“How the devil do you know that?” I cried.
“Mr. Martin! It is no doubt my fault; I am too prone to ignore etiquette; but you forget yourself.”
I hastened to apologize, although I was pretty certain the President was contemplating a queer transaction, if not flat burglary.
“Ten thousand pardons, your Excellency, for my most unbecoming tone, but may I ask how you became possessed of this information?”
“Jones told me,” he said simply.
As it would not have been polite to express the surprise I felt at Jones’ simplicity in choosing such a confidant, I held my peace.
“Yes,” continued the President, “owing to the recent sales of your real property in this country (sales due, I fear, to a want of confidence in my administration), you have at this moment a sum of three hundred thousand dollars in the bank safe. Now (don’t interrupt me, please), the experience of a busy life teaches me that commercial reputation and probity depend on results, not on methods. Your directors have a prejudice against me and my Government. That prejudice you, with your superior opportunities for judgment, cannot share. You will serve your employers best by doing for them what they haven’t the sense and courage to do for themselves. I propose that you should assume the responsibility of lending me this money. The transaction will redound to the profit of the bank. It shall also,” he added slowly, “redound to your profit.”
I began to see my way. But there were difficulties.
“What am I to tell the directors?” I asked.
“You will make the usual return of investments and debts outstanding, mortgages, loans on approved security—but you know better than I do.”