Last year
when you people curtailed cotton acreage and warehoused a big chunk of
the crop you gave the mill men the scare of their lives. We had a hasty
conference and the result was that the bottom fell out of your credit."
Colonel Cresswell grew pale. There was a disquieting, relentless element
in this unimpassioned man's tone.
"You failed," pursued John Taylor, "because you couldn't get the banks
and the big merchants behind you. We've got 'em behind us--with big
chunks of stock and a signed iron-clad agreement. You can wheel the
planters into line--will you do it?" John Taylor bent forward tense but
cool and steel-like. Harry Cresswell laid his hand on his father's arm
and said quietly:
"And where do we come in?"
"That's business," affirmed John Taylor. "You and two hundred and fifty
of the biggest planters come in on the ground-floor of the
two-billion-dollar All-Cotton combine. It can easily mean two million
to you in five years."
"And the other planters?"
"They come in for high-priced cotton until we get our grip."
"And then?"
The quiet question seemed to invoke a vision for John Taylor; the gray
eyes took on the faraway look of a seer; the thin, bloodless lips formed
a smile in which there was nothing pleasant.
"They keep their mouths shut or we squeeze 'em and buy the land.
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