"I make a motion," he said, "that our solicitors be authorized to appear in court and ask for a winding-up order."
"Second the motion," Richston snapped.
"You shan't," Grove declared hoarsely. Tiny sweat-beads began to stand out on his forehead. "What's got into the lot of you? You're running to cover like a lot of whipped dogs. All the thing needs is fifty or sixty thousand from each of us to carry on until the assets that we hold recover value. What if the war is over? Timber and mining and pulp and transportation go on. This isn't a corner grocery to be closed up as soon as business slacks off."
"You are wrong," Richston informed him. "This business does not differ essentially from the corner grocery—except in scope. It was undertaken to make money. It no longer does so. Considering the state its affairs have arrived it, it can never be made to do so. Therefore let it be wound up—at once. We waste time in useless talk. Let us agree on the motion, and act."
"Oh, yes, you're willing," Grove flung at him. "You've had a good many slices out of the melon. What about our trust accounts? What about our depositors?"
"Circumstances are too strong for us," Richston replied imperturbably. "We can see now that accepting deposits was a mistake. We should never have undertaken private banking. It's unfortunate, I'll admit. I suppose there'll be a noise in the papers and all that sort of thing. But it isn't criminal to fail in business. Be sensible, Norquay. Step out of it as gracefully as possible. You're not faced with ruin. No more are we. It would be folly for us to get more deeply involved than we already are. Let it go. What's the Limited Liability Act for?"
Sagacious nods animated the several heads. Grove towered above them impotent, his face red with anger, shadowed by a trace of fear, his look indicating momentary bewilderment at attack from an unexpected quarter. There lifted a low confusion of voices. Several speaking at once. Querulous complaining. Rumbles of mismanagement, muttered disclaimers of responsibility.
Rod's father rose slowly to his feet. His thin, smooth-shaven face betrayed no particular feeling. Only Rod, who knew the faintest indication of his every mood, saw that his eyes burned, that there was a repressed disgust and scorn in them. He rapped on the table with his knuckles.
"Before you prematurely explode this well-laid mine," he enunciated clearly, "I wish to make a brief statement. My son, whom you evince a tendency to blame, is a heavy stockholder. I myself hold a limited interest, but between us we do have control. I do not wish to offer excuses for Mr. Grove Norquay. He bears his own responsibility. I am aware, however, that there is other responsibility for the insolvency of this concern. I have perfunctorily attended but few directors' meetings. But I have my own sources of information. For some weeks I have foreseen this move. It is just such an action as might be expected of a group of men like yourselves. Yourselves"—a bitter gibing note crept into his voice—"most of you liars, and half of you thieves."
The masks dropped. Those various elderly, respectable gentlemen gasped and rose to the attack. Their old voices, some thin and reedy, some thick with indignation, were leveled at him. They demanded apologies. They thumped the table. Their voices created a hubbub.