Bunker Bean by Harry Leon Wilson


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Page 37

This left him four thousand dollars with which to buy his way into the
directorate of that express company, as suggested by Aunt Clara. He had
learned a great deal about buying stocks. He knew there was a method
called "buying on a margin" which was greatly superior to buying the
shares outright: you received a great many more shares for a given sum.
Therefore he would buy thus, and the sooner be a director. He liked to
think of that position in his moments of lesser exaltation. He recalled
his child-self sitting beside his father on the seat of an express
wagon. It was queer how life turned out--sometimes you couldn't get away
from a thing. Maybe he would always be a director; still he could go
into baseball, too.

He did his business with the broker without a twinge of his old
timidity. Indeed, he was rather bored by the affair. The broker took his
money and later in the day he learned that he controlled a very large
number of the shares of the Federal Express Company. He forgot how many,
but he knew it was a number befitting his new dignity. Having done this
much he thought the directorship could wait. Let them come to him if
they wanted him. He had other affairs on.

There was the new dog.

It was not the least of many great days in Bean's life, that golden
afternoon when he sped to the bird-and-animal store and paid the last
installment of Napoleon's ransom. The creature greeted him joyously as
of yore through the wall of glass, frantically essaying to lick the hand
that was so close and yet so unaccountably withheld.

The money passed, and one dream, at least, had been made to come true.
For the first time he was in actual contact with the wonderful animal.

"He knows me," said Bean, as the dog hurled itself delightedly upon him.
"We've been friends a long time. I think he got so he expected me every
afternoon."

Napoleon barked emphatically in confirmation of this. He seemed to be
saying: "Hurry! Let's get out of here before he puts me back in that
window!"

The old man confessed that he would miss the little fellow. He advised
Bean to call him "Nap." "Napoleon" was no right name for a dog of any
character.

"You know what that fellow been if he been here now," he volunteered at
parting. "I dell you, you bed your life! He been a gompanion unt partner
in full with that great American train-robber, Chessie Chames. Sure he
would. My grantmutter she seen him like she could maybe reach out a
finger unt touch him!"

"I'll call him Nap," promised Bean. He had ceased to feel blamable for
the shortcomings of Napoleon I, but it was just as well not to have the
name used too freely.

When he issued to the street, the excited dog on a leash, he was prouder
than most kings have ever had occasion to be.

Now, he went to inspect flats. He would at last have "apartments," and
in a neighbourhood suitable for a growing dog. He bestowed little
attention on the premises submitted to his view, occupying himself
chiefly with observing the effect of his dog on the various janitors.
Some were frankly hostile; some covertly so. Some didn't mind dogs--but
there was rules. And some defeated themselves by a display of
over-enthusiasm that manifestly veiled indifference, or perhaps
downright dislike.

But a janitor was finally encountered who met the test. In ten seconds
Bean knew that Cassidy would be a friend to any dog. He did not fawn
upon the animal nor explode with praise. He merely bestowed a glance or
two upon the distinguished head, and later rubbed the head expertly just
back of the erect ears; this, while he exposed to Bean the circumstances
under which one steam-heated apartment, suitable for light housekeeping,
chanced to be vacant. The parties, it appeared, was givin' a Dutch lunch
to a gang of their friends at 5 A.M. of a morning, and that was bad
enough in a place that was well kep' up; but in the sicin' place they
got scrappin', which had swiftly resulted in an ambulance call for the
host and lessee, and the patrol wagon for his friends that were not in
much better shape thimselves, praise Gawd. But the place was all cleaned
up again and would be a jool f'r anny young man that could take a drink,
or maybe two, and then stop.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Wed 14th Jan 2026, 23:52