The old gentleman glanced angrily
over them.
"Bean!" he exclaimed humorously. "Vegetable after all; not a fish! Funny
name that! Bunker Bean! Boston, by gad! Not bad that, I _say_! Come,
come, _come_! Want par, of course--all do! There y'are, boy!"
He blotted the check, tore it from the book and waved it toward Bean as
he turned to the director of the cigarette.
"About that proposition before us to-day, Mr. Chairman--" but Bean had
gone. Observing this, the old gentleman looked about him.
"Shrimp!" he said contemptuously, with the convinced air of an expert in
marine biology.
Bean, outside, once more addressed himself to typewriting. He wondered
if he should be seized with a toothache or a fainting spell. Toothache
was good, but perhaps Bulger had used that too often. Still Tully would
"fall" for a toothache. It gave him a chance to say that if people would
only go to a dentist once every three months--Then he remembered that
Tully was inside. He wouldn't make any excuse at all.
"Going out a few minutes," he explained to old Metzeger as he swiftly
changed from his office coat and adjusted the new straw hat.
Bulger glanced up from his machine, winked at him and shaped a word with
his able mouth. An adept in lip-reading could have seen it to be
"Chubbins." Bean in response leered confession at him.
The broker's office was in the adjoining block.
"I've just made a little deal," explained Bean to the person who
inquired his business.
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