Wingate poured some brandy from his
flask into the little metal cup and held it out. Phipps drank it
greedily.
"Go on now."
"We have decided," Phipps continued, "to sell wheat--to sell, you
understand? You are to telephone Liverpool, Manchester, Lincoln, Glasgow,
Bristol and Cardiff. Establish the price of sixty shillings.--Yes, that's
right--sixty shillings.--What is that you say?--You want
confirmation?--Mr. Rees will speak."
Wingate passed the telephone to the next man; also his flask, which he
held for a moment to his lips. Rees gurgled greedily. His voice sounded
strained, however, and cracked.
"Mr. Rees speaking, Harrison.--Yes, we are back. We'll be around at the
office later on. You got Mr. Phipps' message?--We've made up our minds to
sell wheat--sell it. What the devil does it matter to you why? We are
selling it to save--"
Wingate's pistol had stolen from his pocket. Rees glared at it for a
moment and then went on.
"To save an injunction from the Government. We have private information.
They have determined to find our dealings in wheat illegal.--Yes, Mr.
Phipps meant what he said--sixty shillings.--Use all our long-distance
wires. How long will it take you?--A quarter of an hour?--Eh?"
Wingate held the instrument away for a moment.
"You will have your breakfast," he promised, "immediately the
reply comes.
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