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“That’ll be twenty-five apiece,” said the waitress.

“Twenty-five!” said Carmody incredulously.

“Coffee’s done went up a nickel,” said the waitress.

Carmody smiled wanly. “So, for peace of mind, Bomar’s got to pay a nickel more.” He threw a quarter down on the table. “Damn the expense!”

“This is our day to howl,” said Sterling. “Have another crumb-bun.”

“Who’s Bomar?” said the waitress. “All the time you talk about Bomar.”

“Who is Bomar?” said Sterling. He looked at her pityingly. “Bomar? Bomar Fessenden III? Ask anybody!”

“Ask Miss Daily,” said Carmody gleefully. “If you really want to get an earful about Bomar, ask Miss Daily. She can’t think about anything else.”

“Ask her what she thinks of Bomar’s latest girlfriend,” said Sterling.

Carmody pursed his lips in imitation of Miss Daily, and imitated her voice. “That hussy from the Copacabana!”

Poor Miss Daily, who had been with the company for thirty-nine years, had been assigned to the Stockholders’ Records Section only a month before, and believed everything Sterling and Carmody told her about Bomar.

Carmody continued his expert imitation of Miss Daily. “There ought to be laws against somebody like Bomar having all that money, and throwing it around like it was water, with so many people going hungry everywhere,” he said indignantly. “If I were a man, I’d go to wherever Bomar was, push his stuck-up old butler aside, and give him the thrashing of his life.”

“What’s the butler’s name?” said Sterling.

“Dawson?” said Carmody. He shook his head. “Redfield? No, no, not Redfield.”

“Come on, man—think,” said Sterling. “You made him up.”

“Perkins? Nope, no. Slipped my mind completely.” He smiled and shrugged. “No matter. Miss Daily will remember. She hasn’t forgotten a shred of the whole ugly story that is the life of Bomar Fessenden III.”

“Oh,” said Carmody vaguely, displaying his leadership, as he and Sterling returned to the basement office after coffee. “They’re here. Guess we might as well fall to, huh?”

The office was filled with cardboard boxes containing the spring dividend checks, which the section would compare with the most up-to-date information on the whereabouts of and number of shares held by the company’s thousands of owners. Miss Daily, tiny and shy, bright-eyed as a chicken, was sorting through the contents of one of the boxes.

“We don’t have to go over them all, Miss Daily,” said Carmody. “Just the ones with recent changes of address or changes in holdings.”

“I know,” said Miss Daily. “I’ve got the list on my desk.”

“Good. Fine,” said Carmody. “I see you’re already in ‘F.’ Do you mean to say that in the short time Mr. Sterling and I have been gone, you’ve gotten that far?”

“I was looking up our fine Mr. Bomar Fessenden III,” said Miss Daily grimly.

“Everything square with my old pal?” said Sterling.

Miss Daily was white with resentment. “Yes,” she said crisply, “quite. Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Spit in the ocean,” said Sterling. “I doubt if Bomar even knows he owns a piece of this company, it’s such a little piece. The big money comes in from Standard Oil, DuPont, General Motors, and all that.”

“A hundred shares!” said Miss Daily. “You call that a little piece?”

“Well, that’s only worth ten thousand dollars, after all,” said Carmody patiently, “take or leave a hundred. The necklace he gave to Carmella down in Buenos Aires cost more than that.”

“You mean Juanita,” said Miss Daily.

“I beg your pardon,” said Carmody. “I meant Juanita.”

“Carmella was the bullfighter’s daughter in Mexico City,” said Miss Daily. “She got the Cadillac.”

“Of course,” said Sterling to Carmody, reproachfully, “how could you get Carmella and Juanita confused?”

“Stupid of me,” said Carmody.

“They’re not at all alike,” said Miss Daily.

“Well, he’s through with Juanita anyway,” said Sterling. “He’s left Buenos Aires. It got damp.”

“Mercy me—damp!” said Miss Daily with bitter sarcasm. “It’s more than a body can put up with!”

“What else has Bomar got to say for himself?” said Carmody.

“Oh—he’s in Monte Carlo now. Flew