Then, slowly but surely, came the slump. The shareholders had their first dividends—ten per cent.—paid out of the capital. Another dividend was shortly due and there was no possible chance of it being forthcoming, unless Trevorrick and Pengelly drew upon their capital—a step that each was firmly determined not to take.
"Are we in the soup?" asked Pengelly, in reply to his partner's pessimistic declaration. "What do you suggest?"
"Pack up and clear off," replied the senior partner. "Lay hands on all the ready money we can possibly get hold of, and make ourselves scarce."
"How about the shareholders?" asked Pengelly. Trevorrick shrugged his shoulders.
"Shareholders have lost money before to-day," he remarked. "That's their affair."
"That's all right as far as we are concerned, if they take it lying down," objected the other. "S'posing they don't? What then? We wouldn't be safe for twenty-four hours in this country. We might try our luck abroad."
It was Trevorrick's turn to offer objections.
"Don't fancy the idea, especially with a warrant hanging over my head. Fellows who issue fraudulent balance sheets (Pengelly winced) get it in the neck pretty badly when they're caught. I've no fancy for seven years behind prison bars. And there's another thing. How long could either of us hang out abroad with what money we can lay our hands on? Six months. After that—phut!"
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Depends," replied Trevorrick. "Fifty thousand apiece and a snug hiding-place in one of the South American republics."