"
Three years of success; then came a bad manager; young Crabbe
struggled in vain to set things right, broke down, and died of the
struggle; and ever since the unhappy affair had lingered on, starving
its workmen, and just keeping alive by making common garden pots and
pans and drain-tiles. Most people who could had sold out of it,
thanking the Limited Liabilities for its doing them no further harm;
and the small remnant only hung on because no one could be found to
give them even the absurdly small amount that was still said to be
the value of their shares.
That they would find now Harold had fallen in with young Yolland, who
had been singing the old song, first of Prometesky, then of Crabbe,
and had made him listen to it. Five pounds would now buy a share
that used to be worth a hundred, and that with thanks from the seller
that he got anything from what had long ceased to pay the ghost of a
dividend. And loose cash was not scarce with Harold; he was able to
buy up an amount which perfectly terrified me, and made me augur that
the Hydriot would swallow all Boola Boola, and more too; and as to
Mr. Yolland's promises of improvements, no one, after past
experience, could believe in them.
"Now, Harold, you know nothing of all this intricate business; and as
to these chemical agencies, I am sure you know nothing about them.
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