“Ten will do,” he echoed; then, dryly, “I should think it would.” He paused for the veriest instant, then added, with the utmost directness, “It’s no go, Mr. Carleton. I’m caught myself. I can’t let you have a cent.”
At the words the blood seemed suddenly to leave Jack Carleton’s heart. Something tightened in his throat, and a faint mist seemed to gather between Farrington’s face and his own. Then, as he came to himself, “Can’t let me have it!” he cried sharply. “Why, you told me last night you’d see me through, you won’t go back on your word now. The money’s promised. It’s too late.”
Farrington’s face was expressionless. “You don’t realize,” he said, “what a time this is. It’s one day out of a million—the worst there’s ever been. If I could have foreseen—”
The telephone on his desk rang sharply, and he turned to answer it. Jack Carleton sat as if stunned. This man had lied to him; had given him his word, and now, with the market hopelessly lower, retracted it; had thrown him a rope, and, as he hung helpless in mid air, was leaning coolly forward to cut it, and let him perish. And he had promised Turner—his word of honor. He felt physically faint and sick. Farrington hung up the receiver, and then, as Jack started to speak, an interruption occurred. Suddenly the door opened, and Cummings appeared in the entrance. He seemed greatly hurried and excited, as if he had been running hard. “All ready, Hal,” he cried, “he’ll ring you any minute now. And when he does, buy like hell! For the personal, of course! He says—”
Quickly Farrington cut in on him. “Shut up!” he cried, so sharply that Jack could not but note his tone, “Can’t you see I’m busy? Wait outside, till I’m through,” and Cummings, his red face many shades redder than before, at once hastily withdrew.
Immediately Carleton leaned forward. “Look here,” he cried desperately, “this isn’t right. You told me you’d see me through. Those were your very words. You can’t go back on them now. If you do, you’ve got me ruined—worse than ruined. It isn’t only the money; I’ve pledged my word; pledged myself to make good. I’ve got to have it, Farrington; that’s all; I’ve got to; can’t you understand?”
Farrington frowned. “You can’t have it,” he answered sharply, “and don’t take that tone to me, either, Mr. Carleton. Haven’t I given you twenty thousand already? You must have misunderstood me last night. I said I’d see you through if I could, and now I find I can’t. That’s all. I tell you I can’t; and I won’t stop to split hairs about it, either. I’ve got too much at stake. You’d better not wait, Mr. Carleton. There’s no use in it. There’s nothing for you here.”
Carleton’s eyes blazed. Just for an instant things swam before him; for an instant he half crouched, like an animal about to spring. In the office, absolute stillness reigned, save for the tall clock in the corner ticking off the seconds—five—ten—fifteen—and then, all at once, his tightly closed hands unclenched, his lips relaxed; on the instant he stood erect, and without speaking, turned quickly on his heel, and left the room.
Grim and white of face, he burst five minutes later into Turner’s private office, with a bearing so changed that Turner could not help but notice it, and read the trouble there. “Something wrong?” he asked sharply, and Carleton nodded, with a strange feeling as if he were acting a part in some sinister dream. “I couldn’t get it,” he said.
Turner gazed at him, frowning. “Nonsense,” he cried, and Carleton could have laughed hysterically to hear his own words of ten minutes before coming back to him: “You’ve got to get it. You told me you were all right, Jack. You can’t do this now. Last night was the time to settle or sell. You can’t turn around now. It’s too late.”