“I’m afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I’m sorry, George.”
“My God! You don’t want to be sorry for me. I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I? I knew what I was doing. No, I’m a heel. I’ve sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she’s got. You know that, don’t you?”
I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”
George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”
“It’s not common talk yet, but I’m afraid it will be very soon.”
“You think I’m a heel, don’t you?” he said. “You think I’m marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you’re wrong. I’m trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn’t go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man’s dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn’t care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: ‘We’ll give the little guy a chance,’ and then the wells went dry—”
I went over and sat by his side. “What’s Myra going to do about this?”
“She wants her pound of flesh. She’ll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.
“Well, go on. If—what?”
“There’s a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don’t just have to beat the other guy, you’ve got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”