Hurry!"
Sylvester sped away to execute his orders.
Larssen looked up at the portrait of his little boy, and the cablegram
fluttered to the ground.
"What's the matter?" asked Olive.
"Pneumonia. Dangerously ill."
"Poor little chap!"
"My only child!"
"He'll get over it, I'm sure."
"He's never been strong and hardy."
"Still, with the best doctors...."
"If money can pull him through, I'll pour it out like water. I'm off to
the States to look after those fool doctors. The 'Aurelia' is one of my
fastest boats, and she'll take me across in five days. I'll give treble
pay to every engineer and stoker."
"How long will you be away?"
"Can't say exactly."
"How unfortunate, just at this time!"
"I can finish off the Hudson Bay deal by wireless. My ordinary business
on this side will run on in the hands of Bates, Carew, and Grasemann,
who form my executive committee for London."
They had both ignored Matheson through this conversation. He was
squeezed dry and done with. Larssen had no further use for him at
present, and Olive had no sympathy to waste on a beaten man.
He had been sitting brokenly in a chair at the desk where he had signed
away his independence, gazing into a new-spilt ink-blot on the polished
surface of the desk, seeing visions in its glistening, blue-black pool.
But now he pushed back his chair with a rasping noise and rose
decisively to face Larssen.
"We'll call it a month's truce!" he flung out.
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