Hamilton breathed quickly. He gathered that Bones had bought a
boot-shop--even a collection of boot-shops--and he was conscious of the
horrible fact that Bones knew nothing about boots.
He groaned. He was always groaning, he thought, and seldom with good
reason.
Bones was in a buying mood. A week before he had bought The Weekly
Sunspot, which was "A Satirical Weekly Review of Human Affairs." The
possibilities of that purchase had made Hamilton go hot and moisty. He
had gone home one evening, leaving Bones dictating a leading article
which was a violent attack on the Government of the day, and had come
in the following morning to discover that the paper had been resold at
a thousand pounds profit to the owners of a rival journal which
described itself as "A Weekly Symposium of Thought and Fancy."
But Boots ... and £105,000 ...!
This was serious. Yet there was no occasion for groaning or doubt or
apprehension; for, even whilst Hamilton was reading the letter, Bones
was shaking his head violently at Mr. de Vinne, of the Phit-Phine Shoe
Syndicate, who had offered him £15,000 profit on the turn-over. And at
the identical moment that Hamilton was buying his ticket for London,
Bones was solemnly shaking hands with the Secretary of the Phit-Phine
Shoe Syndicate (Mr. de Vinne having violently, even apoplectically,
refused to meet Bones) with one hand, and holding in the other a cheque
which represented a profit of £17,500. It was one of Bones's big
deals, and reduced Hamilton to a condition of blind confidence in his
partner.... Nevertheless....
A week later, Bones, reading his morning paper, reached and passed,
without receiving any very violent impression, the information that Mr.
John Siker, the well-known private detective, had died at his residence
at Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was looking
for bargains--an early morning practice of his because the buying fever
was still upon him.
Hamilton, sitting at his desk, endeavouring to balance the firm's
accounts from a paying-in book and a cheque-book, the counterfoils of
which were only occasionally filled in, heard the staccato "Swindle!
... Swindle!" and knew that Bones had reached the pages whereon were
displayed the prospectuses of new companies.
He had the firm conviction that all new companies were founded on
frauds and floated by criminals. The offer of seven per cent.
debenture stock moved him to sardonic laughter. The certificates of
eminent chartered accountants brought a meaning little smile to his
lips, followed by the perfectly libellous statement that "These people
would do anything for money, dear old thing."
Presently Bones threw down the paper.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," he said, and walked to the door of the
outer office, knocked upon it, and disappeared into the sanctum of the
lady whom Bones never referred to except in terms of the deepest
respect as his "young typewriter!"