Edgar Wallace

“ Mr Callander bought five hundred—a trifling investment that cost him about twelve hundred pounds. They rose in little kangaroo leaps to three-and-a-half. A small man would have sold at this price, for there is a wise saying in the City that no man was ever ruined by taking small profits. Mr Callander was not a small man, so he bought five thousand shares at three-and-a-half, and when they leapt to six pounds he invested in another five thousand. ”

“ If Mr Callander had employed fewer clerks and had paid higher wages the business might have increased in importance, but Mr Callander had arrived with an age when men gauged the importance of a business by the numbers of its employees. ”

“ I do not know how you were made aware that I had bought, and I shall certainly not seek your advice in selling—good morning.”
“Look here, Mr Callander,”—Brian leant over the desk—“don’t for Heaven’s sake be guided by your prejudices. I know——”
“Lord Pinlow,” announced a voice, and Pinlow came hurrying through the door, to stop dead at the sight of the man he hated best in the world, and who hated him no less.
There was an awkward silence, which Brian broke.
“Pinlow, my uncle is in Beitjesfonteins,” he said; “it’s up to you to get him out without loss, and if you don’t, look out for squalls.” ”