be a Wall Street crook and take it away from the tired business man. What I want to be is one of the idle rich . . . only not idle much of the time, you know. Good major league club for mine. Been looking the ground over; sound 'vestment; keep you out of bad company, lots time to read good books."
"Hanh! Wha's 'at?" exploded Breede.
"Fumed eggs," said Bean, feeling witty. He affected to laugh at his own jest as he perceived that the mourning mother had entered the room. Breede drew cautiously away from him. Mrs. Breede nodded to him bravely.
He mentioned the name of the world's greatest pitcher, with an impulse to take the woman down a bit.
"Get our shirts same place; he's going to have a suit just like this—no, like another one I have in that little old steamer trunk."
He was aware that they all eyed him too closely. The waster winked at him. Then he found himself shaking hands with a soothing old gentleman in clerical garb who called him his young friend and said that this was indeed a happy moment.
The three Breedes and the waster stood apart, studying him queerly. He was feeling an embarrassed need to make light conversation, and he was still conscious of that strange power to make it. He was going to tell the old gentleman, whose young friend he was, that fumed eggs were a hundred p'cent efficient.
But the flapper saved him from that. She
