Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

WALL STREET
STORIES

BY

EDWIN LEFÈVRE

NEW YORK

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

1901

Copyright, 1901, by S. S. McClure Co.

1900 and 1901, by Frank A. Munsey

1901, by McClure, Phillips & Co.

First Impression October, 1901

Second Impression November, 1901

Third Impression November, 1901

TO

Samuel Hughes Watts

CONTENTS

THE WOMAN AND HER BONDS

It seemed to Fullerton F. Colwell, of the famous Stock-Exchange house of Wilson & Graves, that he had done his full duty by his friend Harry Hunt. He was a director in a half score of companies—financial débutantes which his firm had “brought out” and over whose stock-market destinies he presided. His partners left a great deal to him, and even the clerks in the office ungrudgingly acknowledged that Mr. Colwell was “the hardest worked man in the place, barring none”—an admission that means much to those who know it is always the downtrodden clerks who do all the work and their employers who take all the profit and credit. Possibly the important young men who did all the work in Wilson & Graves’ office bore witness to Mr. Colwell’s industry so cheerfully, because Mr. Colwell was ever inquiring, very courteously, and, above all, sympathetically, into the amount of work each man had to perform, and suggesting, the next moment, that the laborious amount in question was indisputably excessive. Also, it was he who raised salaries; wherefore he was the most charming as well as the busiest man there. Of his partners, John G. Wilson was a consumptive, forever going from one health resort to another, devoting his millions to the purchase of railroad tickets in the hope of out-racing Death. George B. Graves was a dyspeptic, nervous, irritable, and, to boot, penurious; a man whose chief recommendation at the time Wilson formed the firm had been his cheerful willingness to do all the dirty work. Frederick R. Denton was busy in the “Board Room”—the Stock Exchange—all day, executing orders, keeping watch over the market behavior of the stocks with which the firm was identified, and from time to time hearing things not meant for his ears, being the truth regarding Wilson & Graves. But Fullerton F. Colwell had to do everything—in the stock market and in the office. He conducted the manipulation of the Wilson & Graves stocks, took charge of the un-nefarious part of the numerous pools formed by the firm’s customers—Mr. Graves attending to the other details—and had a hand in the actual management of various corporations. Also, he conferred with a dozen people daily—chiefly “big people,” in Wall Street parlance—who were about to “put through” stock-market “deals.” He had devoted his time, which was worth thousands, and his brain, which was worth millions, to disentangling his careless friend’s affairs, and when it was all over and every claim adjusted, and he had refused the executor’s fees to which he was entitled, it was found that poor Harry Hunt’s estate not only was free from debt, but consisted of $38,000 in cash, deposited in the Trolleyman’s Trust Company, subject to Mrs. Hunt’s order, and drawing interest at the rate of 2½ per cent per annum. He had done his work wonderfully well, and, in addition to the cash, the widow owned an unencumbered house Harry had given her in his lifetime.

Not long after the settlement of the estate Mrs. Hunt called at his office. It was a very busy day. The bears were misbehaving—and misbehaving mighty successfully. Alabama Coal & Iron—the firm’s great specialty—was under heavy fire from “Sam” Sharpe’s Long Tom as well as from the room-traders’ Maxims. All that Colwell could do was to instruct Denton, who was on the ground, to “support” Ala. C. & I. sufficiently to discourage the enemy, and not enough to acquire the company’s entire capital stock. He was himself at that moment practising that peculiar form of financial dissimulation which amounts to singing blithely at the top of your voice when your beloved sackful of gold has been ripped by bear-paws and the coins are pouring out through the rent. Every quotation was of importance; a half inch of tape might contain an epic of disaster. It was not wise to fail to read every printed character.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

He ceased to pass the tape through his fingers, and turned quickly, almost apprehensively, for a woman’s voice was not heard with pleasure at an hour of the day when distractions were undesirable.

“Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, very politely. “I am very glad indeed to see you. And how do you do?” He shook hands, and led her, a bit ceremoniously, to a huge armchair. His manners endeared him even to the big Wall Street operators, who were chiefly interested in the terse speech of the ticker.

“Of course, you are very well, Mrs. Hunt. Don’t tell me you are not.”

“Ye-es,” hesitatingly. “As well as I can hope to be since—since——”

“Time alone, dear Mrs. Hunt, can help us. You must be very brave. It is what he would have liked.”

“Yes, I know,” she sighed. “I suppose I must.”

There was a silence. He stood by, deferentially sympathetic.

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,” said the ticker.

What did it mean, in figures? Reduced to dollars and cents, what did the last three brassy taps say? Perhaps the bears were storming the Alabama Coal & Iron intrenchments of “scaled buying orders”; perhaps Colwell’s trusted lieutenant, Fred Denton, had repulsed the enemy. Who was winning? A spasm, as of pain, passed over Mr. Fullerton F. Colwell’s grave face. But the next moment he said to her, slightly conscience-strickenly, as if he reproached himself for thinking of the stock market in her presence: “You must not permit yourself to brood, Mrs. Hunt. You know what I thought of Harry, and I need not tell you how glad I shall be to do what I may, for his sake, Mrs. Hunt, and for your own.”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick!” repeated the ticker.

To avoid listening to the voluble little machine, he went on: “Believe me, Mrs. Hunt, I shall be only too glad to serve you.”

“You are so kind, Mr. Colwell,” murmured the widow; and after a pause: “I came to see you about that money.”

“Yes?”

“They tell me in the trust company that if I leave the money there without touching it I’ll make $79 a month.”

“Let me see; yes; that is about what you may expect.”

“Well, Mr. Colwell, I can’t live on that. Willie’s school costs me $50, and then there’s Edith’s clothes,” she went on, with an air which implied that as for herself she wouldn’t care at all. “You see, he was so indulgent, and they are used to so much. Of course, it’s a blessing we have the house; but taxes take up so much; and—isn’t there some way of investing the money so it could bring more?”

“I might buy some bonds for you. But for your principal to be absolutely safe at all times, you will have to invest in very high-grade securities, which will return to you about 3½ per cent. That would mean, let’s see, $110 a month.”

“And Harry spent $10,000 a year,” she murmured, complainingly.

“Harry was always—er—rather extravagant.”

