The words came to him faintly as though shouted from an incredible distance. The shock was too acute for his nerves. He sought to mumble over the fantastic news and sank into a chair, sick with giddiness. The next thing he knew clearly was Drake's powerful arm about him and a glass forced to his lips.
"Here, get this down. Then steady up. Good luck doesn't kill."
"I thought they'd caught us—thought I was cleaned out," he said incoherently.
"You did, eh?" said Drake, laughing. "You haven't much faith in the old man."
Bojo steadied himself, standing alone. The room seemed to race about him and in his ears were strange unfixed sounds. One thought rapped upon his brain—he was not disgraced, not dishonored; no one would ever know—Drake would never need to know; that is if he were careful, if he could somehow dissimulate before that penetrating glance.
"I thought we were to sell Pittsburgh & New Orleans," he said vacantly, leaning against the mantelpiece.
"So did a good many others," said Drake shrewdly. "Sit down, till I tell you about it. Head clearin' up?"
"It's rather a shock," said Bojo, trying to smile. "I'm sorry to be such a baby."
"I warned you not to jump to conclusions or try any flyers," said Drake, watching him. "Of course you did?"
Bojo nodded, his glance on the floor.