Breede slunk into the room, garbed in an unaccustomed frock coat. He
went through the form of shaking hands with Bean.
Bean felt a sudden necessity to tell Breede a lot of things. He wished
to confide in the man.
"Principle of the thing's all I cared about," he began. "Anybody make
money that wants to be a Wall Street crook and take it away from the
tired business man. What I want to be is one of the idle rich ... only not
idle much of the time, you know. Good major league club for mine. Been
looking the ground over; sound 'vestment; keep you out of bad company,
lots time to read good books."
"Hanh! Wha's 'at?" exploded Breede.
"Fumed eggs," said Bean, feeling witty. He affected to laugh at his own
jest as he perceived that the mourning mother had entered the room.
Breede drew cautiously away from him. Mrs. Breede nodded to him bravely.
He mentioned the name of the world's greatest pitcher, with an impulse
to take the woman down a bit.
"Get our shirts same place; he's going to have a suit just like
this--no, like another one I have in that little old steamer trunk."
He was aware that they all eyed him too closely. The waster winked at
him. Then he found himself shaking hands with a soothing old gentleman
in clerical garb who called him his young friend and said that this was
indeed a happy moment.
The three Breedes and the waster stood apart, studying him queerly.
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