“Well, I’m glad he enjoyed himself while he lived,” she said, quickly. Then, after a pause: “And, Mr. Colwell, if I should get tired of the bonds, could I always get my money back?”

“You could always find a ready market for them. You might sell them for a little more or for a little less than you paid.”

“I shouldn’t like to sell them,” she said, with a business air, “for less than I paid. What would be the sense?”

“You are right, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, encouragingly. “It wouldn’t be very profitable, would it?”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-tick!” said the ticker. It was whirring away at a furious rate. Its story is always interesting when it is busy. And Colwell had not looked at the tape in fully five minutes!

“Couldn’t you buy something for me, Mr. Colwell, that when I came to sell it I could get more than it cost me?”

“No man can guarantee that, Mrs. Hunt.”

“I shouldn’t like to lose the little I have,” she said, hastily.

“Oh, there is no danger of that. If you will give me a check for $35,000, leaving $3,000 with the trust company for emergencies, I shall buy some bonds which I feel reasonably certain will advance in price within a few months.”

“Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,” interrupted the ticker. In some inexplicable way it seemed to him that the brassy sound had an ominous ring, so he added: “But you will have to let me know promptly, Mrs. Hunt. The stock market, you see, is not a polite institution. It waits for none, not even for your sex.”

“Gracious me, must I take the money out of the bank to-day and bring it to you?”

“A check will do.” He began to drum on the desk nervously with his fingers, but ceased abruptly as he became aware of it.

“Very well, I’ll send it to you to-day. I know you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you any longer. And you’ll buy good, cheap bonds for me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hunt.”

“There’s no danger of losing, is there, Mr. Colwell?”

“None whatever. I have bought some for Mrs. Colwell, and I would not run the slightest risk. You need have no fear about them.”

“It’s exceedingly kind of you, Mr. Colwell. I am more grateful than I can say. I—I——”

“The way to please me is not to mention it, Mrs. Hunt. I am going to try to make some money for you, so that you can at least double the income from the trust company.”

“Thanks, ever so much. Of course, I know you are thoroughly familiar with such things. But I’ve heard so much about the money everybody loses in Wall Street that I was half afraid.”

“Not when you buy good bonds, Mrs. Hunt.”

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Remember, whenever I may be of service you are to let me know immediately.”

“Oh, thank you, so much, Mr. Colwell. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

Mrs. Hunt sent him a check for $35,000, and Colwell bought 100 five-per cent gold bonds of the Manhattan Electric Light, Heat & Power Company, paying 96 for them.

“These bonds,” he wrote to her, “will surely advance in price, and when they touch a good figure I shall sell a part, and keep the balance for you as an investment. The operation is partly speculative, but I assure you the money is safe. You will have an opportunity to increase your original capital and your entire funds will then be invested in these same bonds—Manhattan Electric 5s—as many as the money will buy. I hope within six months to secure for you an income of twice as much as you have been receiving from the trust company.”

The next morning she called at his office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. I trust you are well.”

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I know I am an awful bother to you, but——”

“You are greatly mistaken, Mrs. Hunt.”

“You are very kind. You see, I don’t exactly understand about those bonds. I thought you could tell me. I’m so stupid,” archly.

“I won’t have you prevaricate about yourself, Mrs. Hunt. Now, you gave me $35,000, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Her tone indicated that she granted that much and nothing more.

“Well, I opened an account for you with our firm. You were credited with the amount. I then gave an order to buy one hundred bonds of $1,000 each. We paid 96 for them.”

“I don’t follow you quite, Mr. Colwell. I told you”—another arch smile—“I was so stupid!”

“It means that for each $1,000–bond $960 was paid. It brought the total up to $96,000.”

“But I only had $35,000 to begin with. You don’t mean I’ve made that much, do you?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Hunt. You put in $35,000; that was your margin, you know; and we put in the other $61,000 and kept the bonds as security. We owe you $35,000, and you owe us $61,000, and——”

“But—I know you’ll laugh at me, Mr. Colwell—but I really can’t help thinking it’s something like the poor people you read about, who mortgage their houses, and they go on, and the first thing you know some real-estate agent owns the house and you have nothing. I have a friend, Mrs. Stilwell, who lost hers that way,” she finished, corroboratively.

“This is not a similar case, exactly. The reason why you use a margin is that you can do much more with the money that way than if you bought outright. It protects your broker against a depreciation in the security purchased, which is all he wants. In this case you theoretically owe us $61,000, but the bonds are in your name, and they are worth $96,000, so that if you want to pay us back, all you have to do is to order us to sell the bonds, return the money we have advanced, and keep the balance of your margin; that is, of your original sum.”

“I don’t understand why I should owe the firm. I shouldn’t mind so much owing you, because I know you’d never take advantage of my ignorance of business matters. But I’ve never met Mr. Wilson nor Mr. Graves. I don’t even know how they look.”

“But you know me,” said Mr. Colwell, with patient courtesy.

“Oh, it isn’t that I’m afraid of being cheated, Mr. Colwell,” she said hastily and reassuringly; “but I don’t wish to be under obligations to any one, particularly utter strangers; though, of course, if you say it is all right, I am satisfied.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt, don’t worry about this matter. We bought these bonds at 96. If the price should advance to 110, as I think it will, then you can sell three fifths for $66,000, pay us back $61,000, and keep $5,000 for emergencies in savings banks drawing 4 per cent interest, and have in addition 40 bonds which will pay you $2,000 a year.”

“That would be lovely. And the bonds are now 96?”

“Yes; you will always find the price in the financial page of the newspapers, where it says BONDS. Look for Man. Elec. 5s,” and he showed her.

“Oh, thanks, ever so much. Of course, I am a great bother, I know——”

“You are nothing of the kind, Mrs. Hunt. I’m only too glad to be of the slightest use to you.”

Mr. Colwell, busy with several important deals, did not follow closely the fluctuations in the price of Manhattan Electric Light, Heat & Power Company 5s. The fact that there had been any change at all was made clear to him by Mrs. Hunt. She called a few days after her first visit, with perturbation written large on her face. Also, she wore the semi-resolute look of a person who expects to hear unacceptable excuses.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Hunt? Well, I hope.”

“Oh, I am well enough. I wish I could say as much for my financial matters.” She had acquired the phrase from the financial reports which she had taken to reading religiously every day.

