“I’m not in, hang it!” shouted Mr. Dawson, whose voice, habitually, was so carefully modulated. “Go away!”
He arose and walked up and down the room. From time to time he snapped his fingers with a sharp sound. Grinnell looked on uncomfortably. At length Mr. Dawson ceased his walk, picked up his cigar, inserted it, very deliberately, into an amber cigar-holder, and lighted it. He faced the young man and said with composure: “That makes thirty millions of gold in two months.”
“Twenty-nine and a half,” corrected Grinnell, as if in self-defence.
“In round numbers, thirty millions. You have, also, on deposit in other banks, some six or seven more.”
“I—I think,” said Grinnell dubiously, “that it is less than seven. Let me see,” eagerly, as if anxious to show that he was not so black as Mr. Dawson would paint him. “It’s—it’s—”
The president waited.
“It is about seven,” confessed Grinnell regretfully..
“Mr. Grinnell, I don’t know whether you are familiar with finance.” The president spoke quietly, twirling his cigar-holder, and looking at the ashes critically.
“Not very,” hastily apologized the young man.
“You will pardon me for telling you that through ignorance of the responsibilities of your position you can inflict serious injury to the entire business community—injury, Mr. Grinnell, which, reduced to dollars and cents, might be many times thirty millions.”