He took the card from the hands of his very plain typist, and suppressed the howl of joy which rose to his throat. For the name of Bones was known in the City of London, and it was the dream of such men as Charles O. Soames that one day they would walk from the office of Mr. Augustus Tibbetts with large parcels of his paper currency under each arm.
He jumped up from his chair and slipped on a coat, pushed the prospectus he was writing under a heap of documents—one at least of which bore a striking family likeness to a county court writ—and welcomed his visitor decorously and even profoundly.
"In re Plover Car," said Bones briskly. He prided himself upon coming to the point with the least possible delay.
The face of Mr. Soames fell.
"Oh, you want to buy a car?" he said. He might have truly said "the car," but under the circumstances he thought that this would be tactless.
"No, dear old company promoter," said Bones, "I do not want to buy your car. In fact, you have no cars to sell."
"We've had a lot of labour trouble," said Mr. Soames hurriedly.
"You've no idea of the difficulties in production—what with the
Government holding up supplies—but in a few months——"
"I know all about that," said Bones. "Now, I'm a man of affairs and a man of business."
He said this so definitely that it sounded like a threat.
"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person to another City of London business person, is it possible to make cars at your factory?"