An old man across the table, with horn-rimmed glasses low on the bridge of his nose, leaned forward.
"Is it as bad as that?" he inquired indifferently. "I wasn't sure."
"A careful analysis of the statement shows about that," Deane answered.
"We've got to get out from under, that's all," Bartley Richston broke into speech for the first time. He was quite unmoved, matter of fact. "No use blinking facts. As a going concern the Norquay Trust is on its last legs. How long," he demanded of Grove, "can you carry on as you are? Suppose it got about that you're shaky and all these four per cent, depositors demand their money? How long would you last?"
"About half a day," Grove answered sullenly. "We can't stand a run. Damn it, you know that, Richston. I've told you a dozen times in the last month."
"Then a receivership is the only solution. A receivership and a winding-up."
Grove sprang to his feet.
"By the Lord," he cried in a passion, and his fist struck the table with a thud, "you shan't sink me like that. I tell you this thing can be pulled through. You've all made a fat thing out of it. You've got to back me up now. No use saying you can't. I know what your cash balances are in bank—every one of you. I know what Victory bonds you hold. This slump won't last. You've got to come through."
"Be sensible, Norquay," Arthur Deane put in. "No use throwing good money after bad. The war's over. The reaction's set in. The day of the quick turn and the long profit is past. It is unfortunate—but other concerns have gone bankrupt. It is not exceptional."
Burrows, the short, stout man at the lower end of the table, grunted audibly.