Anyway, he owned a motor car; you couldn’t get around that.  Maybe Bulger wouldn’t open his eyes if he knew it.  Bulger was an authority on cars, and spoke in detail of their strange insides with the aplomb of a man who has dissected them for years.  He had violent disputes with the second bookkeeper about which was the best car for the money.  The bookkeeper actually owned a motorcycle, or would, after he had paid five dollars a month a few more times, but Bulger would never allow this minor contrivance to be brought into their discussions.  Bulger was intolerant of anything costing under five thou’—­eat you up with repairs.

Bean longed to approach Bulger and say: 

“Some dame, that!  Just sent me a little old last year’s car.”

But he knew this would never do.  Bulger would not only tell him why the car was of an inferior make, but he would want to borrow it to take a certain party, or maybe the gang, out for a spin, and get everybody killed or arrested or something.  Bulger dressed fearlessly; no one with eyes could deny that; but he was tactless.  Better keep that car under cover.

At seven-thirty that evening, with Nap on a leash, he strolled into the garage.  He carried the yellow stick and the gloves, and he was prepared to make all sorts of a nasty row if they tried to tell him the car wasn’t there, or so much as hinted that he might not be the right party.  He knew how to deal with those automobile sharks.

“I believe you have a car here for me—­Mr. Bean,” he said briskly.  It was the first time in all his life that he had spoken of himself as “Mr. Bean!” He threw his shoulders back even farther when he had achieved it.

The soiled person whom he addressed merely called to another soiled person who, near at hand, seemed to be beating an unruly car into subjection.  The second person merely ducked his head backward and over his right shoulder.

“All right, all right!” said the first person, and then to Bean, “All right, all right!”

The car was before him, a large, an alarming car—­and red!  It was as red as the unworn cravat.  Good thing it was getting dark.  He wouldn’t like to go out in the daytime in one as red as that, not at first.

He ran his eyes critically over it, trying to look disappointed.

“Good shape?” he demanded.

“How about it, Joe?  She all right?”

Joe perceptibly stopped hammering.

“Garrumph-rumph!” he seemed to say.

“Well?” said the first person, eying Bean as if this explained everything.

“Take a little spin,” said Bean.

“Paul!”

Paul issued from the office, a shock-headed, slouching youth in extreme negligee, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his lower lip.  He yawned without dislodging the cigarette.

“Gentleman wants to g’wout.”  Paul vanished.

Nap had already leaped to a seat in the red car.  He had learned what those things were for.