He rather liked it. He pulled the front of his
hat down a bit and held the cigar at a confident angle. He thought it
made him look forceful. He wished he might pass the purple-faced old
gentleman--the whole Breede gang, for that matter--and chew the cigar at
them.
"I'll show them," he muttered, over and around the impeding cigar. "I'll
show them they can't keep _me_ off that board. I knew what to do in a
minute. Napoleon of Finance, eh? I'll show them who's who!"
He was back at his desk finishing the last of Breede's letters for the
day. Tully had not discovered his absence. He winked at Bulger to assure
him that the worst interpretation could be put upon that absence. He
wondered if anything else could happen before the day ended.
"Telephone for Boston Bean," called the wag of an office boy.
This time he closed the double door of the booth, letting Bulger think
what he pleased.
"I forgot to ask what you take, mornings," pealed the flapper.
"Take--mornings?"
"For breakfast, silly! Because I think it's best for you to take just
eggs and toast; a little fruit of course; not all that meat and things."
"Oh, yes, of course; eggs and--things. Never want much."
"Well, all right, I just perfectly knew you'd see it that way. I'm
making up lists. Tell me, do you like a panelled dining-room, you know,
fumed oak, or something?"
"Only kind I'd ever have."
"I knew you would.
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