Still, he seemed to consider that something more than mere apparent perverseness would become him.
"They get down 'round m' hands all the time. Can't think when they get down that way. Bother me. Take m' mind off. I won't do it, that's all. I don't care. Not for anybody't all!" He replaced the cuff beside its mate. He seemed to be saying that he had settled the matter—and no good talking any more about it.
Bean was silent and dignified. His own air seemed to disclose that when once you warned people in plain words, you could no longer be held responsible. For a moment they made a point of ignoring the larger matter.
"Say," Breede suddenly exploded, "I wish you'd tell me just how many kinds of a—no matter! Where was I? This reserve fund may be subject to draft f'r repairs an' betterment durin' 'suin' quarter or 'ntil such time as—"
The telephone again rang its alarm. Breede took the receiver and allowed dismay to be read on his face as he listened.
"Well, well, well," he at length began, soothingly, "go lie down; take something; take something; well, send over t' White Plains f'r s'more. Putcha t' sleep. What can I do?" Again the throttling hand.
He ruefully surveyed his littered desk, then drew the long sigh of the baffled.
"Take telegram m' wife. Sorry can't be home late, 'port'n board meet'n'. May be called out of town."
The telephone rang, but was ignored.
"Send it off," he directed Bean above the bell's clear call. "Then c'mon; go ball game. G'wup 'n subway."