"That sort of thing'll never do with us, you know," continued the old gentleman, when he had diverted Bean's attention from the interesting map. "Never do at all; not at all; not-tat-tall. Preposterous! My word! What rot! "
The last was, phonetically, "Wha' trawt!"
Bean was studying the old gentleman's faultless garments. He wore a particularly effective waistcoat of white piqué striped with narrow black lines, and there was a pink carnation in the lapel of the superbly tailored frock coat.
"Wha' trawt!" repeated the ornate director. Bean looked again at the map.
"Here, boy, your last chance. We happen to need those shares in a little matter of voting. I'll draw you a check for the full amount."
He produced the daintiest of check-books and a fountain pen of a chaste design in gold. Bean's look was the look of those who see visions.
"Now then, now then!" spluttered the old gentleman, the pen poised. "Don't keep me waiting; don't keep me, I say! What amount? Wha' tamount?"
Bean's eyes were withdrawn from the wall. He came briskly to life.
"I'll tell you in a moment. I'll get the shares."
"Shrimp!" said the old gentleman triumphantly, when Bean had gone.
"He told me," began Tully. But the advanced dresser wanted no more of that.
"Shrimp!" he repeated.
