“Of course not,” said Grinder. “The truth of the matter is just wot Didlum says. Our machinery is too small, it’s worn hout, and good for nothing but to be throwed on the scrap-heap. So there’s only one thing left to do and that is—go into liquidation.”
“I don’t see it,” remarked Sweater.
“Well, what do you propose, then?” demanded Grinder. “Reconstruct the company? Ask the shareholders for more money? Pull down the works and build fresh, and buy some new machinery? And then most likely not make a do of it after all? Not for me, old chap! I’ve ’ad enough. You won’t catch me chuckin’ good money after bad in that way.”
“Nor me neither,” said Rushton.
“Dead orf!” remarked Didlum, very decidedly.
Sweater laughed quietly. “I’m not such a fool as to suggest anything of that sort,” he said. “You seem to forget that I am one of the largest shareholders myself. No. What I propose is that we Sell Out.”
“Sell out!” replied Grinder with a contemptuous laugh in which the others joined. “Who’s going to buy the shares of a concern that’s practically bankrupt and never paid a dividend?”
“I’ve tried to sell my little lot several times already,” said Didlum with a sickly smile, “but nobody won’t buy ’em.”
“Who’s to buy?” repeated Sweater, replying to Grinder. “The municipality of course! The ratepayers. Why shouldn’t Mugsborough go in for Socialism as well as other towns?”
Rushton, Didlum and Grinder fairly gasped for breath: the audacity of the chief’s proposal nearly paralysed them.