“I am—most infernally worried. Tell me, old man, what did you do with that cheque of mine for eight thousand?” (The cheque to which he alluded was the price of the station in Central Queensland which he had bought from Westonley a few weeks previously.)
“Paid it into my bank,” replied Westonley, instantly surmising that Brooke's financial affairs had gone wrong.
“Dacre's?”
“Yes.”
“Westonley, old chap, I have bad news for you. I got a telegram from Melbourne last night—Dacre's Bank has smashed, and smashed badly—hopelessly, in fact.”
Westonley's florid face paled.
“Smashed!”
“Utterly smashed. Will it hit you hard?”
“Break me! I had thirty thousand pounds on fixed deposit, a current account of about fifteen thousand—including the eight thousand you paid me, and every penny of my wife's money, little Mary's, and Jim's were in Dacre's,” and, man as he was, his voice trembled.
“It won't break you—by heavens, it shall not break you, Westonley! I bought Comet Vale from you for my boys, but I'll give it back to you for three—for five—years to help you to pull up.”