e says she's got
it all reasoned _out_, don't I tell you?" He put a throttling hand over
the anguished voice, and looked dumbly at Bean. He noted the evil sneer
and traced it to the cuffs. Slowly he hung up the receiver and took one
of the cuffs in his hands.

"Wha's matter these cuffs?" he demanded with a show of his true spirit.

"Right enough. Cuffs all right, if you like that kind. But why don't you
wear 'em _on_--like this?" He luminously exposed his left forearm. It
was by intention the one that carried the purple monogram.

"Sewed on, like that!" he added almost sharply.

Breede seemed to be impressed by the exhibit.

"Well," he began, awkwardly, as a man knowing himself in the wrong but
still defiant, "I won't do it. _That's_ all! Not for anybody."

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."

"Got car downstairs," suggested Bean.

"You got your work cut out f'r you; 'sall I got t' say," growled Breede.

"'S little old last year's car," said Bean modestly.