“Why, how is that?”

“They are 95 now,” she said, a trifle accusingly.

“Who are they, pray, Mrs. Hunt?” in surprise.

“The bonds. I saw it in last night’s paper.”

Mr. Colwell smiled. Mrs. Hunt almost became indignant at his levity.

“Don’t let that worry you, Mrs. Hunt. The bonds are all right. The market is a trifle dull; that’s all.”

“A friend,” she said, very slowly, “who knows all about Wall Street, told me last night that it made a difference of $1,000 to me.”

“So it does, in a way; that is, if you tried to sell your bonds. But as you are not going to do so until they show you a handsome profit, you need not worry. Don’t be concerned about the matter, I beg of you. When the time comes for you to sell the bonds I’ll let you know. Never mind if the price goes off a point or two. You are amply protected. Even if there should be a panic I’ll see that you are not sold out, no matter how low the price goes. You are not to worry about it; in fact, you are not to think about it at all.”

“Oh, thanks, ever so much, Mr. Colwell. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. But I knew——”

A clerk came in with some stock certificates and stopped short. He wanted Mr. Colwell’s signature in a hurry, and at the same time dared not interrupt. Mrs. Hunt thereupon rose and said: “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Good morning, Mr. Colwell. Thanks ever so much.”

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Hunt. Good morning. You are going to do very well with those bonds if you only have patience.”

“Oh, I’ll be patient now that I know all about it; yes, indeed. And I hope your prophecy will be fulfilled. Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

Little by little the bonds continued to decline. The syndicate in charge was not ready to move them. But Mrs. Hunt’s unnamed friend—her Cousin Emily’s husband—who was employed in an up-town bank, did not know all the particulars of that deal. He knew the Street in the abstract, and had accordingly implanted the seed of insomnia in her quaking soul. Then, as he saw values decline, he did his best to make the seed grow, fertilizing a naturally rich soil with ominous hints and headshakings and with phrases that made her firmly believe he was gradually and considerately preparing her for the worst. On the third day of her agony Mrs. Hunt walked into Colwell’s office. Her face was pale and she looked distressed. Mr. Colwell sighed involuntarily—a scarcely perceptible and not very impolite sigh—and said: “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

She nodded gravely and, with a little gasp, said, tremulously: “The bonds!”

“Yes? What about them?”

She gasped again, and said: “The p-p-papers!”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Hunt?”

She dropped into a chair nervelessly, as if exhausted. After a pause she said: “It’s in all the papers. I thought the Herald might be mistaken, so I bought the Tribune and the Times and the Sun. But no. It was the same in all. It was,” she added, tragically, “93!”

“Yes?” he said, smilingly.

The smile did not reassure her; it irritated her and aroused her suspicions. By him, of all men, should her insomnia be deemed no laughing matter.

“Doesn’t that mean a loss of $3,000?” she asked. There was a deny-it-if-you-dare inflection in her voice of which she was not conscious. Her cousin’s husband had been a careful gardener.

“No, because you are not going to sell your bonds at 93, but at 110, or thereabouts.”

“But if I did want to sell the bonds now, wouldn’t I lose $3,000?” she queried, challengingly. Then she hastened to answer herself: “Of course I would, Mr. Colwell. Even I can tell that.”

“You certainly would, Mrs. Hunt; but——”

“I knew I was right,” with irrepressible triumph.

“But you are not going to sell the bonds.”

“Of course, I don’t want to, because I can’t afford to lose any money, much less $3,000. But I don’t see how I can help losing it. I was warned from the first,” she said, as if that made it worse. “I certainly had no business to risk my all.” She had waived the right to blame some one else, and there was something consciously just and judicial about her attitude that was eloquent. Mr. Colwell was moved by it.

“You can have your money back, Mrs. Hunt, if you wish it,” he told her, quite unprofessionally. “You seem to worry about it so much.”

“Oh, I am not worrying, exactly; only, I do wish I hadn’t bought—I mean, the money was so safe in the Trolleyman’s Trust Company, that I can’t help thinking I might just as well have let it stay where it was, even if it didn’t bring me in so much. But, of course, if you want me to leave it here,” she said, very slowly to give him every opportunity to contradict her, “of course, I’ll do just as you say.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt,” Colwell said, very politely, “my only desire is to please you and to help you. When you buy bonds you must be prepared to be patient. It may take months before you will be able to sell yours at a profit, and I don’t know how low the price will go in the meantime. Nobody can tell you that, because nobody knows. But it need make no difference to you whether the bonds go to 90, or even to 85, which is unlikely.”

“Why, how can you say so, Mr. Colwell? If the bonds go to 90, I’ll lose $6,000–-my friend said it was one thousand for every number down. And at 85 that would be”—counting on her fingers—“eleven numbers, that is, eleven—thousand—dollars!” And she gazed at him, awe-strickenly, reproachfully. “How can you say it would make no difference, Mr. Colwell?”

Mr. Colwell fiercely hated the unnamed “friend,” who had told her so little and yet so much. But he said to her, mildly: “I thought that I had explained all that to you. It might hurt a weak speculator if the bonds declined ten points, though such a decline is utterly improbable. But it won’t affect you in the slightest, since, having an ample margin, you would not be forced to sell. You would simply hold on until the price rose again. Let me illustrate. Supposing your house cost $10,000, and——”

“Harry paid $32,000,” she said, correctingly. On second thought she smiled, in order to let him see that she knew her interpolation was irrelevant. But he might as well know the actual cost.

“Very well,” he said, good-humoredly, “we’ll say $32,000, which was also the price of every other house in that block. And suppose that, owing to some accident, or for any reason whatever, nobody could be found to pay more than $25,000 for one of the houses, and three or four of your neighbors sold theirs at that price. But you wouldn’t, because you knew that in the fall, when everybody came back to town, you would find plenty of people who’d give you $50,000 for your house; you wouldn’t sell it for $25,000, and you wouldn’t worry. Would you, now?” he finished, cheerfully.

“No,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t worry. But,” hesitatingly, for, after all, she felt the awkwardness of her position, “I wish I had the money instead of the bonds.” And she added, self-defensively: “I haven’t slept a wink for three nights thinking about this.”

