Cresswell sat down abruptly opposite Taylor, looking at him fixedly.
"That last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us," he said slowly.
"Exactly," Taylor blandly admitted.
Beads of sweat gathered on Cresswell's forehead. He looked at the scrawny iron man opposite, who had already forgotten his presence. He ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began to figure, drinking as he figured. Slowly the blood crept out of his white face leaving it whiter, and went surging and pounding in his heart. Poverty—that was what those figures spelled. Poverty—unclothed, wineless poverty, to dig and toil like a "nigger" from morning until night, and to give up horses and carriages and women; that was what they spelled.
"How much—farther will it drop?" he asked harshly.
Taylor did not look up.
"Can't tell," he said, "'fraid not much though." He glanced through a telegram. "No—damn it!—outside mills are low; they'll stampede soon. Meantime we'll buy."
"But, Taylor—"
"Here are one hundred thousand offered at six and three-fourths."
"I tell you, Taylor—" Cresswell half arose.