Utterly crestfallen the promoter looked—utterly like a thrashed hound or a disappointed pickpocket. Stronger and stronger grew the inclination to kick Mr. Stewart off the premises; feebler and feebler grew his hopes of controlling the operations of the Protector Bread Company, Limited; and through all there was an awful sense of injustice—of it being a sin for him not to be able to do what he liked with “his own;” with the baby he had conceived and brought into the world, and nursed into a great prosperous creature, the shares in which were already being eagerly inquired for.
“Then, what is Dudley to do?” he asked, feebly and impotently.
“Sell the place again as soon as possible,” advised Mr. Stewart.
“That is all very well; but if he cannot sell?”
“In that case he must let.”
“And if he do not let?”
“In that case he must make the best he can of a bad bargain,”—and Mr. Stewart shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, “If a man will be a simpleton, he must bear the consequences.”
“The matter shall come before the board,” remarked Mr. Black.
“There is nothing to prevent its doing so, is there?” inquired Mr. Stewart.
“And I wish to Heaven, sir—I wish to Heaven—I had been content to abide by good advice, and never asked you for your name, or influence, or—or anything,” finished Mr. Black, in a fine frenzy. “I could have carried the company through without your help; I should have been better without your interference; I should have had the management, to a certain extent, in my own power, instead——”