The shareholders were moved and one heard murmurs of sympathy. Boldness paid, and Cartwright saw he was recovering his shaken power, but it was not all good acting. To some extent, he was sincere. He got his breath and resumed:
"I don't urge you with a selfish object to let me keep my post; I'd be relieved to let it go. Counted in money, the reward for my labor is not large. I want to save the Cartwright line, to pilot it into port, and, if there is no rash meddling, I believe I can. But I warn you the thing is in no other's power. Well, I have finished. You must choose whether your directors go or not."
There was an awkward silence, and then somebody asked: "Will the chairman state if he has a plan for meeting a situation he admits is difficult?"
Cartwright smiled rather grimly. "I will not make a public statement that might be useful to our antagonists! So long as I am chairman, you must trust me. My proposition is, give us six months, and then, if things are no better, we will welcome a committee of inquiry. In the meantime, a motion is before the meeting—"
"It is proposed and seconded that the directors' report and balance sheet be accepted," Gavin remarked.
The resolution was carried, the directors were reelected, and the meeting broke up. Cartwright sat down rather limply and wiped his face.
"I pulled it off, but they pushed me hard," he said. "At one time, it looked as if our defenses would go down."
"You have put off the reckoning; I think that's all," one of the directors remarked.
"We have six months," said Cartwright. "This is something. If they call a meeting then, I imagine I can meet them."
He signed to Gavin, who helped him with his big coat, and went off to the underground restaurant, where he presently fell asleep in a chair by the fire.