He went to the office in the morning still wondering how rich he might be. The newspaper he read did not enlighten him, though it spoke frankly of "Federal Express Scandal." If the thing was _very_ scandalous, perhaps he had made a lot of money. But he could not be sure of this. It might be merely "newspaper vituperation," which was something he knew to be not uncommon. The paper had declared that those directors had juggled a twenty-million dollar surplus for years, lending it to one another at a low rate of interest, until, alarmed by clamouring stockholders, they had declared this enormous dividend, taking first, however, the precaution to buy for a low price all the stock they could. But the newspaper did not say how rich any one would be that had a whole lot of margins on that stock at Kennedy & Balch's. Maybe you had to hire a lawyer in those cases. Entering the office, he was rudely shocked by Tully. "Good-morning, Mr. Bean!" said Tully distinctly. "Good-morning!" returned Bean, stunned by Tully's "Mr." "Uh! pleasant day," he added. "Yes, sir!" said Tully, again distinctly. Bean controlled himself and went to his desk. "'Mr.' and 'Sir'! Gee! Am I as rich as _that_??" he thought. Half an hour later it no longer seemed to him that he was rich at all. He was seated opposite Breede taking letters in shorthand as if he were merely a thirty-dollar-a-week Bunker Bean. Breede was refusing to recognize any change in their relationship. He made no reference to their talk of the day before and his detached cuffs stubbornly occupied their old position on the desk. Was it all a dream--and the flapper, too? But the flapper soon called him to the telephone. "Poor old Pops came home late, and he says you're just perfectly a puzzle to him," she began. "I know," said Bean; "he says he can't make me out."