The thought of his coming emancipation cheered Mr. Colwell immensely. “Your wish shall be gratified, Mrs. Hunt. Why didn’t you ask me before, if you felt that way?” he said, in mild reproach. And he summoned a clerk.

“Make out a check for $35,000 payable to Mrs. Rose Hunt, and transfer the 100 Manhattan Electric Light 5s to my personal account.”

He gave her the check and told her: “Here is the money. I am very sorry that I unwittingly caused you some anxiety. But all’s well that ends well. Any time that I can be of service to you—Not at all. Don’t thank me, please; no. Good morning.”

But he did not tell her that by taking over her account he paid $96,000 for bonds he could have bought in the open market for $93,000. He was the politest man in Wall Street; and, after all, he had known Hunt for many years.

A week later Manhattan Electric 5–per cent bonds sold at 96 again. Mrs. Hunt called on him. It was noon, and she evidently had spent the morning mustering up courage for the visit. They greeted one another, she embarrassed and he courteous and kindly as usual.

“Mr. Colwell, you still have those bonds, haven’t you?”

“Why, yes.”

“I—I think I’d like to take them back.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. I’ll find out how much they are selling for.” He summoned a clerk to get a quotation on Manhattan Electric 5s. The clerk telephoned to one of their bond-specialists, and learned that the bonds could be bought at 96½. He reported to Mr. Colwell, and Mr. Colwell told Mrs. Hunt, adding: “So you see they are practically where they were when you bought them before.”

She hesitated. “I—I—didn’t you buy them from me at 93? I’d like to buy them back at the same price I sold them to you.”

“No, Mrs. Hunt,” he said; “I bought them from you at 96.”

“But the price was 93.” And she added, corroboratively: “Don’t you remember it was in all the papers?”

“Yes, but I gave you back exactly the same amount that I received from you, and I had the bonds transferred to my account. They stand on our books as having cost me 96.”

“But couldn’t you let me have them at 93?” she persisted.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hunt, but I don’t see how I could. If you buy them in the open market now, you will be in exactly the same position as before you sold them, and you will make a great deal of money, because they are going up now. Let me buy them for you at 96½.”

“At 93, you mean,” with a tentative smile.

“At whatever price they may be selling for,” he corrected, patiently.

“Why did you let me sell them, Mr. Colwell?” she asked, plaintively.

“But, my dear madam, if you buy them now, you will be no worse off than if you had kept the original lot.”

“Well, I don’t see why it is that I have to pay 96½ now for the very same bonds I sold last Tuesday at 93. If it was some other bonds,” she added, “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

“My dear Mrs. Hunt, it makes no difference which bonds you hold. They have all risen in price, yours and mine and everybody’s; your lot was the same as any other lot. You see that, don’t you?”

“Ye-es; but——”

“Well, then, you are exactly where you were before you bought any. You’ve lost nothing, because you received your money back intact.”

“I’m willing to buy them,” she said resolutely, “at 93.”

“Mrs. Hunt, I wish I could buy them for you at that price. But there are none for sale cheaper than 96½.”

“Oh, why did I let you sell my bonds!” she said, disconsolately.

“Well, you worried so much because they had declined that——”

“Yes, but I didn’t know anything about business matters. You know I didn’t, Mr. Colwell,” she finished, accusingly.

He smiled in his good-natured way. “Shall I buy the bonds for you?” he asked. He knew the plans of the syndicate in charge, and being sure the bonds would advance, he thought she might as well share in the profits. At heart he felt sorry for her.

She smiled back. “Yes,” she told him, “at 93.” It did not seem right to her, notwithstanding his explanations, that she should pay 96½ for them, when the price a few days ago was 93.

“But how can I, if they are 96½?”

“Mr. Colwell, it is 93 or nothing.” She was almost pale at her own boldness. It really seemed to her as if the price had only been waiting for her to sell out in order to advance. And though she wanted the bonds, she did not feel like yielding.

“Then I very much fear it will have to be nothing.”

“Er—good morning, Mr. Colwell,” on the verge of tears.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.” And before he knew it, forgetting all that had gone before, he added: “Should you change your mind, I should be glad to——”

“I know I wouldn’t pay more than 93 if I lived to be a thousand years.” She looked expectantly at him, to see if he had repented, and she smiled—the smile that is a woman’s last resort, that says, almost articulately: “I know you will, of course, do as I ask. My question is only a formality. I know your nobility, and I fear not.” But he only bowed her out, very politely.

On the Stock Exchange the price of Man. Elec. L. H. & P. Co. 5s rose steadily. Mrs. Hunt, too indignant to feel lachrymose, discussed the subject with her Cousin Emily and her husband. Emily was very much interested. Between her and Mrs. Hunt they forced the poor man to make strange admissions, and, deliberately ignoring his feeble protests, they worked themselves up to the point of believing that, while it would be merely generous of Mr. Colwell to let his friend’s widow have the bonds at 93, it would be only his obvious duty to let her have them at 96½. The moment they reached this decision Mrs. Hunt knew how to act. And the more she thought the more indignant she became. The next morning she called on her late husband’s executor and friend.

Her face wore the look often seen on those ardent souls who think their sacred and inalienable rights have been trampled upon by the tyrant Man, but who at the same time feel certain the hour of retribution is near.

“Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I came to find out exactly what you propose to do about my bonds.” Her voice conveyed the impression that she expected violent opposition, perhaps even bad language, from him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Why, what do you mean?”

His affected ignorance deepened the lines on her face. Instead of bluster he was using finesse!

“I think you ought to know, Mr. Colwell,” she said, meaningly.

“Well, I really don’t. I remember you wouldn’t heed my advice when I told you not to sell out, and again when I advised you to buy them back.”

“Yes, at 96½,” she burst out, indignantly.

“Well, if you had, you would to-day have a profit of over $7,000.”

“And whose fault is it that I haven’t?” She paused for a reply. Receiving none, she went on: “But never mind; I have decided to accept your offer,” very bitterly, as if a poor widow could not afford to be a chooser; “I’ll take those bonds at 96½.” And she added, under her breath: “Although it really ought to be 93.”

“But, Mrs. Hunt,” said Colwell, in measureless astonishment, “you can’t do that, you know. You wouldn’t buy them when I wanted you to, and I can’t buy them for you now at 96½. Really, you ought to see that.”

