation he pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and spread it carefully out on the ledger. Soon he was deeply engrossed in re-reading the account of the New York baseball teams' chances against Detroit. He finished the story. His mind was out of the office, up there at the Yankee Stadium. He was sitting in the right field bleachers, haunt of the Babe Ruth worshippers, located behind the patch of field patrolled by the famous slugger. Speedy always sat there when he went to see the Yankees play, both for reasons of economy and because Babe was his idol.
In his imagination he was ensconced there now. ​The score was tied in the ninth inning. And the powetful Babe was at the bat. One strike. One ball. Two strikes. Two balls. Three balls. Three and two. Everything depended upon the next pitch. Speedy clutched the edges of his high stool in terrible suspense. The white arm of the Detroit pitcher swung aloft. The snowy sphere sped toward the Babe. The Babe took a toe hold. Wham! Like a rifle shot the ball flew over the infield. Back, back the Detroit fielders scurried. The guardian of the right garden tore to the stadium wall and braced his back against it. In vain he leaped into the air. The ball sailed twenty feet above him. Right at Speedy! Speedy was on his feet, yelling, clutching with a dozen of the fans in seats near him to catch the oncoming ball and keep it for a souvenir.
Crash! Something smote Speedy squarely in the forehead. He almost fainted. He blinked. It couldn't have been the ball from the bat of the Babe. It would have killed him, and he was certainly very much alive.
Then he came to. He rubbed his forehead sheepishly. He looked cautiously around. A paper wad lay on the desk in front of him. One of the clerks, observing Speedy in his dreamy attitude, with his mind afar off, had hurled the missile. Speedy, grinning, turned. Every clerk within his vision had temporarily stopped work and was enjoying his discomfiture. One or two of them were guffawing aloud.
Suddenly they stopped. A buzz-buzz of warning ​sounded around the office. Every clerk turned abruptly and applied himself energetically to his task. Then Speedy perceived the reason for it. Mr. Talbott, the boss, was standing in the doorway of his private office surveying the scene sternly from behind forbidding gold-rimmed glasses. Speedy surreptitiously and quickly transferred his newspaper to his coat pocket and wrote figures rapidly and almost at random.
But there was no forestalling Nemesis. Mr. Talbott was headed his way. A sheaf of papers was in his hand.
Speedy was a little afraid of Mr. Talbott, as much as Speedy's training as a typical New York boy of the streets allowed him to be afraid of anybody. Mr. Talbott had been rather regretful about hiring him. He had asked Speedy's name and Speedy had answered before he thought: "Speedy—I mean, Harold—Swift." And Mr. Talbott, learning from Speedy's lips how many jobs he had held in the past few years, had said rather sarcastically, "Are you called 'Speedy' because you hold the world's long distance record for being hired and fired?" "No," Speedy had answered promptly, "I inherited it from my father. He's called Speedy too—Speedy Swift—and he was shortstop on the Yankees twenty years ago."
Now Mr. Talbott was standing by Speedy's high stool. He was a small, almost bald, middle-aged man, his face white with an office pallor and his skin tight and almost as transparent as parchment. Pinch-nosed glasses rode a thin, sharp proboscis, ​the principal feature of a face that was now clouded with vexation.
"Swift, how many tons of ore did the Milliken bill of lading call for?" Mr. Talbott asked sharply.
Speedy looked up, considered the matter a moment and said cheerfully, "I don't know."
"And when were we to ship that consignment of steel to Carey Brothers, in Boston?" Mr. Talbott continued.
Speedy looked at him blankly, sought vainly to fix the answer in his mind, gave it up and answered, "I forget."
Mr. Talbott nodded his head grimly, as if Speedy's replies only confirmed what he had expected. He glanced down at the paper with the baseball headline in Speedy's pocket. He recalled his clerk's actions as the wad of paper had struck him in the forehead. The Talbott jaws tightened. An ironic smile twitched at the manager's lips.
He asked abruptly, "What is Babe Ruth's batting average at present?"
A broad grin suffused Speedy's features. He came back without hesitation, joyously, ".356—that's counting yesterday's double header."
"And what is Gehrig batting?"
".362—he got three hits yesterday. And if he—"
"I suppose you also know who has stolen the most bases?"
"Sure—Ty Cobb. Up to yesterday he had stolen—"
Mr. Talbott held up a thin, impatient white hand to stop the rush of words to Speedy's lips.
​"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 ​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, ​entering the wardrobe, he changed his coat, rolling his working coat and eye shade into a bundle under his arm. Then he walked down the back of the toom toward the corridor leading to the cashier's office.
He paused, a dejected figure, at the time clock outside Mr. Talbott's private office, in which a light still burned, and punched his number. His glance wandered into Mr. Talbott's sanctum and met the eyes of the office manager, who had been observing him in a not unkindly manner. Speedy smiled bravely.
"Good-bye, Mr. Talbott," he sung out. "And thanks for the nice way you've treated me here. I deserve to be fired. I guess I'm no good on books."
Mr. Talbott smiled in return. Making a quick resolution, he called out, "Come in here a minute, Swift."
Speedy obeyed. He stood at the big mahogany desk of the office manager, like a chastened child.
"Maybe I was a little hasty in discharging you, Swift," said Mr. Talbott unexpectedly. "Perhaps you're just not adapted to the assignment we've given you here and you would be satisfactory in some other position. You don't like office work, do you?"
"No—I don't," said Speedy frankly.
"Well, you can forget what I said about leaving us," the executive went on. "When you report tomorrow, we'll try you on something that will take you outside and won't be quite so monotonous. I was young once myself, you know. I enjoy base​ball as much as the next man. By the way, you knew the Yanks won today, didn't you?"
"No! Is that right? That's great!"
"Yes, the Babe broke up the game with a home tun into the right field bleachers. As a matter of fact, if you won't tell anybody, I'll let you in on a little secret; I rather think I'll go up to the game tomorrow afternoon myself!"
"You're lucky. If I only—"
But Harold stopped his Niagara of enthusiastic comment. The office manager had resumed his accustomed stern expression and had apparently ceased to recall that Speedy existed. Speedy hesitated, then started for the door.
He turned to say gratefully, "Thanks for the second chance, Mr. Talbott."
The office manager did not glance up as he replied crisply, "That's all right. See that you take advantage of it."