"Oh, no; there are several points to be explained before we go further."
"We haven't time to run a debating club," said Nelson, a little huffed
by my strategic move in securing the checks. "We have consented to the
loan for excellent reasons. Mr. Bolton's failure would be certain to
start the panic we have been staving off for two days."
"Very true. But Mr. Bolton is unduly anxious. He is in no more danger
of failing than the Bank of California."
Peter Bolton turned on me with suppressed anger glowing in his eyes, and
drew down the corners of his mouth in a sarcastic snarl.
"Maybe, young man, you know more about My Business than I know."
"I shouldn't put it that way," I retorted. "I should say that I know
more about your business than you are ready to tell."
Peter Bolton drew down the corners of his mouth again and turned to
Partridge with the air of putting me aside.
"Young Men have Strange Ideas," he drawled, "but you are Men of
Experience, and you know what it means to refuse this loan. If you are
sure a Panic would help your Business, why, all you have to do is to say
I can't have the money. If I don't get it, I'll be posted on the
Exchange this afternoon."
"And I warn you that Mr. Bolton is perfectly solvent," I said.
Partridge rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Nelson studied the floor in
perplexity.
"I am inclined to overrule Mr. Hampden in this matter," said Partridge;
"but he represents Mr. Kendrick, and I don't wish to go in flat
opposition to his judgment."
Peter Bolton gave me a malignant glance.
"Judgment! judgment!" he exclaimed in his most sarcastic drawl. "The
Young Man knows that Kendrick and I haven't been on good terms, and he
thinks he can Curry Favor by ruining me. But if I can have a word with
him, I can convince him it's to Kendrick's interest to keep me afloat
this time." And seizing my arm, he attempted to draw me to the other
end of the room.
"I don't care to hear anything you can't say before these gentlemen," I
replied.
"Come just a minute," he persisted, with a wheedling tone in his voice,
and drew me to a farther corner. Then he said in a low, eager tone: "It
will be fifty thousand dollars in your pocket if you say yes."
"No!" was my curt reply.
"It will be cash," he urged. "You can hold the money out from the
advance from the committee. You'll be perfectly safe."
"No!" I repeated, with the emphasis of disgust, and walked swiftly back
to the desk. For an instant I had the resolve to explain to my
fellow-members the offense that Peter Bolton had proposed. But an
uneasy conscience reminded me that I had brought it upon myself, and
instead of revealing the shameless offer, I said sharply:
"I ought to have saved time by telling you at the first that nothing
could serve this man's profit so well as a panic. He above all other
men is responsible for the present troubles, and any money advanced to
him will be used against the interests we are here to protect."
Peter Bolton's hand trembled, and a look of desperation came into his
eyes. Otherwise he gave no sign of lessening self-possession.
"It's a lie, it's a lie!" he cried. "I shall be ruined." Nelson turned
to me.
"That is a very serious assertion. You should be certain of your ground
to make such a charge."
"He can't prove it. It's a lie!" repeated Peter Bolton eagerly.
"Mr. Bolton is the father of the present crisis," I said. "He is the
financial backer of the agitators that the Committee of Safety has been
organized to put down. It was not so much as two weeks ago that he paid
thirty thousand dollars to the Council of Nine."
Peter Bolton attempted to resume his sarcastic air, and drew down the
corners of his mouth into his sardonic mask, though his lip trembled
with the effort.
"You can't believe lies like that," he said, in appeal to Partridge and
Nelson.
"And last night," I continued, "he received two members of the Council
of Nine in his office, and paid them a sum of money that I believe was
ten thousand dollars. It may have been twenty. An armed outbreak is
planned for to-night. If it comes, there stands the man who furnished
the money for it." And I pointed an accusing finger at the spare, bent
form of the arch-conspirator.
At this evidence of the accuracy of my information, the sallow face of
Peter Bolton once more turned to an ashy gray, and he looked from side
to side as though seeking some avenue of escape. Then he faced me.
"You're talking nonsense," he cried with tense determination in his
voice. "Nobody will believe you. You ought to be sent to the asylum."