They had evidently
got wind of the Italian and other losses, and were playing for safety. He
couldn’t blame them, but he thought it was damned bad luck for
everything to come crowding on top of him all at once. Of course he must meet
them somehow—offer them some more shares or give them a mortgage on
his Cheshire establishment, or something. He interviewed various high bank
officials and found them sympathetic but definitely unwilling to accept any
but gilt-edged securities as further cover for the loan, while his
stockbrokers were even pessimistic about being able to dispose of some of his
other shares at all. As for the house, the utmost he could raise on it was
four thousand, and the bank people were asking for fifteen thousand
immediately. Like most men who do not habitually worry, the sensation, being
unfamiliar, turned quickly to panic. He tried to borrow from Mathers and
several other friends, but either they didn’t possess the money or
wouldn’t take the risk of lending. Finally, in complete desperation, he
went to Furnival. But Sir George, though rich enough, did not by any means
whip out a cheque-book and scribble with the alacrity of the copybook friend
in need. He asked many questions with great minuteness and merely said, at
the end: “I shall have to think it over, Brown, and let you know.
It’s rather a big thing to ask, in these days… though of course
I’d like to help you, naturally. By the way, your Roumanian friend is
nearly ready. Could you possibly manage to come over to Chelmsford on Friday?
There might be something to show you.”
Brown promised to go. He spent most of the intervening days in a state of
persistent and devitalising worry over his money affairs. It was not like him
to fear the worst, but he could not subdue the waves of occasional despair
that passed over him. His wife and daughter had already left Virginia on
their way home, and the imminence of his meeting with them and of subsequent
confessions reduced him to even deeper depression. For years he had had the
habit of smiling cheerfully whenever his fellow business men were doleful;
now he wondered if his cheerfulness had been based on a privately sheltered
financial position which he had been lucky enough to occupy, and whether he
would be any less doleful than the rest as soon as the tide of his personal
ruin began to lap at his own doors. The newspapers, with their chatter of
rationalisation and improved selling methods, made him feel sick. How the
devil could he COMPEL customers to buy oil-pumps and water-tube boilers and
reciprocating engines and all the other things that the firm manufactured?
And how could he, as an ordinary man, be expected to pick his way amidst such
pitfalls as frozen credits, depreciated exchanges, high tariffs, and
defaulting clients?
“Really, Parceval,” he exclaimed, in the car to Chelmsford,
“it’s not enough to be a mere business man in these days.
You’ve damned well got to be a Svengali and a Sherlock Holmes in
addition.”
Parceval laughed. “Quite true. Anyone can make things, but it often
requires genius to sell them.”
“Well, I’m not a genius, and I can’t help wishing
I’d been born fifty years ago, when one could do a decent day’s
work and draw a decent day’s pay for it without any worries.”
“Come now, Brown, you know you’ve never done a decent
day’s work in your life, for all your talk.” Parceval laughed
again; such frankness, but slightly insolent, was a favourite manner of his
with those whom he need be at no particular pains to conciliate. He went on,
enjoying himself still more: “What you’re sighing for is a
comfortable income without working for it at all, and you’re cross
because the world’s beginning to wonder why you should have it.
You’ve got to face facts, my dear chap—the easy-going days are
all over. And that celebrated ancestor of yours would have said
‘Hooray’ to that, I
got wind of the Italian and other losses, and were playing for safety. He
couldn’t blame them, but he thought it was damned bad luck for
everything to come crowding on top of him all at once. Of course he must meet
them somehow—offer them some more shares or give them a mortgage on
his Cheshire establishment, or something. He interviewed various high bank
officials and found them sympathetic but definitely unwilling to accept any
but gilt-edged securities as further cover for the loan, while his
stockbrokers were even pessimistic about being able to dispose of some of his
other shares at all. As for the house, the utmost he could raise on it was
four thousand, and the bank people were asking for fifteen thousand
immediately. Like most men who do not habitually worry, the sensation, being
unfamiliar, turned quickly to panic. He tried to borrow from Mathers and
several other friends, but either they didn’t possess the money or
wouldn’t take the risk of lending. Finally, in complete desperation, he
went to Furnival. But Sir George, though rich enough, did not by any means
whip out a cheque-book and scribble with the alacrity of the copybook friend
in need. He asked many questions with great minuteness and merely said, at
the end: “I shall have to think it over, Brown, and let you know.
It’s rather a big thing to ask, in these days… though of course
I’d like to help you, naturally. By the way, your Roumanian friend is
nearly ready. Could you possibly manage to come over to Chelmsford on Friday?
There might be something to show you.”
Brown promised to go. He spent most of the intervening days in a state of
persistent and devitalising worry over his money affairs. It was not like him
to fear the worst, but he could not subdue the waves of occasional despair
that passed over him. His wife and daughter had already left Virginia on
their way home, and the imminence of his meeting with them and of subsequent
confessions reduced him to even deeper depression. For years he had had the
habit of smiling cheerfully whenever his fellow business men were doleful;
now he wondered if his cheerfulness had been based on a privately sheltered
financial position which he had been lucky enough to occupy, and whether he
would be any less doleful than the rest as soon as the tide of his personal
ruin began to lap at his own doors. The newspapers, with their chatter of
rationalisation and improved selling methods, made him feel sick. How the
devil could he COMPEL customers to buy oil-pumps and water-tube boilers and
reciprocating engines and all the other things that the firm manufactured?
And how could he, as an ordinary man, be expected to pick his way amidst such
pitfalls as frozen credits, depreciated exchanges, high tariffs, and
defaulting clients?
“Really, Parceval,” he exclaimed, in the car to Chelmsford,
“it’s not enough to be a mere business man in these days.
You’ve damned well got to be a Svengali and a Sherlock Holmes in
addition.”
Parceval laughed. “Quite true. Anyone can make things, but it often
requires genius to sell them.”
“Well, I’m not a genius, and I can’t help wishing
I’d been born fifty years ago, when one could do a decent day’s
work and draw a decent day’s pay for it without any worries.”
“Come now, Brown, you know you’ve never done a decent
day’s work in your life, for all your talk.” Parceval laughed
again; such frankness, but slightly insolent, was a favourite manner of his
with those whom he need be at no particular pains to conciliate. He went on,
enjoying himself still more: “What you’re sighing for is a
comfortable income without working for it at all, and you’re cross
because the world’s beginning to wonder why you should have it.
You’ve got to face facts, my dear chap—the easy-going days are
all over. And that celebrated ancestor of yours would have said
‘Hooray’ to that, I
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