"Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly. "Looks more fun, anyway."
"My word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching it?"
"Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean persisted.
"Oh, come!" protested the waster.
"Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean.
"You've had one too many," declared the waster, knowing that no sober man could speak thus of the sport of kings.
Grandma, the Demon, entered and portentously shook hands with him. She seemed to have discovered that marriage was very serious.
"Fumed eggs," said Bean, regarding her shrewdly.
"What?" demanded Grandma.
"Fumed eggs, hundred p'cent efficient," he declared stoutly.
The Demon eyed him more closely.
"My grandmother smoked, too," said Bean, "but I never went in for it much."
"U-u-u-mmm!" said the Demon. It was to be seen that she felt puzzled.
Breede slunk into the room, garbed in an unaccustomed frock coat. He went through the form of shaking hands with Bean.
Bean felt a sudden necessity to tell Breede a lot of things. He wished to confide in the man.
"Principle of the thing's all I cared about," he began. "Anybody make money that wants to
