“How much more have we got?”
“About eight thousand shares, so far—from 91 to five-eighths.”
“Buy all you can up to 92 or so,” said Tamms, cheerfully. Suddenly, a still full-bodied, though rather senile voice was heard in the main office, asking for Mr. Tamms. Charlie started, and even Tamms sprang to his feet. And Charlie fancied that that gentleman’s face turned, if possible, a shade paler than its wont.
“What’s this, Tamms?” cried the old gentleman, already angry, as the door flew open, without heeding Charlie’s presence: “What’s this about the Starbuck Terminal bonds?” And Charlie could see, through the open door, the clerks in the outer office huddling their shoulders over their ledgers, in evident consciousness of a coming breeze. Mr. Townley’s face was crimson with excitement, as he panted in his stiff collar, his white hair making his face seem the redder, and his bald head beady with perspiration. Tamms had always a sort of patient, semi-patronizing tone in talking over business with his senior partner; but this time he tried, and tried in vain, to resume his usual manner.
“I am sorry to say,” he began slowly, “that hitherto—the Terminal property—has not proved—a profitable enterprise.”
“Stuff—and—nonsense!” interposed Mr. Townley, his sputtering enunciation in strange contrast with Tamms’s clear-cut tones. “You yourself told me it promised most excellently.”
“So I did, sir—last winter. I fear that I was mistaken,” said Tamms, humbly.
“Mistaken, eh! Well, sir, and what do you propose to do about it?”
“I see nothing for it—but to fund the next coupon—and attempt a reorganization——”
“I do not mean as a director, sir; with that business you are familiar. But as a banker—as a New York merchant—as a member—damn it, sir, as a member of the house of Charles Townley & Son?” In his anger, the old gentleman had used the former name of the firm; and there was an ugly glitter in Tamms’s eye, which he carefully kept from meeting old Mr. Townley’s.