"Stock'll be up t' six hundred before week's out; net you 'round four hund' thous'n'," exploded Breede in his most vicious manner.
"Four hundred thousand margins?" He wanted to be cautious.
"Dollars, dammit!" shouted Breede.
Bean was able to remain cool. That amount of money would have meant nothing to him back on the Nile. Why should it now?
"It wasn't the money I was after," he began, loftily.
"Hanh!"
"Principle of the thing!" concluded Bean.
Breede had lost control of his capable under jaw. It sagged limply. At last he spoke, slowly and with awe in his tone.
"You don't puzzle me any more." He shook his head solemnly. "Not any more. I know now!"
"Little old steamer—can't swim a stroke," said Bean.