The Colonels Dream | Page 2

trust, or of meeting a
disastrous competition. Expecting to yield in the end, they had fought
for position--with brilliant results. Negotiations for a sale, upon terms
highly favourable to the firm, had been in progress for several weeks;
and the two partners were awaiting, in their private office, the final
word. Should the sale be completed, they were richer men than they
could have hoped to be after ten years more of business stress and
struggle; should it fail, they were heavy losers, for their fight had been
expensive. They were in much the same position as the player who had
staked the bulk of his fortune on the cast of a die. Not meaning to risk
so much, they had been drawn into it; but the game was worth the
candle.
"Nine fifty-five," said Kirby. "Five minutes more!"
He strode over to the window and looked out. It was snowing, and the
March wind, blowing straight up Broadway from the bay, swept the
white flakes northward in long, feathery swirls. Mr. French preserved
his rigid attitude, though a close observer might have wondered
whether it was quite natural, or merely the result of a supreme effort of
will.
Work had been practically suspended in the outer office. The clerks
were also watching the clock. Every one of them knew that the board of
directors of the bagging trust was in session, and that at ten o'clock it
was to report the result of its action on the proposition of French and
Company, Limited. The clerks were not especially cheerful; the
impending change meant for them, at best, a change of masters, and for
many of them, the loss of employment. The firm, for relinquishing its
business and good will, would receive liberal compensation; the clerks,
for their skill, experience, and prospects of advancement, would receive
their discharge. What else could be expected? The principal reason for
the trust's existence was economy of administration; this was stated,

most convincingly, in the prospectus. There was no suggestion, in that
model document, that competition would be crushed, or that, monopoly
once established, labour must sweat and the public groan in order that a
few captains, or chevaliers, of industry, might double their dividends.
Mr. French may have known it, or guessed it, but he was between the
devil and the deep sea--a victim rather than an accessory--he must take
what he could get, or lose what he had.
"Nine fifty-nine!"
Kirby, as he breathed rather than spoke the words, threw away his
scarcely lighted cigarette, and gripped the arms of his chair
spasmodically. His partner's attitude had not varied by a hair's breadth;
except for the scarcely perceptible rise and fall of his chest he might
have been a wax figure. The pallor of his countenance would have
strengthened the illusion.
Kirby pushed his chair back and sprung to his feet. The clock marked
the hour, but nothing happened. Kirby was wont to say, thereafter, that
the ten minutes that followed were the longest day of his life. But
everything must have an end, and their suspense was terminated by a
telephone call. Mr. French took down the receiver and placed it to his
ear.
"It's all right," he announced, looking toward his partner. "Our figures
accepted--resolution adopted--settlement to-morrow. We are----"
The receiver fell upon the table with a crash. Mr. French toppled over,
and before Kirby had scarcely realised that something was the matter,
had sunk unconscious to the floor, which, fortunately, was thickly
carpeted.
It was but the work of a moment for Kirby to loosen his partner's collar,
reach into the recesses of a certain drawer in the big desk, draw out a
flask of brandy, and pour a small quantity of the burning liquid down
the unconscious man's throat. A push on one of the electric buttons
summoned a clerk, with whose aid Mr. French was lifted to a
leather-covered couch that stood against the wall. Almost at once the

effect of the stimulant was apparent, and he opened his eyes.
"I suspect," he said, with a feeble attempt at a smile, "that I must have
fainted--like a woman--perfectly ridiculous."
"Perfectly natural," replied his partner. "You have scarcely slept for
two weeks--between the business and Phil--and you've reached the end
of your string. But it's all over now, except the shouting, and you can
sleep a week if you like. You'd better go right up home. I'll send for a
cab, and call Dr. Moffatt, and ask him to be at the hotel by the time you
reach it. I'll take care of things here to-day, and after a good sleep you'll
find yourself all right again."
"Very well, Kirby," replied Mr. French, "I feel as weak as water, but
I'm all here. It might have been much worse. You'll