The confessions of an impotent executive are sorry stuff to read.  Whiffler’s long, dismal complaint shall not be repeated.  He had taken a prosperous concern, had carried on things in his own way, and now failure was inevitable.  He had bought raw material lavishly, and worked it badly into half-ripe material, which nobody wanted to buy.  He was in arrears to his hands.  He had tried to bully them, when they asked for their money.  They had insulted him, and threatened to knock off work, unless they were paid at once.  “A set of horrid ruffians,” Whiffler said,—­“and his life wouldn’t be safe many days among them.”

“Withdraw, if you please, Mr. Superintendent,” President Brummage requested.  “The Board will discuss measures of relief.”

The more they discussed, the more consternation.  Nobody said anything to the purpose, except Mr. Sam Gwelp, his late father’s lubberly son and successor.

“Blast!” said he; “we shall have to let it slide!”

Into this assembly of imbeciles unexpectedly entered Mr. John Churm.  He had set his Western railroad trains rolling, and was just returned to town.  Now he was ready to put those Herculean shoulders at any other bemired and rickety no-go-cart.

Mr. Churm was not accustomed to be a Director in feeble companies.  He came into Dunderbunk recently as executor of his friend Damer, a year ago bored to death by a silly wife.

Churm’s bristly aspect and incisive manner made him a sharp contrast to Brummage.  The latter personage was flabby in flesh, and the oppressively civil counter-jumper style of his youth had grown naturally into a deportment of most imposing pomposity.

The Tenth Director listened to the President’s recitative of their difficulties, chorused by the Board.

“Gentlemen,” said Director Churm, “you want two things.  The first is Money!”

He pronounced this cabalistic word with such magic power that all the air seemed instantly filled with a cheerful flight of gold American eagles, each carrying a double eagle on its back and a silver dollar in its claws; and all the soil of America seemed to sprout with coin, as after a shower a meadow sprouts with the yellow buds of the dandelion.

“Money! yes, Money!” murmured the Directors.

It seemed a word of good omen, now.

“The second thing,” resumed the newcomer, “is a Man!”

The Directors looked at each other and did not see such a being.

“The actual Superintendent of Dunderbunk is a dunderhead,” said Churm.

“Pun!” cried Sam Gwelp, waking up from a snooze.

Several of the Directors, thus instructed, started a complimentary laugh.

“Order, gentlemen!  Orrderr!” said the President, severely, rapping with a paper-cutter.

“We must have a Man, not a Whiffler!” Churm continued.  “And I have one in my eye.”

Everybody examined his eye.

“Would you be so good as to name him?” said Old Brummage, timidly.