“Vor uss id iss nod,” he said. “Vor uss id iss nod. Ve are bankers. To zese heights ov imagination ve cannod vollow, Mr. Gald. Id iss beautiful. Ve are zorry.”
In the doorway Galt turned and faced them. No one else had moved.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I need some sleep. I’ll come tomorrow.”
The scene was repeated the next day,—Galt talking, the bankers listening, Mordecai lying back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling, tapping the ends of his fingers together, blowing his breath through his short gray beard.
“Vad iss id vor yourself you vand, Mr. Gald?” he asked without moving.
It was Galt’s way when he was winning to press his luck. He wanted a place on the board of directors. But he demanded more.
“I want to be chairman of the board,” he said.
“Id vould be strange,” said Mordecai, pensively. “Nobody vould understand id. Ooo iss zat Mr. Gald? Vy iss he made chairman? Zo ze people vould talk. Ov ze old directors ooo vould fode vor zat Mr. Gald?”
“Gates and Valentine will vote for me,” said Galt.
“You haf asked zem?”