Bunker Bean | Page 2

be "dignified" only. The brave only may be
"different." It was all well enough to gaze at striking fabrics in
windows; but to buy and to wear openly, and get yourself pointed
at--laughed at! Again sounded the refrain of the hired bard of dress.
"_It is cut to give the wearer the appearance of perfect physical
development. And the effect so produced so improves his form that he

unconsciously strives to attain the appearance which the garment gives
him; he expands his chest, draws in his waist and stands erect._"
A rustling of papers from the opposite side of the desk promised a
diversion of his thoughts. Bean was a hireling and the person who
rustled the papers was his master, but the youth bestowed upon the
great man a look of profound, albeit not unkindly, contempt. It could be
seen, even as he sat in the desk-chair, that he was a short man; not an
inch better than Bean, there. He was old. Bean, when he thought of the
matter, was satisfied to guess him as something between fifty and
eighty. He didn't know and didn't care how many might be the years of
little Jim Breede. Breede was the most negligible person he knew.
He was nearly nothing, in Bean's view, if you came right down to it.
Besides being of too few inches for a man and unspeakably old, he was
unsightly. Nothing of the Gordon Dane about Breede. The little hair
left him was an atrocious foggy gray; never in order, never combed,
Bean thought. The brows were heavy, and still curiously dark, which
made them look threatening. The eyes were the coldest of gray, a match
for the hair in colour, and set far back in caverns. The nose was blunt,
the chin a mere knobby challenge, and between them was the
unloveliest moustache Bean had ever been compelled to observe; short,
ragged, faded in streaks. And wrinkles--wrinkles wheresoever there
was room for them: across the forehead that lost itself in shining yellow
scalp; under the eyes, down the cheeks, about the traplike mouth. He
especially loathed the smaller wrinkles that made tiny squares and
diamonds around the back of Breede's neck.
Sartorially, also, Bean found Breede objectionable. He forever wore the
same kind of suit. The very same suit, one might have thought, only
Bean knew it was renewed from time to time; it was the kind called "a
decent gray," and it had emphatically not been cut "to give the wearer
the appearance of perfect physical development." So far as Bean could
determine the sole intention had been to give the wearer plenty of room
under the arms and at the waist. Bean found it disgusting--a man who
had at least enough leisure to give a little thought to such matters.
Breede's shoes offended him. Couldn't the man pick out something
natty, a shapelier toe, buttons, a neat upper of tan or blue cloth--patent
leather, of course? But nothing of the sort; a strange, thin, nameless
leather, never either shiny or quite dull, as broad at the toe as any place,

no buttons; not even laces; elastic at the sides! Not _shoes_, in any
dressy sense. Things to be pulled on. And always the same, like the
contemptible suits of clothes.
He might have done a little something with his shirts, Bean thought; a
stripe or crossed lines, a bit of gay colour; but no! Stiff-bosomed white
shirts, cuffs that "came off," cuffs that fastened with hideous metallic
devices that Bean had learned to scorn. A collar too loose, a black satin
cravat, and no scarf-pin; not even a cluster of tiny diamonds.
From Breede and his ignoble attire Bean shifted the disfavour of his
glance to Breede's luncheon tray on the desk between them. Breede's
unvarying luncheon consisted of four crackers composed of a substance
that was said, on the outside of the package, to be "predigested," one
apple, and a glass of milk moderately inflated with seltzer. Bean
himself had fared in princely fashion that day on two veal cutlets
bathed in a German sauce of oily richness, a salad of purple cabbage, a
profusion of vegetables, two cups of coffee and a German pancake that
of itself would have disabled almost any but the young and hardy, or,
presumably, a German.
Bean guessed the cost of Breede's meal to be a bit under eight cents.
His own had cost sixty-five. He despised Breede for a petty economist.
Breede glanced up from his papers to encounter in Bean's eyes only a
look of respectful waiting.
"Take letter G.S. Hubbell gen' traffic mag'r lines Wes' Chicago dear sir
your favour twen'th instant--"
The words came from under that unacceptable moustache of Breede's
like a series of exhausts from a motorcycle. Bean recorded them in