Putcha t' sleep. What can _I_ do?" Again the throttling hand.
He ruefully surveyed his littered desk, then drew the long sigh of the
baffled.
"Take telegram m' wife. Sorry can't be home late, 'port'n board meet'n'.
May be called out of town."
The telephone rang, but was ignored.
"Send it off," he directed Bean above the bell's clear call. "Then
c'mon; go ball game. G'wup 'n subway."
"Got car downstairs," suggested Bean.
"You got your work cut out f'r you; 'sall I got t' say," growled Breede.
"'S little old last year's car," said Bean modestly.
XIII
As the little old last year's car bore them to the north, some long
sleeping-image seemed to stir in Breede's mind.
"Got car like this m'self somewheres," he remarked.
Bean was relieved. He didn't want the name of a woman to be brought into
the matter just then.
"'S all right for town work," he said. "Good enough for all I want of a
car."
"'S awful!" said Breede, obviously forgetting the car for another
subject.
"What can I do? She says she's got the right," suggested Bean.
"She'd take it anyway. _I_ know her. Pack a suit-case. Had times with
her already. Takes it from her mother."
"Can't be too rough at the start," declared Bean. "Manage 'em of course,
but 'thout their finding it out--velvet glove." He looked quietly
confident and Breede glanced at him almost respectfully.
"When?" he asked.
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