I went up to the Hardingham through a dense London fog to see how things really stood. Before I had talked to my uncle for ten minutes I felt like a man who has just awakened in a bleak, inhospitable room out of a grandiose dream. CHAPTER THE FOURTH HOW I STOLE THE HEAPS OF QUAP FROM MORDET ISLAND I “We got to make a fight for it,” said my uncle. “We got to face the music!” I remember that even at the sight of him I had a sense of impending calamity. He sat under the electric light with the shadow of his hair making bars down his face. He looked shrunken, and as though his skin had suddenly got loose and yellow. The decorations of the room seemed to have lost freshness, and outside the blinds were up—there was not so much fog as a dun darkness. One saw the dingy outlines of the chimneys opposite quite distinctly, and then a sky of such brown as only London can display. “I saw a placard,” I said: “‘More Ponderevity.’” “That’s Boom,” he said. “Boom and his damned newspapers. He’s trying to fight me down. Ever since I offered to buy the _Daily Decorator_ he’s been at me. And he thinks consolidating Do Ut cut down the ads. He wants everything, damn him! He’s got no sense of dealing. I’d like to bash his face!” “Well,” I said, “what’s to be done?” “Keep going,” said my uncle. “I’ll smash Boom yet,” he said, with sudden savagery. “Nothing else?” I asked. “We got to keep going. There’s a scare on. Did you notice the rooms? Half the people out there this morning are reporters. And if I talk they touch it up!... They didn’t used to touch things up! Now they put in character touches—insulting you. Don’t know what journalism’s coming to. It’s all Boom’s doing.” He cursed Lord Boom with considerable imaginative vigour. “Well,” said I, “what can he do?” “Shove us up against time, George; make money tight for us. We been handling a lot of money—and he tightens us up.” “We’re sound?” “Oh, we’re sound, George. Trust me for that! But all the same—There’s such a lot of imagination in these things.... We’re sound enough. That’s not it.” He blew. “Damn Boom!” he said, and his eyes over his glasses met mine defiantly. “We can’t, I suppose, run close hauled for a bitstop expenditure?” “Where?” “Well,—Crest Hill” “What!” he shouted. “Me stop Crest Hill for Boom!” He waved a fist as if to hit his inkpot, and controlled himself with difficulty. He spoke at last in a reasonable voice. “If I did,” he said, “he’d kick up a fuss. It’s no good, even if I wanted to. Everybody’s watching the place. If I was to stop building we’d be down in a week.” He had an idea. “I wish I could do something to start a strike or something. No such luck. Treat those workmen a sight too well. No, sink or swim, Crest Hill goes on until we’re under water.” I began to ask questions and irritated him instantly.