And thus exit Squire Dudley without speaking a word he had intended, but with a very strong impression on his mind that Mr. Black, having been making free with the contents of a certain bottle, labelled “Martell,” ordinarily concealed in the recesses of one of Tann’s “Reliance” safes, must, therefore, have spoken the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
As though people did not tell worse fibs when they are drunk than when they are sober, more especially in London—as though “In vino veritas” were not an exploded creed with the rising generation, many of whom do not speak truth either in their cups or out of them.
CHAPTER II.
GREAT SUCCESSES.
While the events I have related were influencing, more or less, the Dudley family history, the “Protector Flour and Bread Company” was succeeding to an extent which it is given to few companies in our time to equal.
If a person be sufficiently interested in the prices of miscellaneous companies’ shares, to run his eye down a list of, say, a hundred and fifty of the new Limited Liabilities, he will be surprised to find how few out of the number are quoted as being at par, to say nothing of at a premium. Dis., dis., dis., is the encouraging legend attached to one after another; but it was not thus with the Protector—steadily its shares went up. It grew to be considered a good investment. The ten pound shares (two pounds paid) were eagerly sought after; and, had an intending investor gone, about that period, to any broker, and expressed his desire of purchasing into the Protector Bread Company, he would have been advised he was acting wisely—that the shares were very good property indeed.
And so every one believed. In all directions the Company’s vans were to be encountered conveying bread to the far-away depôts, or else returning empty from the extremest ends of London. The bread was good; the directors—greatly to the disgust of their housekeepers and cooks, who were thus cheated out of a legitimate perquisite in the shape of commission—ate of the staff of life kneaded at their own bakeries, and were satisfied.
If an inferior batch were produced, woe to the master baker, on whom, straight away, General Sinclair poured his vials of wrath. If the flour were sour, as servants frequently declared it to be, Mr. Bailey Crossenham’s ears tingled for a week.
Never was a company better managed; never a staff more rigidly superintended.
Did Linnor, at the most easterly point of London, running short of bread, borrow a few loaves from his neighbour, Mr. Bickley, and supply them as the genuine product of the Protector, Limited, down came a note from the Secretary’s office, informing Mr. Linnor, by “order of the board,” that if such dereliction from the paths of duty occurred again, he, Mr. Linnor, would forthwith be dismissed from the responsible position which he held.
Neither for those brilliant creatures, dressed in orange and green, who conveyed the bread from Stangate to all parts of the metropolis, was there such a thing as liberty. Their carts were numbered, and if, on the hottest day in summer, they stopped at the “Spotted Stag,” in Mile End Road, or the “White Hart,” in Newington, or the “Greyhound,” in Fulham, or any other favourite house of call, for a pot of beer, 16, or 48, or 33, or 27, was had up the same evening before the yard superintendent, and “cautioned” for all the world—so the men themselves said—as if the “governor was a beak.”