Bean looked at him. He had known from the
first that he must clash with this man.
"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 pique 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Bean's eyes were withdrawn from the wall.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.
Bean reentered with the certificates.
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