Bo Lynch, a pad of paper in one hand, a tumbler of cracked ice in the other, already dressed for the day, greeted him nonchalantly:
"Oh, we breakfasted together," said Lynch, with a wry smile; "charming little repast. But I picked up enough to pay for my winter's stabling."
Beecher glanced at the clock, which was approaching the hour.
"Yes." His glance followed Beecher's with a sudden concentration, and, taking up a matchbox, he struck a match and threw it away. "Waiting to see if I can escape working another year."
Beecher, comprehending that sympathy would be distasteful, picked up the morning papers. The scareheads were alive with the note of panic: a dozen banks were threatened with runs; a rumor was abroad that the Atlantic Trust and two other great institutions might close their doors within the next twenty-four hours; an interview with Majendie protested against the action of the Clearing-house, asserting the recklessness of the move and the solvency of the Trust Company; a riot was feared on the East Side, where the small Jewish depositors, always prey to alarms, were in a state of frenzy; vague, guarded hints of further actions to be expected by the Clearing-house against another prominent chain of banks, and a report that John G. Slade was to tender his resignation, were joined with rumors from the office of the State Examiner of Banks that there might be grounds for the criminal prosecution of certain officials.
The telephone rang. Lynch went to the receiver, arranging his pad methodically on the table. Beecher stopped reading, listening to the broken threads.
"Whew! Give me the Northern Pacific figures now." ...
"No--that's all in the game. Thank you. I'll send my check to-day. Thanks."
He put up the receiver, glanced curiously at the clock, which marked twelve minutes after ten, and studied the pad.
Beecher had never been intimate with Lynch, but he liked him and his standards of Britannic phlegm. He belonged to that curious freemasonry of men, an indefinable, invisible standard of association, but one that cannot be counterfeited.
"How did you come out?" he said carelessly.
"About as I expected. The market has gone wild."
Bo Lynch poured out a morning peg, adjusted his cravat critically in the mirror, and took up his hat.