BUNKER BEAN
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thing; well, send over t' White Plains f'r s'more. Putcha t' sleep. What can I do?" Again the throttling hand.
He ruefully surveyed his littered desk, then drew the long sigh of the baffled.
"Take telegram m' wife. Sorry can't be home late, 'port'n board meet'n'. May be called out of town."
The telephone rang, but was ignored.
"Send it off," he directed Bean above the bell's clear call. "Then c'mon; go ball game. G'wup 'n subway."
"Got car downstairs," suggested Bean.
"You got your work cut out f'r you; 'sall I got t' say," growled Breede.
"'S little old last year's car," said Bean modestly.
