“Ah, ha!” said the expert.  “Have a cigar!”

Bean aimlessly accepted the proffer.

“Sit down and gas a while,” urged the expert genially.  “Things looking up any over your way?”

“Oh, so-so, only,” said Bean.  “But I can’t stop, thanks!  Got to hurry back to see a man.”

“Drop in again any time,” said the expert.  “We try to make this little den a home for our customers.”

“Thanks!” said Bean.  “I’ll be sure to.”

“Ah ha, and ah ha!” said the expert to himself.  “Now I wonder.”

On his way back to the office Bean suddenly discovered that he was chewing an unlighted cigar.  He stopped to observe in a polished window its effect on his face.  He rather liked it.  He pulled the front of his hat down a bit and held the cigar at a confident angle.  He thought it made him look forceful.  He wished he might pass the purple-faced old gentleman—­the whole Breede gang, for that matter—­and chew the cigar at them.

“I’ll show them,” he muttered, over and around the impeding cigar.  “I’ll show them they can’t keep me off that board.  I knew what to do in a minute.  Napoleon of Finance, eh?  I’ll show them who’s who!”

He was back at his desk finishing the last of Breede’s letters for the day.  Tully had not discovered his absence.  He winked at Bulger to assure him that the worst interpretation could be put upon that absence.  He wondered if anything else could happen before the day ended.

“Telephone for Boston Bean,” called the wag of an office boy.

This time he closed the double door of the booth, letting Bulger think what he pleased.

“I forgot to ask what you take, mornings,” pealed the flapper.

“Take—­mornings?”

“For breakfast, silly!  Because I think it’s best for you to take just eggs and toast; a little fruit of course; not all that meat and things.”

“Oh, yes, of course; eggs and—­things.  Never want much.”

“Well, all right, I just perfectly knew you’d see it that way.  I’m making up lists.  Tell me, do you like a panelled dining-room, you know, fumed oak, or something?”

“Only kind I’d ever have.”

“I knew you would.  What are you doing all the time?”

“Oh, me?  I’m getting things into shape.  You see, I have an idea—­”

“Don’t you buy the least little thing until I know.  We want to be sure everything harmonizes and I’ve just perfectly got everything in my head the way it will be.”

“That’s right; that’s the only way.”

“You didn’t say anything about—­you know—­to poor old Pops, did you?”

“Why, no.  I didn’t.  You see he’s been pretty much thinking about other things all day, and I—­”

“Well, that’s right.  I was afraid you’d be just perfectly impatient.  But you leave it all to me.  I’ll manage.  It’s the dearest joke!  I may not tell them for two or three days.  Every time I get alone I just perfectly giggle myself into spasms.  Isn’t it the funniest?”