“Jolly well never,” insisted the waster; “not for anything a dentist-fellow could manage.  Come now!”

Bean was listless once more, deaf, unseeing.

“Righto,” said the waster.  “Bachelor dinner last night ... yes?”

The situation had become intelligible to him.  He found the bathroom, and from it came the sound of running water.  He had the air of a Master of Revels.

“Into it—­only thing to do!”

He led Bean to the brink of the icy pool and skilfully flayed him of the flowered gown.  He was thorough, the waster.  He’d known chaps to pretend to get in by making a great splashing with one hand, after they were left alone.  He overcame a few of the earlier exercises in jiu-jitsu and committed Bean’s form to the deep.

“Righto!” he exclaimed.  “Does it every time.  Shiver all you like.  Good for you!  Now then—­clothes!  Clothes and things, Man!  Oh, here they are to be sure!  How stupid of me!  Feel better already, yes?  Knew it.  Studs in shirt.  My word!  Studs!  Studs!  There!  Let me tie it.  Here!  Look alive man!  She would have it.  She must have known you.  There!”

He had finished by clamping Bean’s hat tightly about his head.  Bean was thinking that the waster possessed more executive talent than Grandma had given him credit for; also that he would find an excuse to break away once they were outside; also that Balthasar was keenly witty.  Balthasar had said it would disintegrate if handled.

He would leave Nap with Cassidy.  He would return for him that night, then flee.  He would go back to Wellsville, which he should never have left.

The waster had him in the car outside, a firm grasp on one of his arms.

“I’ll allow you only one,” said the waster judicially as the car moved off.  “I know where the chap makes them perfectly—­brings a mummy back to life—­”

“A mum—­what mummy?” asked Bean dreamily.

“Your own, if you had one, you silly juggins!”

Bean winced, but made no reply.

The car halted before an uptown hotel.

“Come on!” said the waster.

“Bring it out,” suggested Bean, devising flight.

The waster prepared to use force.

“Quit.  I’ll go,” said Bean.

He was before a polished bar, the white-jacketed attendant of which not only recognized the waster but seemed to divine his errand.

“Two,” commanded the waster.  The attendant had already reached for a bottle of absinthe, and now busied himself with two eggs, a shaker, and cracked ice.

“White of an egg, delicate but nourishing after bachelor dinners,” said the waster expertly.

Bean, in the polished mirror, regarded a pallid and shrinking youth whom he knew to be himself—­not a reincarnation of the Egyptian king, but just Bunker Bean.  He could not endure a long look at the thing, and allowed his gaze to wander to the panelled woodwork of the bar.