"In view of our present financial
engagements we are unable to undertake your very attractive railroad
scheme," or the more curt "Not suited to our line of customers," he
would watch the colonel's face anxiously, and rack his brain for some
additional excuse.
He always found one. Tight money, or news from Europe, or an overissue
of similar bonds; next week it would be better. And the colonel always
believed him. Fitz was his guiding star, and would lead him to some
safe haven yet. This faith was his stronghold, and his only one.
This morning, however, there was a touch of genuine enthusiasm about
Fitz. He rushed into the office, caught up the blue bundle and the
map, nearly upsetting the colonel, who was balanced back in his chair
with his long legs over the desk,--a favorite attitude when down
town,--rushed out, and returned in half an hour with a fat body
surmounted by a bald head fringed about with gray curls.
[Illustration]
He was the advance agent of that mysterious combination known to the
financial world as an "English syndicate," an elusive sort of commercial
sea-serpent with its head in London and its tail around the globe.
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