“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Dawson,” the young man said, as if jumping at a decision, “I’ll deposit fifteen millions more in this bank and then I’ll stop. It will give me forty-five millions, and I’ll never bother you again; unless,” he added, almost pleadingly, “you let me.”
The president stared electrically.
“You mean,” he said sharply, “that you can get more?”
“You asked me how much more I had at present and I told you.”
“I beg your pardon; you didn’t tell me exactly. I should have asked how much more in all you expect to have.”
“Mr. Dawson,” ignoring the president’s last words, “it seems to me that if I scatter the deposits among other banks in the city, I can’t do much harm. In fact,” he added, brightly, as if at a new idea, “I could open accounts with banks in Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, St. Louis, and other cities, where they would not be noticeable. And even in Europe. You could transfer some of the funds I have here to the big cities there, and then I could deposit an equal amount here, so that my account with you would never be above forty-five or fifty millions, and—”
“My God, man! Don’t you know that—” Dawson checked himself abruptly. He went on very quietly. “Am I to understand that your supply is not exhausted?”
“I won’t deposit any more of it here,” said Grinnell conciliatingly.
“How much more is there in the mine?”
“There is no mine,” answered Grinnell. The president felt he spoke the truth.