“Well,” said Witham, “I am afraid you will find prices higher still. There is very little wheat in Minnesota this year, and what there was in Dakota was cut down by hail. Millers in St. Paul and Minneapolis are anxious already, and there is talk of a big corner in Chicago. Nobody is offering again, while you know what land lies fallow in Manitoba, and the activity of their brokers shows the fears of Winnipeg millers with contracts on hand. This is not my opinion alone. I can convince you from the papers and market reports I see before you.”
Barrington could not controvert the unpleasant truth he was still endeavouring to shut his eyes to. “The demand from the East may slacken,” he said.
Witham shook his head. “Russia can give them nothing. There was a failure in the Indian monsoon, and South American crops were small. Now, I am going to take a further liberty. How much are you short?”
Barrington was never sure why he told him, but he was hard pressed then, and there was a quiet forcefulness about the younger man that had its effect on him. “That,” he said, holding out a document, “is the one contract I have not covered.”
Witham glanced at it. “The quantity is small. Still, money is very scarce, and bank interest almost extortionate just now.”
Barrington flushed a trifle, and there was anger in his face. He knew the fact that his loss on this sale should cause him anxiety was significant, and that Witham had surmised the condition of his finances tolerably correctly.
“Have you not gone quite far enough?” he said.
Witham nodded. “I fancy I need ask no more, sir. You can scarcely buy the wheat, and the banks will advance nothing further on what you have to offer at Silverdale. It would be perilous to put yourself in the hands of a mortgage-broker.”
Barrington stood up very grim and straight, and there were not many men at Silverdale who would have met his gaze.
“Your content is a little too apparent, but I can still resent an impertinence,” he said. “Are my affairs your business?”