Cousin Emily and she had gone over a dozen imaginary interviews with Mr. Colwell—of varying degrees of storminess—the night before, and they had, in an idle moment, and not because they really expected it, represented Mr. Colwell as taking that identical stand. Mrs. Hunt was, accordingly, prepared to show both that she knew her moral and technical rights, and that she was ready to resist any attempt to ignore them. So she said, in a voice so ferociously calm that it should have warned any guilty man: “Mr. Colwell, will you answer me one question?”

“A thousand, Mrs. Hunt, with pleasure.”

“No; only one. Have you kept the bonds that I bought, or have you not?”

“What difference does that make, Mrs. Hunt?”

He evaded the answer!

“Yes or no, please. Have you, or have you not, those same identical bonds?”

“Yes; I have. But——”

“And to whom do those bonds belong, by rights?” She was still pale, but resolute.

“To me, certainly.”

“To you, Mr. Colwell?” She smiled. And in her smile were a thousand feelings; but not mirth.

“Yes, Mrs. Hunt, to me.”

“And do you propose to keep them?”

“I certainly do.”

“Not even if I pay 96½ will you give them to me?”

“Mrs. Hunt,” Colwell said with warmth “when I took those bonds off your hands at 93 it represented a loss on paper of $3,000——”

She smiled in pity—pity for his judgment in thinking her so hopelessly stupid.

“And when you wanted me to sell them back to you at 93 after they had risen to 96½, if I had done as you wished, it would have meant an actual loss of $3,000 to me.”

Again she smiled—the same smile, only the pity was now mingled with rising indignation.

“For Harry’s sake I was willing to pocket the first loss, in order that you might not worry. But I didn’t see why I should make you a present of $3,000,” he said, very quietly.

“I never asked you to do it,” she retorted, hotly.

“If you had lost any money through my fault, it would have been different. But you had your original capital unimpaired. You had nothing to lose, if you bought back the same bonds at practically the same price. Now you come and ask me to sell you the bonds at 96½ that are selling in the market for 104, as a reward, I suppose, for your refusal to take my advice.”

“Mr. Colwell, you take advantage of my position to insult me. And Harry trusted you so much! But let me tell you that I am not going to let you do just as you please. No doubt you would like to have me go home and forget how you’ve acted toward me. But I am going to consult a lawyer, and see if I am to be treated this way by a friend of my husband’s. You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Colwell.”

“Yes, madam, I certainly have. And, in order to avoid making any more, you will oblige me greatly by never again calling at this office. By all means consult a lawyer. Good morning, madam,” said the politest man in Wall Street.

“We’ll see,” was all she said; and she left the room.

Colwell paced up and down his office nervously. It was seldom that he allowed himself to lose his temper, and he did not like it. The ticker whirred away excitedly, and in an absent-minded, half-disgusted way he glanced sideways at it.

“Man. Elec. 5s, 106⅛,” he read on the tape.

THE BREAK IN TURPENTINE

In the beginning of the beginning the distillers of turpentine carried competition to the quarrelling point. Then they carried the quarrel to the point of silence, which was most to be feared, for it meant that no time was to be wasted in words. All were losing money; but each hoped that the others were losing more, proportionately, and therefore would go under all the sooner. The survivors thought they could manage to keep on surviving, for on what twelve would starve four could feast.

It is seen periodically in the United States: an industry apparently suffering from suicidal mania. It is incomprehensible, inexplicable, though mediocrities mutter: “Over-production!” and shake their heads complacently, proud of having diagnosed the trouble. Here was the turpentine business, once great and lucrative, now ruin-producing; formerly affording a comfortable livelihood to many thousands and now giving ever-diminishing wages to ever-diminishing numbers.

It was Mr. Alfred Neustadt, a banker in a famous turpentine district, who first called his brother-in-law’s attention to the pitiable sight. Mr. Jacob Greenbaum’s soul thrilled during Neustadt’s recital. He perceived golden possibilities that dazzled him: He decided to form a Turpentine Trust.

First he bought for a song all the bankrupt stills; seven of them. Later on, in his scheme of trust creation, these self-same distilleries would be turned over to the “octopus,” at nice fat figures, as Greenbaum put it, self-admiringly, to his brother-in-law. Then he secured options on nine others, the tired-unto-death plants. In this way he was able to control “a large productive capacity” at an expenditure positively marvellous—it was so small. It was also in his brother-in-law’s name. Then the banking house of Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co. stepped in, interested accomplices, duped or coerced into selling enough other distillers to assure success, cajoled the more stubborn, wheedled the more credulous, gave way gracefully to the shrewder and gathered them all into the fold. The American Turpentine Company was formed, with a capital stock of $30,000,000 or 300,000 shares at $100 each. The cash needed, to pay Mr. Greenbaum, Neustadt and others who sold their plants for “part cash and part stock,” was provided by an issue of $25,000,000 of 6 per cent bonds, underwritten by a syndicate composed of Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co., I. & S. Wechsler, Morris Steinfelder’s Sons, Reis & Stern, Kohn, Fischel & Co., Silberman & Lindheim, Rosenthal, Shaffran & Co. and Zeman Bros.

They were men who never “speculated”; sometimes they “conducted financial operations.” They had shears, not fleeces.

The prospectus of the “Trust” was a masterpiece of persuasiveness and vagueness, of slim statistics and alluring generalities. In due course of time the public subscribed for the greater part of the $25,000,000 of bonds, and both bonds and stock were “listed” on the New York Stock Exchange—that is, they were placed on the list of securities which members may buy or sell on the “floor” of the Exchange.

Tabularly expressed, the syndicate’s operations were as follows:

Paid to owners for 41 distilleries representing 90 per cent of the turpentine production (and 121 per cent of the consumption!) of the United States:

These figures were not for publication. They told the exact truth.

The public knew nothing of the company’s earning capacity, save a few tentative figures from the prospectus, which was a sort of financial gospel according to Greenbaum, but which did not create fanatical devotees among investors. The stock, unlike the Kipling ship, had not found itself. It was not market-proven, not seasoned; no one knew how much dependence to put on it; wherefore the banks would not take it as collateral security on loans and wherefore the “speculative community” (as the newspapers call the stock gamblers) would not touch it, since in a pinch it might prove utterly unvendible. It remained for the syndicate to make a “market” for it, to develop such a condition of affairs that anyone at any time could, without overmuch difficulty and without causing over-great fluctuations, sell readily American Turpentine Company stock. The syndicate would have to earn its commission.

