The dead shareholder’s ‘No!’ was so resounding this time that there was a pause for him to speak; he remained, however, without motion. Both of Michael’s neighbours were on their feet. They bobbed at each other over Michael’s head, and Mr Tolby sat down.
‘Mr Sawdry,’ he said.
‘Look ’ere gentlemen,’ said Mr Sawdry, ‘and ladies, this seems to me a case for compromise. The directors that knew about the manager ought to go; but we might stop at that. The gentleman in front of me keeps on saying “No.” Let ’im give us ‘is views.’
‘No,’ said the dead shareholder, but less loudly.
‘If a man can’t give ’is views,’ went on Mr Sawdry, nearly sitting down on Michael, ‘’e shouldn’t interrupt, in my opinion.’
A shareholder in the front row now turned completely round so that he faced the meeting.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that to prolong this discussion is to waste time; we are evidently in two, if not three, minds. The whole of the business of this country is now conducted on a system of delegated trust; it may be good, it may be bad – but there it is. You’ve got to trust somebody. Now, as to this particular case, we’ve had no reason to distrust the Board, so far; and, as I take it, the Board had no previous reason to distrust the late manager. I think it’s going too far, at present, to propose anything definite like a vote of no confidence; it seems to me that we should call the Board in and hear what assurances they have to give us against a repetition of anything of the sort in the future.’
The sounds which greeted this moderate speech were so inextricable that Michael could not get the sense of them. Not so with the speech which followed. It came from a shareholder on the right, with reddish hair, light eyelashes, a clipped moustache, and a scraped colour.
‘I have no objection whatever to having the Board in,’ he said in a rather jeering voice, ‘and passing a vote of no confidence in their presence. There is a question, which no one has touched on, of how far, if we turn them out, we could make them liable for this loss. The matter is not clear, but there is a good sporting chance, if we like to take it. Whereas, if we don’t turn them out, it’s obvious we can’t take it, even if we wish.’
The impression made by this speech was of quite a different order from any of the others. It was followed by a hush, as though something important had been said at last. Michael stared at Mr Tolby. The stout man’s round, light, rather prominent eyes were extraordinarily reflective. ‘Trout must look like that,’ thought Michael, ‘when they see a mayfly.’ Mr Tolby suddenly stood up.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘’ave ’em in!’
‘Yes,’ said the dead shareholder. There was no dissent. Michael saw someone rise and ascend the platform.
‘Let the Press know!’ said Mr Tolby.
Chapter Thirteen
SOAMES AT BAY
WHEN the door had closed behind the departing directors, Soames sought a window as far as possible from the lunch eaten before the meeting.
‘Funeral baked meats, eh, Forsyte?’ said a voice in his ear. ‘Our number’s up, I think. Poor old Mothergill’s looking very blue. I think he ought to ask for a second shirt!’
Soames’s tenacity began wriggling within him.
‘The thing wants tackling,’ he grumbled; ‘the chairman’s not the man for the job!’ Shades of old Uncle Jolyon! He would have made short work of this! It wanted a masterful hand.
‘Warning to us all, Forsyte, against loyalty! It’s not in the period. Ah! Fontenoy!’
Soames became conscious of features rather above the level of his own.
‘Well, Mr Forsyte, hope you’re satisfied? A pretty damned mess! If I’d been the chairman, I’d never have withdrawn. Always keep hounds under your eye, Mont. Take it off, and they’ll go for you! Wish I could get among ’em with a whip; I’d give it those two heavy pug-faced chaps – they mean business! Unless you’ve got something up your sleeve, Mr Forsyte, we’re dished.’
‘What should I have up my sleeve?’ said Soames coldly.
‘Damn it, sir, you put the chestnuts in the fire, it’s up to you to pull ’em out. I can’t afford to lose these fees!’
Soames heard Sir Lawrence murmur: ‘Crude, my dear Fontenoy!’ and said with malice:
‘You may lose more than your fees!’
‘Can’t! They may have Eaglescourt tomorrow, and take a loss off my hands.’ A gleam of feeling burned up suddenly in the old eyes: ‘The country drives you to the wall, skins you to the bone, and expects you to give ’em public service gratis. Can’t be done, Mont – can’t be done!’