"Mr. Slade," said Stone in his blasting manner, "your remark is in bad taste. The situation you are facing is an exceedingly serious one and only a prompt compliance on your part with the measures we have determined upon to avert a national calamity, will save you from bankruptcy"—he stopped, but not from hesitation, adding with a sudden flush of anger—"and worse." "We are here," said McBane, in tones of conviction which produced a nodding of assenting heads, "in the performance of a public duty. In carrying that out we do not intend to allow the fate of one man or a dozen to interfere with the steps we intend to take to restore public confidence." "And I repeat," said Slade, with a disdainful smile, "that I am here to get five millions; and you are going to give it to me." An outburst of exclamations followed this assertion, half angry, half contemptuous, above which was heard Forscheim’s shrill nasal voice saying: "Dere is a shtate examiner, Mr. Shlade, don’t forget dat." "My books are kept as carefully as yours, Forscheim," said Slade, with a sudden angry concentration of his glance. He had once in a committee meeting taken Forscheim by the throat and flung him out of doors—a fear which the other could never forget. Then he struck the table a resounding blow with his fist, stilling the clamor. "Wait!" he exclaimed, rising until his bulky figure towered over the table. "Don’t let’s waste time. Come to the point. You think I’ve come here to receive your terms. You are mistaken. I’ve come here to deliver an ultimatum—my ultimatum." "Do you realize, sir," said Judge Barton sternly, "what the object of this meeting is? We are here to preserve the prosperity of this country for the next ten years, the homes and savings of millions of persons." "No, that is not why you are here," said Slade contemptuously. "I’ll tell you why you are here. You are here to protect your own interests—first, last, and always! Because a panic to you means hundreds of millions, the end of development, the closing of markets; because at the end of a stock market panic is an industrial panic, and the end of any protracted individual depression means the colossal flattening out of your billion dollar trusts. That’s why there’ll never be another ’93—that’s the one good thing in the present situation the public doesn’t know. There isn’t going to be a ’93 now, and you know it and I know it." "Suppose, Mr. Slade, you listen to our stipulations first," said McBane, but in a more conciliatory tone. Beyond his exposition which had struck all with its piercing verity, Slade had effected over them an almost physical mastery, which men grudgingly are forced to yield to masculine strength.