"No,—but is our winter average going to stand at 29? I look at it like this. We ought to be full for six months, and half full for the other six months. That would give an average of 45. Five—daily—on the right side."
"I see that. But—next—season?"
"That's the problem."
"What about cutting expenses?"
"I don't want to do that. Cheese-paring. All wrong. One ought to go out for the generous success. I hate doing things meanly."
Sorrell sat staring at the fire, as though to pluck inspiration from the glow of it. He heard Mr. Roland say that he had contemplated the possibility of running the Pelican at a loss for two years, but if at the end of two years the balance was still against him he would have to consider ending the adventure.
Sorrell seemed to see the old gulf opening again, and swallowing himself and all those dearly conceived schemes. Kit's education sacrificed. Yes, and after all the desperate fights that he had fought upon the stairs, and his hard-won victories over the lioness and the bull.
"What about more advertising, sir?"
"I shall try it."
"The slack time in the winter is the trouble. Couldn't you run the place for hunting people?"
Roland's blue eyes seemed to focus the idea.
"Sorrell,—that's worth thinking about. But—what we want is something original,—even though it is something quite silly."
"Yes,—something original, sir—something to get the place known."
Sorrell went to his room in a gloomy mood, worried by the thought of slipping back from the foothold he had established.
A startling advertisement! If only it were possible to erect a huge stentophone somewhere, and set it shouting "Stop at the Pelican, Winstonbury."
But would the public listen? Were people such sheep as they seemed? Was not the Englishman still somewhat of a person who resented being shouted at?
There might be subtler ways,—but what were they?