All the manufacturers who had received stock in part payment were told most impressively by Mr. Greenbaum not to sell their holdings under any circumstances at any price below $75 a share. Not knowing Mr. Greenbaum, they readily and solemnly promised to obey him. They even permitted themselves to think, after talking to him, that they would some day receive $80 per share for all their holdings. This precluded any untimely “unloading” by the only people outside the syndicate that held any Turpentine stock at all.

Mr. Greenbaum took charge of the market conduct of “Turp,” as the tape called the stock of the American Turpentine Company. At first, the price was marked up by means of “matched” orders—preconcerted and therefore not bona fide transactions. Mr. Greenbaum told one of his brokers to sell 1,000 shares of “Turp” to another of his brokers and shortly afterwards the second broker sold the same 1,000 shares to a third, by pre-arrangement—this being the matching process—with the result that the tape recorded transactions of 2,000 shares. After the “matching” had gone on for some time, readers of the tape were supposed to imagine that the stock was legitimately active and strong—two facts which in turn were supposed to whet the buying appetite. It was against the rule of the Exchange to “match” orders, but how could convictions be secured?

“Turp” began at 25 and as the syndicate had all the stock in the market, it was easily manipulated upward to 35. Every day, many thousands of shares, according to the Stock Exchange’s official records, “changed hands”—from Greenbaum’s right to his left and back again—and the price rose steadily. But something was absent. The manipulation was not convincing. It did not make the general public nibble. The only buyers were the “room traders,” that is, the professional stock gamblers who were members of the Exchange and speculated for themselves exclusively; and those customers of the commission houses who, because they were bound to speculate daily or die and because they studied the ticker-ribbon so assiduously, were known by the generic name of “tape-worms.” These gentry, in and out of the Exchange, provided the tape in its curious language foretold a rise, would buy anything—from capitalized impudence, as in the case of Back Bay Gas, whose property was actually worth nil and its capital stock was $100,000,000, up to Government bonds.

Now, the room traders and the tape-worms reasoned not illogically that the “Greenbaum gang” had all the stock and that perforce the “gang” had to find a market for it; and the only way to do this was by a nice “bull” or upward movement. When a stock rises and rises and rises the newspapers are full of pleasant stories about it and the lambs read but do not run away; they buy on the assumption that, as the stock has already risen ten points it may rise ten more. This explains why they make so much money in Wall Street—for the natives.

Greenbaum and his associates were exceptionally shrewd business men, thoroughly familiar with Wall Street and its methods, cautious yet bold, far-seeing yet eminently of the day. They were practical financiers. They marked up the price of “Turp” ten points; but they could not arouse public interest in it so that people would buy it. Indeed, at the end of three weeks, during which the “Street” had been flooded with impressive advice, printed and spoken, to buy because the price was going higher, all they had for their trouble was more stock-–6,000 shares from Ira D. Keep, a distiller, who sold out at 38 because he needed the money; and they also were obliged to buy back from the “room traders” at 35 and 36 and higher, the same stock the “gang” had sold at 30 and 31 and 32 and 34. Then the manipulators had to “support” the stock at the higher level, that is, they had to keep it from declining, which could be done only by continuous buying. By doing this the public might imagine there was considerable merit in a stock which was in such good demand from intelligent people as to remain firm, notwithstanding its previous substantial rise. And if somebody wanted “Turp” why shouldn’t the public want it? The public generally asks itself that question. It is in the nature of a nibble and rejoices the hearts of the financial anglers.

Every attempt to sell “Turp” met with failure. At length it was decided to allow the price to sink back to an “invitingly low” level. It was done. But still the invited public refused to buy. Efforts to encourage a short interest to over-extend itself unto “squeezable” proportions failed similarly. The Street was afraid to go “short” of a stock which was so closely held. The philosophy of short selling is simple; it really amounts to betting that values will decline. A man who “sells short” sells what he does not possess, but hopes to buy, later on, at a lower price. But since he must deliver what he sells he borrows it from some one else, giving the lender ample security. To “cover” or to “buy in” is to purchase stock previously sold short. Obviously, it is unwise to be short of a stock which is held by such a few that it may be difficult to borrow it. To “squeeze” shorts is to advance the price in order to force “covering.” This is done when the short interest is large enough to make it worth while.

In the course of the next few months, after a series of injudicious fluctuations which gave to “Turp” a bad name, even as Wall Street names went, despite glowing accounts of the company’s wonderful business and after distributing less than 35,000 shares, the members of the “Turpentine Skindicate,” as it was popularly called, sorrowfully acknowledged that, while they had skilfully organized the trust and had done fairly well with the bonds, they certainly were not howling successes as manipulators. During the following eight months they sold more stock. They spared not the widow nor the orphan. They even “stuck” their intimate friends. They had sold for something what had cost them nothing; it was natural to wish to sell more.

Now, manipulators of stocks are born, not made. The art is most difficult, for stocks should be manipulated in such wise that they will not look manipulated. Anybody can buy stocks or can sell them. But not every one can sell stocks and at the same time convey the impression that he is buying them, and that prices therefore must inevitably go much higher. It requires boldness and consummate judgment, knowledge of technical stock-market conditions, infinite ingenuity and mental agility, absolute familiarity with human nature, a careful study of the curious psychological phenomena of gambling and long experience with the Wall Street public and with the wonderful imagination of the American people; to say nothing of knowing thoroughly the various brokers to be employed, their capabilities, limitations and personal temperaments; also, their price.

Adequate manipulative machinery, moreover, can be perfected only with much toil and patience and money. Professional Wall Street will always tell you that “the tape tells the story.” The little paper ribbon, therefore, must be made to tell such stories as the manipulator desires should be told to the public; he must produce certain effects which should preserve an appearance of alluring spontaneity and, above all, of legitimacy and candor; he must be a great artist in mendacity and at the same time have the superb self-confidence of a grizzly.

