Bramson read out the figures: “Assets £27,862, Liabilities, including overdraft, £22,396.”
“Which means,” commented Peter, “that your thousand and my twelve are worth—about five between them. Roughly forty cents on the dollar. If we could sell the factory as a going concern.”
“You haven’t taken anything for the good-will of the business,” put in Bramson.
“Of course I haven’t. That’s the whole question. Up to the end of last month, we were making profits. That was why you bought Turkovitch’s shares, wasn’t it? Do you think we’re going to make a profit this month?”
“We might.”
“Forget it,” said Peter genially. “The best we can hope for is to nurse the show through this damned war—if it doesn’t last too long. Now listen to me. . . .”
He plunged into details, giving his orders succinctly. This must go: that be curtailed. Publicity account, selling expenses, manufacturing charges, clerical work—Peter dealt with each seriatim, hardly referring to the figures on the table. “As for the finance,” he concluded, “I’ll deal with that myself. But mind you, the whole thing’s a gamble . . . Play poker, Bramson?” he asked suddenly.
“Occasionally.”
“Well, if you ever put up your last table-stake to bluff the jack-pot on a busted flush—you’ll understand the present position of Nirvana Limited.”
Two minutes later the car was purring Citywards.