“And now,” began Reid, “for the accounts. As far as I can see—there are one or two adjustments still to be made—we have managed, for the first time, to pay all our expenses and earn a small dividend.”
“Do ve pay out de dividend?” asked Turkovitch.
“Of course we don’t,” snapped Peter, “the money’s wanted for expansion.”
“Den vot’s the good of making it?” growled Turkovitch.
“One moment, gentlemen,” went on Reid. “I find, on careful analysis of the figures, that—had it not been for the high profits earned on the export trade—we should have made, not a profit, but a loss.” He gave details, and concluded, “I don’t think that’s a sound position.”
“Nor I,” commented Peter.
But here Turkovitch—tact thrown to the winds—boiled over. It was his business; his name was on all the brands; he knew quite well what “Petere” wanted; “Petere” wanted to be a millionaire; “Petere” wished to spend all the profit in some crazy scheme of advertising; why should they advertise? the cigarettes were the finest cigarettes in the world; he, Turkovitch, guaranteed them. . . .
“Oh, shut up,” muttered Peter, exasperated.
“I vill not shut up. You are always interfering. You interfere with me and de vork-peoples. You interfere vith my tobacco merchants. And now you vant to interfere vith de dividends.”
“Damn it, you draw a salary of seven hundred a year; and I haven’t had a penny piece out of the concern yet.”