Gradually Osterman, by dint of his clamour, his strident reiteration, the plausibility of his glib, ready assertions, the ease with which he extricated himself when apparently driven to a corner, completely won over old Broderson to his way of thinking.

Osterman bewildered him with his volubility, the lightning rapidity with which he leaped from one subject to another, garrulous, witty, flamboyant, terrifying the old man with pictures of the swift approach of ruin, the imminence of danger.
Annixter, who led the argument against him--loving argument though he did--appeared to poor advantage, unable to present his side effectively.
He called Osterman a fool, a goat, a senseless, crazy-headed jackass, but was unable to refute his assertions.

His debate was the clumsy heaving of brickbats, brutal, direct.

He contradicted everything Osterman said as a matter of principle, made conflicting assertions, declarations that were absolutely inconsistent, and when Osterman or Harran used these against him, could only exclaim: "Well, in a way it's so, and then again in a way it isn't." But suddenly Osterman discovered a new argument.

"If we swing this deal," he cried, "we've got old jelly-belly Behrman right where we want him." "He's the man that does us every time," cried Harran.