And
Breede had said it after witnessing that salute from the pitcher's box!
He must be a hard man to convince of anything. What more proof did he
want?
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
The man who couldn't make him out was calling for him. For an hour
longer he took down the man's words, not sneering pointedly at the
cuffs, yet allowing it to be seen that he was conscious of them. A
puzzle was he?
"--Hopin' t'ave promp' action accordin' 'bove 'structions, remain yours
ver' truly she's got it all reasoned out," concluded Breede.
"She just told me," said Bean; "little old steamer sailing Wednesday."
"Can't make y' out," said Breede.
That thing was getting tiresome.
"You're a puzzle to me, too," said Bean.
"Hanh! Wha's 'at? What kinda puzzle?"
"Same kind," said Bean, brightly.
"Hum!" said Breede, and pretended to search for a missing document. Then
he eyed Bean again.
"Know how much you made on that Federal stuff?"
"I was going to ask a lawyer," confessed Bean. "I got a whole lot of
margins or whatever you call 'em around at that broker's. Maybe he
wouldn't mind letting me know."
"Stock'll be up t' six hundred before week's out; net you 'round four
hund' thous'n'," exploded Breede in his most vicious manner.
"Four hundred thousand margins?" He wanted to be cautious.
"_Dollars_, dammit!" shouted Breede.
Bean was able to remain cool. That amount of money would have meant
nothing to him back on the Nile.
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