Several members of the syndicate had many of these qualities, but none had them all. It was decided to put “Turp” stock in the hands of Samuel Wimbleton Sharpe, the best manipulator Wall Street had ever known. “Jakey” Greenbaum said he would conduct the negotiations with the great plunger.

Sharpe was a financial free-lance, free-booter and free-thinker. He had made his first fortune in the mining camps of Arizona and finding that field too narrow had come to New York, where he could gamble to his heart’s content. He was all the things that an ideal manipulator should be and several more. He had arrived in New York with a sneer on his lips and a loaded revolver in his financial hands. The other “big operators” looked at him in pained astonishment. “I carry my weapons openly,” Sharpe told them, “and you conceal your dirks. Don’t hurt yourselves trying to look honest. I never turn my back on such as you.” Of this encounter was born a hostility that never grew faint. Sharpe had nothing of his own to unload on anyone else, no property to overcapitalize and sell to an undiscriminating public by means of artistic lies and his enemies often did. So they called him a gambler, very bitterly, and he called them philanthropists, very cheerfully. If he thought a stock was unduly high he sold it confidently, aggressively, stupendously. If he thought a stock was too low he bought it boldly, ready to take all the offerings and bid for more. And once on the march, he might be temporarily checked, be forced by the enemy to halt for a day or a week or a month; but inevitably he arrived. And such an arrival!

And as a manipulator of stock-values he had no equal. On the bull side he rushed a stock upward so steadily, so boldly and brilliantly, but, above all, so persuasively, that lesser gamblers almost fought to be allowed to take it off his hands at incredibly high prices. And when in the conduct of one of his masterly bear campaigns he saw fit to “hammer” the market, values melted away as by magic—Satanic magic, the poor lambs thought. All stocks looked “sick,” looked as though prices would go much lower; murmurs of worse things to come were in the air, vague, disquieting, ruin-breeding. The atmosphere of the Street was supersaturated with apprehension, and the black shadow of Panic brooded over the Stock Exchange, chilling the little gamblers’ hearts, wiping out the last of the little gamblers’ margins. And even the presidents of the solid, conservative banks studied the ticker uneasily in their offices.

Greenbaum was promptly admitted to Sharpe’s private office. It was a half-darkened room, the windows having wire-screens, summer and winter, in order that prying eyes across the street might not see his visitors or his confidential brokers, whose identity it was advisable should remain unknown to the Street. He was walking up and down the room, pausing from time to time to look at the tape. The ticker is the only telescope the stock-market general has; it tells him what his forces are doing and how the enemy is meeting his attacks. Every inch of the tape is so much ground; every quotation represents so many shots.

There was something feline in Sharpe’s stealthy, soundless steps, in his mustaches, in the conformation of his face—broad of forehead and triangulating chin-ward. In his eyes, too, there was something tigerish—unmelodramatically cold hearted and coldly curious as they looked upon Mr. Jacob Greenbaum. Unconsciously the unfanciful Trust-maker asked himself whether Sharpe’s heart-beats were not ticker ticks, impassively indicating the pulse of the stock-market.

“Hallo, Greenbaum.”

“How do you do, Mr. Sharpe?” quoth the millionaire senior partner of the firm of Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co. “I hope you are well?” He bent his head to one side, his eyes full of a caressing scrutiny, as though to ascertain the exact condition of Sharpe’s health. “Yes, you must be. I haven’t seen you look so fine in a long time.”

“You didn’t come up here just to tell me this, Greenbaum, did you? How’s your Turpentine? Oh!”—with a long whistle—“I see. You want me to go into it, hey?” And he laughed—a sort of half-chuckle, half-snarl.

Greenbaum looked at him admiringly; then, with a tentative smile, he said: “I am discovered!”

Nearly every American may be met as an equal on the field of Humor. To jest in business matters of the greatest importance bespoke the national trait. Moreover, if Sharpe declined, Greenbaum could treat the entire affair—the proposal and the rejection—as parts of a joke.

“Well?” said Sharpe, unhumorously.

“What’s the matter with a pool?”

“How big?” coldly.

“Up to the limit.” Again the Trust-maker smiled, uncertainly.

“You haven’t all the capital stock, I hope.”

“Well, call it 100,000 shares,” said Greenbaum, more uncertainly and less jovially.

“Who is to be in it besides you?”

“Oh, you know; the same old crowd.”

“Oh, I know,” mimicked Mr. Sharpe, scornfully, “the same old crowd. You ought to have come to me before; it will take something to overcome your own reputations. How much will each take?”

“We’ll fix that O. K. if you take hold,” answered Greenbaum, laughingly. “We’ve got over 100,000 shares and we’d rather some one else held some of it. We ain’t hogs. Ha! Ha!”

“But, the distillers?”

“They are in the pool. I’ve got most of their stock in my office. I’ll see that it does not come out until I say so.”

There was a pause. Between Sharpe’s eyebrows were two deep lines. At length, he said:

“Bring your friends here, this afternoon. Good-by, Greenbaum. And, I say, Greenbaum.”

“Yes?”

“No funny tricks at any stage of the game.”

“What’s the use of saying such things, Mr. Sharpe?” with an experimental frown.

“The use is so you won’t try any. Come at four,” and Mr. Sharpe began to pace up and down the room. Greenbaum hesitated, still frowning tentatively; but he said nothing and at length went out.

Sharpe looked at the tape. “Turp” was 29¼.

He resumed his restless march back and forth. It was only when the market “went against him” that Mr. Sharpe did not pace about the room in the mechanical way of a menagerie animal, glancing everywhere but seeing nothing. When something unexpected happened in the market Sharpe stood immobile beside the ticker, because his overworked nerves were tense—like a tiger into whose cage there enters a strange and eatable animal.

On the minute of four there called on Mr. Sharpe the senior partners of the firms of Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co., I. & S. Wechsler, Morris Steinfelder’s Sons, Reis & Stern, Kohn, Fischel & Co., Silberman & Lindheim, Rosenthal, Shaffran & Co., and Zeman Bros.

They were ushered not into the private office, but into a sumptuously furnished room, the walls of which were covered with dashing oil paintings of horses and horse-races. The visitors seated themselves about a long oaken table.

Mr. Sharpe appeared at the threshold.

