Africa -- Fiction; Businessmen -- Fiction; Crime -- England -- Fiction; Criminals -- England -- Fiction
"Business worries, my boy, business worries," John Girdlestone answered
wearily.
"It's the infernal atmosphere of this place," Ezra said impatiently.
"I feel it myself sometimes. I wonder you don't start a little country
seat with some grounds. Just enough to ask a fellow to shoot over, and
with a good billiard board, and every convenience of that sort.
It would do for us to spend the time from Saturday to Monday, and allow
us to get some fresh air into our lungs. There are plenty of men who
can't afford it half as well, and yet have something of the sort.
What's the use of having a good balance at your banker's, if you don't
live better than your neighbours?"
"There is only one objection to it," the merchant said huskily, and with
a forced laugh; "I have not got a good balance at the banker's."
"Pretty fair, pretty fair," his son said knowingly, picking up the long
thin volume in which the finance of the firm was recorded and tapping it
against the table.
"But the figures there are not quite correct, Ezra," his father said,
still more huskily. "We have not got nearly so much as that."
"What!" roared the junior partner.
"Hush! For God's sake don't let the clerks hear you. We have not so
much as that. We have very little. In fact, Ezra, we have next to
nothing in the bank. It is all gone."
For a moment the young man stood motionless, glaring at his father.
The expression of incredulity which had appeared on his features faded
away before the earnestness of the other, and was replaced by a look of
such malignant passion that it contorted his whole face.
"You fool!" he shrieked, springing forward with the book upraised as
though he would have struck the old merchant. "I see it now. You have
been speculating on your own hook, you cursed ass! What have you done
with it?" He seized his father by the collar and shook him furiously in
his wrath.
"Keep your hands off me!" the senior partner cried, wrenching himself
free from his son's grasp. "I did my best with the money. How dare you
address me so?"
"Did your best!" hissed Ezra, hurling the ledger down on the table with
a crash. "What did you mean by speculating without my knowledge, and
telling me at the same time that I knew all that was done? Hadn't I
warned you a thousand times of the danger of it? You are not to be
trusted with money."
"Remember, Ezra," his father said with dignity, re-seating himself in
the chair from which he had risen, in order to free himself from his
son's clutches, "if I lost the money, I also made it. This was a
flourishing concern before you were born. If the worst comes to the
worst you are only where I started. But we are far from being
absolutely ruined as yet."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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