"The landlord having disposed of the property," Murray continued. And he perched himself dejectedly on one of the Chinese clerks' high stools, as if the accumulated strain of a few morning hours had unnerved his sturdy legs.
"What about the Company's lease?" Tom persisted miserably.
"Expired in March," Holman said doggedly. "We're here on monthly arrangement—I supposed you knew that; every one else does—we expected to move to the new buildings at our own docks. The very roof taken from our own heads!" he concluded bitterly, dropping down heavily into his chair.
Tom looked at him ruefully for a moment, and then went up to Murray. "I say, how much do we need? That'll be all right. I'll cable over to my father"
"I'm afraid it's no use, sir," the book-keeper said regretfully. "You see, it's this way: the Wang Hi Company refuse to go on with the negotiations; all their principal shareholders are natives, and these threaten to withdraw their capital if any business whatsoever is done with us."
Tom Carruthers gave a long, sharp whistle.
Holman looked up. "Precisely," he said dryly.
"But—but—something's got to be done. We can't sit here and see the ship go down—I'm blowed if we can. And I'm damned if I will. Something's got to be done. But I say, you two, what shall it be? What?"
He spoke to them, but he had picked up Hilda's photograph, and was looking not at them but at it.
They paid his question as little heed as the photograph did in its frame. They had no answer to give him. And he got none—unless he could piece one out from the hubbub that bubbled up from the sweating, teeming
