“What’s this, Tamms?” cried the old gentleman, already angry, as the door flew open, without heeding Charlie’s presence: “What’s this about the Starbuck Terminal bonds?” And Charlie could see, through the open door, the clerks in the outer office huddling their shoulders over their ledgers, in evident consciousness of a coming breeze. Mr. Townley’s face was crimson with excitement, as he panted in his stiff collar, his white hair making his face seem the redder, and his bald head beady with perspiration. Tamms had always a sort of patient, semi-patronizing tone in talking over business with his senior partner; but this time he tried, and tried in vain, to resume his usual manner. “I am sorry to say,” he began slowly, “that hitherto--the Terminal property--has not proved--a profitable enterprise.” “Stuff--and--nonsense!” interposed Mr. Townley, his sputtering enunciation in strange contrast with Tamms’s clear-cut tones. “You yourself told me it promised most excellently.” “So I did, sir--last winter. I fear that I was mistaken,” said Tamms, humbly. “Mistaken, eh! Well, sir, and what do you propose to do about it?” “I see nothing for it--but to fund the next coupon--and attempt a reorganization----” “I do not mean as a director, sir; with that business you are familiar. But as a banker--as a New York merchant--as a member--damn it, sir, as a member of the house of Charles Townley & Son?” In his anger, the old gentleman had used the former name of the firm; and there was an ugly glitter in Tamms’s eye, which he carefully kept from meeting old Mr. Townley’s. “As a member of the firm of Townley & Tamms,” said he, “I see nothing to do but to look over our customers’ margins and bear our own losses.” Charlie made a motion to go. “Stay there, Mr. Townley,” ordered the old gentleman, “and learn once for all the traditions of the house of Charles Townley & Son. So, Mr. Tamms, a year after bringing out these bonds, with the ink hardly dry upon them, before the second coupon is cut, you propose that we who fathered them should stand by and see our clients and the public, who relied upon our recommendation and our name, deceived in both?” “I don’t see what else we can do, sir. We are not the Starbuck Oil Company.” Tamms tried still to patronize; but Charlie marvelled that a man who seemed so large the day before with Deacon Remington should seem so small to-day before an angry old man with white hair who had outlived his business usefulness and sputtered when he spoke. “I will show you, then. Mr. Townley, will you please take down this letter.” Charlie moved his chair to a table and wrote, while Mr. Townley dictated: