"There, there, Colonel Cresswell, don't misunderstand me. I'm a plain
man. I'm playing a big game--a tremendous one. I need you, and I know
you need me. I find out about you, and my sources of knowledge are wide
and unerring. But the knowledge is safe, sir; it's buried. Last year
when you people curtailed cotton acreage and warehoused a big chunk of
the crop you gave the mill men the scare of their lives. We had a hasty
conference and the result was that the bottom fell out of your credit."

Colonel Cresswell grew pale. There was a disquieting, relentless element
in this unimpassioned man's tone.

"You failed," pursued John Taylor, "because you couldn't get the banks
and the big merchants behind you. We've got 'em behind us--with big
chunks of stock and a signed iron-clad agreement. You can wheel the
planters into line--will you do it?" John Taylor bent forward tense but
cool and steel-like. Harry Cresswell laid his hand on his father's arm
and said quietly:

"And where do we come in?"

"That's business," affirmed John Taylor. "You and two hundred and fifty
of the biggest planters come in on the ground-floor of the
two-billion-dollar All-Cotton combine. It can easily mean two million
to you in five years."

"And the other planters?"

"They come in for high-priced cotton until we get our grip."

"And then?"