"
Through the smoke of his cigar old Heythorp had digested those figures
slowly, Joe Pillin feeling his teeth and sucking lozenges the while;
then he said:
"Sixty thousand! And out of that you pay me ten per cent., if I get it
through for you. Take it or leave it."
"My dear Sylvanus, that's almost-cynical."
"Too good a price--you'll never get it without me."
"But a--but a commission! You could never disclose it!"
"Arrange that all right. Think it over. Freights'll go lower yet. Have
some port."
"No, no! Thank you. No! So you think freights will go lower?"
"Sure of it."
"Well, I'll be going. I'm sure I don't know. It's--it's--I must think."
"Think your hardest."
"Yes, yes. Good-bye. I can't imagine how you still go on smoking those
things and drinking port.
"See you in your grave yet, Joe." What a feeble smile the poor fellow
had! Laugh-he couldn't! And, alone again, he had browsed, developing the
idea which had come to him.
Though, to dwell in the heart of shipping, Sylvanus Heythorp had lived
at Liverpool twenty years, he was from the Eastern Counties, of a
family so old that it professed to despise the Conquest. Each of its
generations occupied nearly twice as long as those of less tenacious
men.
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