"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person to
another City of London business person, is it possible to make cars at
your factory?"
Mr. Soames rose to the occasion.
"I assure you, Mr. Tibbetts," he said earnestly, "it is possible. It
wants a little more capital than we've been able to raise."
This was the trouble with all Mr. Soames's companies, a long list of
which appeared on a brass plate by the side of his door. None of them
were sufficiently capitalised to do anything except to supply him with
his fees as managing director.
Bones produced a dinky little pocket-book from his waistcoat and read
his notes, or, rather, attempted to read his notes. Presently he gave
it up and trusted to his memory.
"You've got forty thousand pounds subscribed to your Company," he said.
"Now, I'll tell you what I'm willing to do--I will take over your
shares at a price."
Mr. Soames swallowed hard. Here was one of the dreams of his life
coming true.
"There are four million shares issued," Bones went on, consulting his
notebook.
"Eh?" said Mr. Soames in a shocked voice.
Bones looked at his book closer.
"Is it four hundred thousand?"
"Forty thousand," said Mr. Soames gently.
"It is a matter of indifference," said Bones. "The point is, will you
sell?"
The managing director of the Plover Light Car Company pursed his lips.
"Of course," he said, "the shares are at a premium--not," he added
quickly, "that they are being dealt with on 'Change. We have not
troubled to apply for quotations. But I assure you, my dear sir, the
shares are at a premium."
Bones said nothing.
"At a small premium," said Mr. Soames hopefully.
Bones made no reply.
"At a half a crown premium," said Mr. Soames pleadingly.
"At par," said Bones, in his firmest and most business-like tones.
The matter was not settled there and then, because matters are not
settled with such haste in the City of London. Bones went home to his
office with a new set of notes, and wired to Hamilton, asking him to
come on the following day.
It was a great scheme that Bones worked out that night, with the aid of
the sceptical Miss Whitland. His desk was piled high with technical
publications dealing with the motor-car industry. The fact that he was
buying the Company in order to rescue a friend's investment passed
entirely from his mind in the splendid dream he conjured from his
dubious calculations.
The Plover car should cover the face of the earth. He read an article
on mass production, showing how a celebrated American produced a
thousand or a hundred thousand cars a day--he wasn't certain which--and
how the car, in various parts, passed along an endless table, between
lines of expectant workmen, each of whom fixed a nut or unfixed a nut,
so that, when the machine finally reached its journey's end, it left
the table under its own power.