"Thanks!" said Bean. "I'll be sure to."
"Ah ha, and ah ha!" said the expert to himself. "Now I wonder."
On his way back to the office Bean suddenly discovered that he was chewing an unlighted cigar. He stopped to observe in a polished window its effect on his face. He rather liked it. He pulled the front of his hat down a bit and held the cigar at a confident angle. He thought it made him look forceful. 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. Tully had not discovered his absence. He winked at Bulger to assure him that the worst interpretation could be put upon that absence. He wondered if anything else could happen before the day ended.
"Telephone for Boston Bean," called the wag of an office boy.
This time he closed the double door of the booth, letting Bulger think what he pleased.
"I forgot to ask what you take, mornings," pealed the flapper.
"Take—mornings?"
"For breakfast, silly! Because I think it's
