[1] “No more. No more. Not a word more. It is the Day.” § 3 To describe “Pretty” Bramson as nervous, would be a gross understatement. The man was scared stiff; had been for two days. Peter found him wandering about the half-empty building—(the English workman does not usually put in an appearance till twenty-four hours after “Bank Holiday”)—damp cigarette between his lips, white about the gills, alternatively fidgeting and depressed. The famous black moustaches were distinctly out of curl: the brilliantined hair lacked its usual polish. “Morning, Bramson. You look rather out of sorts.” Bramson led melancholy way into the private office. “It’s all U P with us now,” he said. “We’re ruined. That’s about the long and short of it.” “Rats!” snapped Peter, lighting a cigar. “The Bank will be down on us for that overdraft. . . .” “Don’t be a fool. To begin with, they can’t call in any loans. There’s a moratorium. Secondly, if they do want their money, I can pay it. Do you really think I guarantee liabilities I can’t meet?” “I hadn’t thought of the moratorium,” began Bramson, plucking up courage. Peter, puffing slowly at his cigar, got over the flash of temper. “Worried about that thousand of yours?” he queried suddenly. “No-o. Not exactly. But. . . .” “You _are_ worried. Of course you’re worried. So am I. So’s everybody else. Let me remind you that _I’ve_ got twelve thousand pounds in the concern, in addition to that confounded overdraft. But we shan’t either of us save our money by worrying. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, man. Let’s have a look at last month’s figures. . . .” Bramson went to the safe; opened it; took out some papers “Get a pencil,” said Peter, “and write down what I tell you. . . . Ready. . . . Right. . . . Now then: Assets . . .” He dictated steadily; picking out the amounts from the big type-written statement. “Liabilities. . . .” The dictation continued. “That’s the lot, I think. Add them up please.” Bramson read out the figures: “Assets £27,862, Liabilities, including overdraft, £22,396.” “Which means,” commented Peter, “that your thousand and my twelve are worth—about five between them. Roughly forty cents on the dollar. _If_ we could sell the factory as a going concern.” “You haven’t taken anything for the good-will of the business,” put in Bramson. “Of course I haven’t. That’s the whole question. Up to the end of last month, we were making profits. That was why you bought Turkovitch’s shares, wasn’t it? Do you think we’re going to make a profit this month?” “We might.” “Forget it,” said Peter genially. “The best we can hope for is to nurse the show through this damned war—if it doesn’t last too long. Now listen to me. . . .”