“Plain enough,” said the man who had been studying his foot on the chair.  “Some one pulled the plug.”

“And away she goes—­shoosh!” said the big man dramatically.

“Kennedy & Balch buying right and left.  Open at a hundred and twenty-five to-morrow, sure!” said the quiet one quietly.

“Placed an order yesterday for four hundred shares and got ’em,” said another, not so quietly.  “And to-day they’re bidding Federal Express up to the ceiling.”

“Plug pulled!”

The advanced-dressing director strutted to the fore with a visibly purpling face.

“Plug pulled?  Want t’ know where it was pulled?  Right in this office.  Want to know who pulled it? That!” He pointed unmistakably to the child among them taking notes.  At another time Bean might have quailed, at least momentarily; but he had now discovered that the advanced-dressing old gentleman used scent on his clothes.  He was afraid of no man who could do that in the public nostrils.  He surveyed the old gentleman with frank hostility, noting with approval, however, the dignified yet different pattern of his waistcoat.  But he knew the other directors were looking hard at him.

“Shrimp! snake!” added the old gentleman, like a shocked naturalist encountering a loathsome hybrid.

“Been plowing with our heifer?” asked Breede incisively.

Bean was familiar with that homely metaphor.  He felt easier.

“Your heifer!” He would have liked to snort as the old gentleman did, but refrained from an unpractised effort!  “Your heifer?  No; I bought a good fat yoke of steers to do my plowing.  Took his money to buy one of ’em with!” He waved a careless arm at the smouldering-vessel across the table.  They were all gasping, in horror, in disgust.  He was a little embarrassed.  He sought to smooth the thing over a bit with his next words.

“Eagle shot down with its own feather,” he said, hazily recalling something that had seemed very poetic when he read it.

“Wha’d I tell you?  Wha’d I tell you!” shouted the oldest director, doing an intricate dance step.

“Hold ’ny Federal?” asked Breede.

“A block or two; several margins of it,” said Bean.

“How many shares?”

“Have to ask Kennedy & Balch; they’re my brokers.  I guess about some seven or eight hundred shares.”

“Wha’d I tell you?  Wha’d I tell you?” again shouted the oldest director, and, as if despairing of an answer, he swore surprisingly for one of his refined garniture and aroma.

“Find out something in this office?” asked Breede, evenly.

“Why wouldn’t I?  I found out something the minute you sent people to me with that ‘By the way—­’ stuff.  I knew it as quick as you had them breaking their ankles trying to get my fifty shares.  Knew it the very minute you sent that—­that slinking gazelle to me.”  He pointed at Tully.