"
"Lord, son! if we only could!" groaned the Colonel.
"We can; we'll have unlimited credit."
"But--but--" stuttered the bewildered Colonel, "I don't understand. Why
should the trust--"
"Nonsense, Father--what's the use of understanding. Our advantage is
plain, and John Taylor guarantees the thing."
"Who's John Taylor?" snorted the Colonel. "Why should we trust him?"
"Well," said Harry slowly, "he wants to marry Helen--"
His father grew apopletic.
"I'm not saying he will, Father; I'm only saying that he wants to,"
Harry made haste to placate the rising tide of wrath.
"No Southern gentleman--" began the Colonel. But Harry shrugged his
shoulders.
"Which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at their
expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted assumptions on the
part of one of them? I tell you, Father, the code of the Southern
gentleman won't work in Wall Street."
"And I'll tell you why--there _are_ no Southern gentlemen," growled his
father.
The Silver Fleece was golden, for its prices were flying aloft. Mr.
Caldwell told Colonel Cresswell that he confidently expected twelve-cent
cotton.
"The crop is excellent and small, scarcely ten million bales," he
declared. "The price is bound to go up."
Colonel Cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful; the demand for cotton at
high prices usually fell off rapidly and he had heard rumors of
curtailed mill production.
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