“It was rather lucky; they looked a good thing at first sight. But one can generally find the weak spot when one gets down to the foundation—as it’s our job to do. Lessingham’s coming in this morning, Blagge tells me, General. He rang through last night to ask if you’d be here.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Very good of him to come at all. I suppose if I see him once a month that’s about all I do, and Resston never. It’s as well he’s coming, though. He’s got a flair and we can do with his advice about the Barsington Dirt Track Racing Company. I don’t quite know what to say about that business, you know, Wraile. It’s a craze at the moment; there’s money in it now—big money. But will it last? Especially in the country towns—there’s a very limited public there, what?”
“Very limited, Sir Hunter. It’s all right for a quick flutter, but a loan—we might find ourselves badly let in.”
“Well, we’ll ask Lessingham—he may jump on it straight away. I respect his judgment. What time’s he coming?”
“Eleven o’clock, he said—should be here any time now.”
“Then I’ll keep my news till he comes—I’ve done a good stroke of business for the Company I think, Wraile, a very big stroke. Ah, here he is. Come on, Lessingham; better sometimes than never. Well, I’m glad to see you. We’ll have your advice first and then I’ll tell you my news—it might put the other out of our heads.”
The newcomer was a man of medium height and rather clumsy build—heavy shoulders, with a suspicion of hump in the back, and a large paunch. His hair was black and rather curly, but his complexion was pale and he wore large yellow-rimmed spectacles, with tinted Crooke’s lenses. He was smartly dressed—rather overdressed, with a heavy cravat and pearl pin; he wore dark-grey gloves which he did not remove even when writing, a habit that grated on the well-trained senses of his fellow-director. He spoke in a very soft and rather husky voice, which yet carried a considerable impression of character. As a matter of fact, he talked very little, leaving Sir Hunter to supply the deficiency. The three men sat down at the board table and were presently joined by the manager, Mr. Albert Blagge. Blagge was a tired-looking, middle-aged man, with honesty and mediocrity written all over him in equal proportions. He took little part in the discussion that followed and it was soon evident that he was employed as a responsible clerk and not as an adviser.
On the subject of Dirt Track Racing the General had a good deal to say and said it well. Lessingham sat beside him at the Board table, sifting through his gloved hands a sheaf of prospectuses over which he ran his eyes—a habit of apparent inattention which intensely annoyed Sir Hunter but of which he had been unable to break his partner. At the end of ten minutes the General had reached his climax and conclusion—the Barsington Dirt Track Company was unsuitable for the Victory Finance Company to handle.
“I agree,” said Lessingham, without looking up from his papers.
Sir Hunter frowned slightly and brushed his moustaches. He would have preferred an argument; he liked something to batter down. On this occasion, however, he was anxious to get on to the more important subject that was itching under his waistcoat. Being slightly uncomfortable about his ground, he assumed a more than usually strong and hearty voice: