The oldest director deigned him no glance, but snorted accurately in his direction, nevertheless.  The quiet one grinned faintly at him, but the two neutral directors passed him loftily, as if they were Virtue scorning Vice in a morality play.  The largest director frowned at the stripling who was savagely chewing a fifty-cent cigar at the procession.

The moment was incontestably the stripling’s.  He was cool and meant to take the fullest advantage of it.  He meant to say, contemptuously, “I can imagine nothing of less consequence!”

But the officious cigar-clerk held a lighted match to the choice cigar and the magnificent defiance was smothered by a cough.  He was obliged to content himself with glaring at the expansive and well-rounded back of the biggest director.

He was alone on the field, pretending enjoyment of a cigar which was now lighted and loathsome.

Bulger entered from the street and viewed him with friendly alarm.

“Say, where you been?” demanded Bulger.  “Old Pussy-foot’s got a sore thumb right now from pounding that buzzer of yours all morning.  He’s hot at every one.  I heard him call Tully a slinking something or other; couldn’t get the word, but Tully got it.  Say, you better get busy—­regular old George W. Busy—­if you want to hold that job.”

“Job!” laughed Bean bitterly, and waved the expensive and lighted cigar in Bulger’s face.  “Job!  Well, I may get busy, and then again I may not.  All depends!”

“Gee!” said Bulger, profoundly moved by this admirable spirit of insubordination.  “Well, I got to get back; I’m five minutes late myself.”

Bean waited until he had gone.  Then he strolled out to the street and furtively dropped an excellent and but slightly burned cigar into the gutter.  He wished those fellows at cigar-stands would do only what they were put there for.  Taking liberties with people!

He decided to go back as if nothing had happened.  Let Breede do the talking, and if he talked rough, then tell him very simply that nothing of less consequence could be imagined.  Continue to play the waiting game.  That was it!

He entered the office, humming lightly.  He seemed to be annoyed by the people he found there.  He glared at Bulger, at old Metzeger, at the other clerks, and especially at Tully.  Tully looked uncomfortable.  He wasn’t a gazelle after all.  He was a startled fawn.

“Telephone for—­” began the office boy humourist, but Bean was out of hearing in the direction of the telephone booth before the latest mot could be delivered.

“Been trying to get you all the morning,” began the flapper in eager tones.  “I should think you would stay there, when I may have to call you any minute.  That grocer gave me the nicest little book, ’Why Did Your Husband Fail in Business?’ with a picture of the poor man that failed on the cover.  It’s because he didn’t get enough phosphorous to make him 100 per cent. efficient,