Hervey was sitting in the Northern Union Hotel smoking-room. He was talking to a burly man, with a red face and a shock of ginger-grey hair. This was the proprietor of the hotel.
“How long can you give me? I can settle everything by this day month. The harvesting is just finished. I only need time to haul the grain to the elevator. Will that satisfy you?”
The big man shrugged.
“You’ve put me off so often, Mr. Malling. It’s not business, and you know it,” he replied gutturally. “Will you give me an order on––your crop?”
He looked squarely into the other’s face. Hervey hesitated. He knew that he could not do this, and yet he was sorely pressed for money. However, he made up his mind to take the risk. He thought his mother would not go back on him.
“Very well.”
He turned as the bell-boy approached.
“Telegram for you, sir; ‘expressed.’”