Everybody knew that the Geological Bank deemed Churm's deposits the
fundamental stratum of its wealth. They lay there in the vaults, like
underlying granite. When hot times came, they boiled up in a mountain to
buttress the world.

Churm's blank check seemed to wave in the air like an oriflamme of
victory. Its payee might come from Botany Bay; he might wear his beard to
his knees, and his belt stuck full of howitzers and boomerangs; he might
have been repeatedly hung by Vigilance Committees, and as often cut down
and revived by galvanism; but brandishing that check, good for anything
less than a million, every Director in Wall Street was his slave, his
friend, and his brother.

"Let us vote Mr. Wade in by acclamation," cried the Directors.

"But, gentlemen," Churm interposed, "if I give him my blank check, he must
have _carte blanche_, and no one to interfere in his management."

Every Director, from President Brummage down, drew a long face at this
condition.

It was one of their great privileges to potter in the Dunderbunk affairs
and propose ludicrous impossibilities.

"Just as you please," Churm continued. "I name a competent man, a
gentleman and fine fellow. I back him with all the cash he wants. But he
must have his own way. Now take him, or leave him!"

Such despotic talk had never been heard before in that Directors' Room.