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Updated: June 16, 2025
The large, impressive, moneyed-looking directors sat easily about the table in Breede's inner room, and said little of meaning to a tyro in the express business. The stock was pretty widely held in small lots, it seemed, and the agents out buying it up were obliged to proceed with caution. Otherwise people would get silly ideas and begin to haggle over the price.
He especially loathed the smaller wrinkles that made tiny squares and diamonds around the back of Breede's neck. Sartorially, also, Bean found Breede objectionable. He forever wore the same kind of suit.
He saw that she was truly enough a flapper; not a day over eighteen, he was sure. Not tall; almost "pudgy," with a plump, browned face and gray eyes like old Breede's, that looked through you. He noted these details without enthusiasm. Then he relented a little because of her dress.
Later he wrote "Poor old Pops!" contemptuously, and put an evil sneer upon Breede's removed cuffs. At the same time he wished that the flapper and Grandma hadn't been so set against long engagements. And how long had they meant? One day, a week, a month? Would they have it done the next time they took him out in that car for tea and things? They were capable of it.
When he believed it to be one o'clock he diversified his notes with a swift summary of Breede's character which only the man's bitterest enemies would have approved. At what he thought was two o'clock he stripped him of the last shreds of moral decency. When three o'clock seemed to arrive he did not dare put down, even in secretive shorthand, what he felt could justly be said of Breede.
It left him in a fine glow of superiority and sharpened his relish for the mad jest of their present attitudes a jest demanding that he seem to be Breede's subordinate. Naturally, this was a situation that would not long endure. It was too preposterous. Money came not only to kings but to the kingly. He troubled as little about details as would have any other king.
Tully, back there on the Nile, would have been a dancer at the most, a fancy skater if, indeed, he had risen to the human order, and were not still a slinking gazelle. Good name that, for Tully. He would remember it gazelle! At three o'clock he glanced aside from his typewriter to see a director enter Breede's room.
After all, he was Bunker Bean, a poor thing who had to fly when Breede growled "Wantcha." He sat at his table, staring moodily into vacancy. He idly speculated about Breede's ragged moustache; he thought it had been blasted and killed by the words Breede spoke. A moment later he was conscious that he stared at an unopened letter on the table before him.
" this 'mount'll then become 'vailable f'r purpose shortenin' line an' reducin' heavy grades," dictated the unconscious father of the baggage. "I kissed that smug-faced little brat of yours last night," wrote Bean immediately thereafter. He didn't care. He would put the thing down plainly, right under Breede's nose.
He wished he might pass the purple-faced old gentleman the whole Breede gang, for that matter and chew the cigar at them. "I'll show them," he muttered, over and around the impeding cigar. "I'll show them they can't keep me off that board. I knew what to do in a minute. Napoleon of Finance, eh? I'll show them who's who!" He was back at his desk finishing the last of Breede's letters for the day.
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