“Worse than that. Old Vose and his sons and those old hornbeam directors--retired sea-captains, you know, as hard as old turtles--they have taken a stand against consolidation. They belong in the dark ages of business. Old Vose had the impudence to tell me that forming this steamboat combine was a crime, and that he wouldn't be a party to a betrayal of the public. He won't come in; he won't sell; he's going to compete.” Mr. Marston stroked his strip of beard. “In order for our stock to be what we intend it to be, the Paramount Coast Transportation has got to operate as a complete monopoly, as you understand, Mr. Fogg. A beneficent monopoly--consolidation benefiting all--but nevertheless a monopoly. With one line holding out on us, we've got only a limping proposition.” “Exactly!” “What are we going to do about the Vose line?” “Let it compete, sir. We can kill it in the end.” “Possibly--probably. But that plan will not serve, Mr. Fogg.” “It's business.” “But it is not finance. I'm looking at this proposition solely as a financier, Mr. Fogg. I hardly know one end of a steamboat from the other. I'm not interested in rate-cutting problems. I don't know how long it would take to put the Vose line under. But I do know this, as a financier, handling a big deal, that the Paramount stock will not appeal to investors or the bonds to banks unless we can launch our project as a clean, perfect combination, every transportation charter locked up. I handle money, and I know all of money's timidity and all of money's courage. You think the Vose directors are able to hold their stockholders in line, do you?” Mr. Fogg uncrossed his legs, put both feet on the floor, hooked his hands across his paunch, and gazed up at the ceiling, evidently pondering profoundly. “I repeat, I'm not viewing this thing as a steamboating proposition, not figuring what kind of tariffs will kill competition,” stated Mr. Marston. “I'm not estimating what kind of tariffs will make a profit for the Paramount. I'd as soon sell sugar over the counter. My associates expect me to make money for them in another way--make it in big lumps and on a quick turn. The Vose line, competing, kills us from the financial viewpoint.” “Exactly.” There was silence in the room for some time. “There's never any telling what stockholders will do,” remarked Mr. Fogg, his eyes still studying the panels of the ceiling. Mr. Marston did not dispute that dictum. His field-marshal slowly tipped down his head and gave his superior another of those bland stares. “So I'll go right ahead and see what they'll do, sir.” He rose and kicked the legs of his trousers into place. “You understand that in this affair, as in all matters where you have been employed, there must be absolutely clean work. There must be no come-back. Of course, I have instructed you to this effect regularly, but I wish to have you remember that I have repeated the instructions, sir.” “Exactly!” Mr. Fogg's eyes did not blink.