“As you will, sir, but time is money,” said Mr Bland. “We might be able to place them to-day, as I hear rumours of some one buying up a few. In a couple of hours’ time it may be too late.”
“But surely, gentlemen, they will be saleable at some price?” cried the Major.
The partners shook their heads. And in a fit of desperation, the Major decided to sell, and was shown into a room, to wait while the preliminary business went on, Mr Caley himself going out to dispose of the shares.
Hours passed, during which the Major sat vainly trying to compose himself to read the papers on the table, but they seemed to be full of nothing else save adverse money market news; and at last he could do nothing but pace the room.
The door opened at last and the stockbroker entered, followed by his partner.
“I have done the best I could for you, sir,” said Mr Caley. “Here is an open cheque, which I would advise you to cash at once. There will be the necessary signature required by-and-by for the transference of the shares to the buyer, but that will occupy some days. Shall we send and get the cheque cashed?”
“Yes,” said the Major, as he caught up a pen, and glanced at the amount and signature. “Not a tenth of what I paid for them. Humph, ‘R. Wrigley.’”
“Yes, sir, a gentleman who has bought two or three lots, I believe.—Thank you.”
The Major threw himself back in his chair, and waited while the cheque was cashed, and then, shaking hands with his brokers, he took a cab and ordered the man to drive to Guildford Street.
“I hope we have given him good advice, Bland.”