“Yes, we have tried the Bank, but they can't do anything there. Goldsworthy, the manager, is the nicest fellow living, and his 'No' is almost as good as another's 'Yes'; but of course it was 'No'; we had no security; the cotton may go lower before it turns, and he has told us we must pay.”
“But surely, Herbert, if the big firms knew how you were situated, they would help you, because things would come right in a few weeks, you say.”
“Every man has to look after himself in the market But I did go to Huddleston, because he has given me so much advice, and wanted me to take an interest in the Church.... I wish my tongue had been burned before I crossed his room.
“No, he wasn't rude—that's not his sin; he might be better if he were straighter. He hoped that I was prospering in business, and reminded me that I must not allow the world to get too much hold, and became eloquent on money being only a stewardship. But when I opened up my errand, he explained that he made it a principle never to lend money, and suggested that this was a chastening because we had hasted to be rich. He hoped that the issue would be sanctified, and... but I rose and left, quite sick.”
“What a canting old wretch!” Mrs. Ransome was very angry. “I always hated that man's soft sawder; he's much too pussy to be true.”
“He was not bound to help me unless he pleased. But what riled me was his religious talk; he might have spared me that at least. And if those operators who have knocked the market to pieces haul in £30,000, they will likely give £1,000 to missions.
“When a man has done his level best, and been fairly prudent, and has worked hard, and is getting a fair connection, and everything is taken away by a big, unscrupulous, speculative firm, which sees a chance of making a pile at the ruin of half a dozen struggling firms, it's a little hard.”
“They ought to be put in jail; but they'll catch it some day;” and it was evident Mrs. Ransome, like many other people in her circumstances, found much satisfaction from the belief in future punishment.
“It's apt to make one bitter, too,” Ransome went on. “When I sat opposite old Dodson in the 'bus this afternoon—come to the penny 'bus now, you see, Queenie—looking out from below his shaggy eyebrows like a Scotch terrier, with meanness written over his shabby clothes, and almost heard the gold chinking in his pockets, and thought that he could save our home and secure my future by a cheque, and never miss the money—suppose he lost it, which he wouldn't if I lived—I declare, I could have... well, I did not feel as Christian as Huddleston would desire.”
“Bert, have you ever thought what we would do if we became rich—how we would send flowers to people who were not well off, and let them use our carriage, and send overworked teachers and clerks for holidays, and...