“Well, my lord,” said Mackeller, “those fools have sold some fifty thousand shares more of stock than there is in existence.”
“It seems to me,” drawled his lordship, “although I know nothing of city ways, that such overselling is injudicious.”
“Injudicious!” shouted young Mackeller, “why, you’ve got them like that,” and he raised his huge fist into the air and clenched it with a force resembling hydraulic pressure. “You can smash them. They can’t deliver. They’ve not only lost the mine, but you can ruin them by placing any price you please on the shares they’ve sold and cannot produce.”
“That’s true,” corroborated old Mackeller, nodding his head, “and the bank didn’t use your five-thousand-pound check after all.”
“Here it is,” said the young man, producing it.
“Ah, well,” said Lord Stranleigh, slipping the paper into his waistcoat pocket. “Let us be thankful you two are just in time to join me at an excellent meal. I’ve been expecting you, and I’ve ordered a French lunch in honor of the late Philippe le Bel. He burned his syndicate of seven at the stake, but we’ll merely burn our syndicate’s fingers.”
CHAPTER II—THE PREMATURE COMPROMISE
THE Camperdown Club in Pall Mall is famous for its cuisine, and young Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood provided a lunch on the day of the great coup that was notable even in the Camperdown. The elder Mackeller did justice to the prime vintage which his lordship shared with him, but young Mackeller proved to be a water drinker. After lunch they retired to a small private smoking room, where they could review the situation without being interrupted, and here coffee, liquors, cigars, and cigarettes were set out, and the waiter retired.