If he had done so it would not have been pleasant to him, for it was perpetual field-day in the office. A few days after Uncle Lawrence’s visit to his nephew, the senior partner sat bending his hard, anxious face over account-books and letters. The junior partner lounged in his chair as if the office had been a club-room. The “Company” never appeared.
“Father, I’ve just seen Sinker.”
“D—— Sinker!”
“Come, come, father, let’s be reasonable! Sinker says that the Canal will be a clear case of twenty per cent, per annum for ten years at least, and that we could afford to lose a cent or two upon the Bilbo iron to make it up, over and over again.”
Mr. Abel Newt threw his leg over the arm of the chair and looked at his boot. Mr. Boniface Newt threw his head around suddenly and fiercely.
“And what’s Sinker’s commission? How much money do you suppose he has to put in? How much stock will he take?”
“He has sold out in the Mallow Mines to put in,” said Abel, a little doggedly.
“Are you sure?”
“He says so,” returned Abel, shortly.
“Don’t believe a word of it!” said his father, tartly, turning back again to his desk.