Tom Carruthers with a vindictive eye. "See here, Mr. Carruthers," he spat out, "if I have any further interference I'll resign instantly—understand? I managed this branch for years, until the governor took a notion to come out. Well—he's a genius at business, and I'm proud to take my orders from him. But somehow, the very devil's in it these last two weeks, and we're up against a bigger proposition than you—or the governor either—have any idea of. I'm doing my best to cope with it, and, by heaven"
"Sorry to upset you, old chap," the other interrupted regretfully, "but, believe me, this succession of disasters has just about whacked me."
"Oh! all right," the older man said, relieved by his own explosion, and easily mollified after having let slip the snappy little dogs of his badly over-tried temper, "I haven't the heart to show this to Mr. Gregory," he said, taking the wire from his pocket into which he had thrust it, "damned if I have." He spread the flimsy paper out on the desk, and sent Tom a glance that was an invitation. He wanted sympathy, even that of the "somebody's son sent out to learn the business," as he contemptuously said of Carruthers when he did not call him "a flannelled fool." The latter gibe was not quite fair. Tom usually wore ducks, as Holman himself did—you had to in Hong Kong—and though the younger man did squander (if it were squandering) a good deal of time with Hilda Gregory, he only gave a reasonable, wholesome amount to rackets, cricket, and Happy Valley racecourse.
"On top of all else," Holman continued, "look here!"
Tom came and stood at Holman's chair, and read over his shoulder. "Good God, Holman!" he cried, "the Feima sent to the bottom!"
