The visitor rose. "Don't you dare to patronize me," he said. "Thanks to your cursed bank I'm a poor chap. I'd begun to hope—to hope—What do you care what I hoped? You're as cold-blooded as that irrigation swindle that's fooled us all."
A little slow color crept over Bertram King's lantern jaws.
"Sit down," he said briefly. "I brought you up here to talk about that. You didn't attend the meeting of the stockholders last night."
"No. I was doing errands for Miss Barry; and I didn't care to sit there and listen to empty platitudes."
King hesitated a moment, but he put constraint upon himself. Freddy was desperately in love, and had had a desperate disappointment.
"I don't blame you for feeling sore," he said at last, "but I believe I have good news for you. The irrigation proposition would have gone through all right if the panic in that region hadn't suddenly knocked the bottom out for the time being. It's a legitimate thing, and we were able to show the stockholders last night that if they would be patient and give us time, we would issue notes and the bank depositors would be paid."
"What?" asked Whitcomb incredulously, and again sat down.
King nodded. "The bank closed, but it didn't fail, and if Barry & Co.'s people will trust us, I firmly believe everybody is going to have his own—say in a year or two."
"Two!" echoed Whitcomb, the hopeful light fading somewhat.
"Of course. Money in the bank, boy." King rose and advanced to him and slapped him on the shoulder. "You don't need it to live on."