"All right, Harker, as far as I can see--and, as you know, that's all
the way and a little beyond. But we must do better than that. Where's
the private account?"
"Here, sir," said Harker, in a dry, rasping voice, somewhat like the
creaking of an old, rusty-hinged door.
"Where?--oh, yes, I see. Oh, Paxhorn has come to us, has he? Writing
poetry is not a paying game, eh? Or is it the fine, grand company that
runs away with the golden counters? Well, all fish--or idiots--that come
to our net are welcomed, no matter what wind drives them. Thirty per
cent. from Paxhorn. No more?"
"I could not get any more, sir," said Harker earnestly; "I tried--tried
hard--indeed I did, I assure you. I would not give in until he
threatened to go to another office."
"Hem! well, I suppose it's the truth; though, of course, all
moneylenders are rogues--and you're only a moneylender, you know." He
looked up for a moment to laugh at the logical joke. "Who backs his
paper? Lord Standon. Oh, my lord is pretty deep in our books already,
isn't he? Where are his statistics?"
"Here, sir," said Harker, taking one of the papers from the heap.
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