There was a slump in the shipping market, and men who were otherwise

decent citizens wailed for one hour of glorious war, when Kenyon Line

Deferred had stood at 88 1/2, and even so poor an organization as

Siddons Steam Packets Line had been marketable at 3 3/8.

Two bareheaded men came down the busy street, their hands thrust into

their trousers pockets, their sleek, well-oiled heads bent in dejection.

No word they spoke, keeping step with the stern precision of soldiers.

Together they wheeled through the open doors of the Commercial Trust

Building, together they left-turned into the elevator, and

simultaneously raised their heads to examine its roof, as though in its

panelled ceiling was concealed some Delphic oracle who would answer the

riddle which circumstances had set them.

They dropped their heads together and stood with sad eyes, regarding

the attendant's leisurely unlatching of the gate. They slipped forth

and walked in single file to a suite of offices inscribed "Pole

Brothers, Brokers," and, beneath, "The United Merchant Shippers'

Corporation," and passed through a door which, in addition to this

declaration, bore the footnote "Private."

Here the file divided, one going to one side of a vast pedestal desk

and one to the other. Still with their hands pushed deep into their

pockets, they sank, almost as at a word of command, each into his

cushioned chair, and stared at one another across the table.

They were stout young men of the middle thirties, clean-shaven and

ruddy. They had served their country in the late War, and had made

many sacrifices to the common cause. One had worn uniform and one had

not. Joe had occupied some mysterious office which permitted and,

indeed, enjoined upon him the wearing of the insignia of captain, but

had forbidden him to leave his native land. The other had earned a

little decoration with a very big title as a buyer of boots for Allied

nations. Both had subscribed largely to War Stock, and a reminder of

their devotion to the cause of liberty was placed to their credit every

half-year.

But for these, war, with its horrific incidents, its late hours, its

midnight railway journeys by trains on which sleeping berths could not

be had for love or money, its food cards and statements of excess

profits, was past. The present held its tragedy so poignant as to

overshadow that breathless terrifying moment when peace had come and

found the firm with the sale of the Fairy Line of cargo steamers

uncompleted, contracts unsigned, and shipping stock which had lived

light-headedly in the airy spaces, falling deflated on the floor of the

house.

The Fairy Line was not a large line. It was, in truth, a small line.

It might have been purchased for two hundred thousand pounds, and

nearly was. To-day it might be acquired for one hundred and fifty

thousand pounds, and yet it wasn't.




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