“The times are very serious, Mr. Dean. Very serious.”
“We have foreseen that,” the other replied. They were both standing. “The truth is, we are paying for a period of reckless trading, encouraged in my humble opinion, Mr. Ovington”—he could not refrain from the stab—“by those who should have restrained it.”
Ovington let that pass. He had too much at stake to retort. “Possibly,” he said. “Possibly. But we have now to deal with the present—as it exists. It is on public rather than on private grounds that I appeal to you, Mr. Dean. A disaster threatens the community. I appeal to you to help me to avert it. As I have said, securities shall be placed in your hands, more than sufficient to cover the risk. Approved securities to your satisfaction.”
But the other shook his head. He was enjoying his triumph—a triumph beyond his hopes. “What you suggest,” he said, a faint note of sarcasm in his tone, “comes to this, Mr. Ovington—that we pool resources? That is how I understand you?”
“Practically.”
“Well, I am afraid that in justice to our customers I must reply that we cannot do that. We must think of them first, and of ourselves next.”
Ovington took up his hat. The other’s tone was coldly decisive. Still he made a last effort. “Here is the list,” he said. “Perhaps if you and your brother went over it at your leisure?”
But Dean waved the list away. “It would be useless,” he said. “Quite useless. We could not entertain the idea.” He was already anticipating the enjoyment with which he would tell his brother the news.
With a heavy heart, Ovington replaced the list in his breast pocket. “Very good,” he said. His face was grave. “I did not expect—to be frank—any other answer, Mr. Dean. But I thought it was my duty to see you. I regret your decision. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” the other banker replied, and he rang for his man-servant.