“How do you do, gentlemen? Don’t move, please; don’t move.” He made no motion to shake hands with any of them, but Greenbaum came to him and held out his fat dexter resolutely and Sharpe took it. Then Greenbaum sat down and said, “We’re here,” and smiled, blandly.

Sharpe stood at the head of the polished, shining table, and glanced slowly down the double row of alert faces. His look rested a fraction of a minute on each man’s eyes—a sharp, half-contemptuous, almost menacing look that made the older men uncomfortable and the younger resentful.

“Greenbaum tells me you wish to pool your Turpentine stock and have me market it for you.”

All nodded; a few said “yes”; one—Lindheim, aetat 27—said, flippantly, “That’s what.”

“Very well. What will each man’s proportion be?”

“I have a list here, Sharpe,” put in Greenbaum. He intentionally omitted the “Mr.” for effect upon his colleagues. Sharpe noted it, but did not mind it.

Sharpe read aloud:

“Is that correct, gentlemen?” asked Sharpe.

Greenbaum nodded his head and smiled affably as befitted the holder of the biggest block. Some said “Yes”; others, “That is correct.” Young Lindheim said, “That’s what.” The founders of the firm—his uncle and his father—were dead, and he had inherited the entire business from the two. His flippancy was not inherited from either.

“It is understood,” said Sharpe, slowly, “that I am to have complete charge of the pool, and conduct operations as I see fit. I want no advice and no questions. If there is any asking to be done, I’ll do it. If my way does not suit you we’ll call the deal off right here, because it’s the only way I have. I know my business, and if you know yours you’ll keep your mouths shut in this office and out of it.”

No one said a word, not even Lindheim.

“Each of you will continue to carry the stock for which he has agreed to stand in the pool. You’ve had it a year and couldn’t sell it, and you might keep it a few weeks more, until I sell it for you. It must be subject to my call at one minute’s notice. I’ve looked into the company’s business, and I think the stock can easily sell at 75 or 80.”

Something like a gasp of astonishment came from those eight hardened speculators. Then Greenbaum smiled, knowingly, as if that were his programme, memorized and spoken by Sharpe.

“It is also understood,” went on Sharpe, very calmly, “that none of you has any other stock for sale at any price, excepting his proportion in this pool, and that proportion, of course, is not to be sold excepting by me.” No one said a word, and he continued:

“My profit will be 25 per cent of the pool’s winnings, figuring on the stock having been put in at 29. The remaining profits will be divided pro rata among you; the necessary expenses will be shared similarly. I think that’s all. And, gentlemen, no unloading on the sly—not one share.”

“I want you to understand, Mr. Sharpe, that we are not in the habit of—” began Greenbaum with perfunctory dignity. He felt it was his duty to remonstrate before his colleagues.

“Oh, that’s all right, Greenbaum. I know you. That’s why I’m particular. We’ve all been in Wall Street more than a month or two. I simply said, ‘No shenanigan.’ And, Greenbaum,” he added, very distinctly, while his eyes took on that curious, cold, menacing look, “I mean it, every d——d word of it. I want the numbers of all your stock-certificates. Excuse me, gentlemen. I am very busy. Good-afternoon.”

And that is how the famous bull pool in Turpentine came to be formed. They thought he might have been nicer, more diplomatic; but as they had sought him, not he them, they bore with his eccentricities. Each pool manager had his way, just as there are various kinds of pools.

“Sam is not half a bad fellow,” Greenbaum told them, as if apologizing for a dear friend’s weaknesses. “He wants to make out he is a devil of a cynic, but he’s all right. If you humor him you can make him do anything. I always let him have his way.”

On the very next day began the historical advance in Turpentine. It opened up at 30. The specialists—brokers who made a specialty of dealing in it—took 16,000 shares, causing an advance to 32⅛. Everybody who had been “landed” with the shares at higher figures, and had bitterly regretted it ever since, now began to feel hopeful. As never before a stock had been manipulated, with intent to deceive and malice prepense, so did Sharpe manipulate Turpentine stock. The tape told the most wonderful stories in the world, not the less wonderful because utterly untrue. Thus, one day the leading commission houses in the Street were the buyers, which inevitably led to talk of “important developments”; and the next day brokers identified with certain prominent financiers took calmly, deliberately, nonchalantly, all the offerings; which clearly indicated that the aforementioned financiers had acquired a “controlling interest”—the majority of the stock—of the American Turpentine Company. And on another day there was a long string of purchases of “odd” lots—amounts less than 100 shares—by brokers that usually did business for the Greenbaum syndicate, meaning that friends of the syndicate had received a “tip” straight from “the inside” and were buying for investment.

Then, one fine, sunshiny day, when everybody felt very well and the general market was particularly firm, the loquacious tape told the watchful professional gamblers of Wall Street—oh, so plainly!—that there was “inside realizing”; said, almost articulately to them, that the people most familiar with the property were unloading. Sharpe was selling, with intentional clumsiness, stock he had been forced to accumulate during his bull manipulation—for in order to advance the price he had to buy much—and he was not averse to conveying such impressions as would lead to the creation of a short interest, large enough to make it profitable to “squeeze.” He had too much company on the bull side. And sure enough the professional gamblers said: “Aha! They are through with it. The movement is over!” and sold “Turp” short confidently, for a worthless stock had no business to be selling at $46 a share. The price yielded and they sold more the next day. But lo, on the day following, the Board member of a very conservative house went into the “Turp” crowd and bought it—he did not “bid up” the price at all, but bought and bought until he had accumulated 20,000 shares, and the bears became panic-stricken, and rumors of a nearby dividend began to circulate, and the bears covered their shorts at a loss and “went long”—bought in the hope of a further rise—and the stock closed at 52.

And Sharpe reduced very greatly the amount of “Turp” stock he had been obliged to take for manipulative purposes. So far he was buying more than he sold. Later he would sell more than he bought. When the demand exceeds the vendible supply, obviously the price rises; when the supply for sale exceeds the demand, a fall results. But the average selling price of a big line may be high enough to make the operation profitable, even though a decline occurs during the course of the selling.

For a week “Turp” rested; then it began to rise once more. At 56 and 58 it became the most active stock of the entire list. Everybody talked about it. The newspapers began to publish statements of the company’s wonderful earnings, and the Street began to think that, in common with other “trusts,” the American Turpentine Company must be a very prosperous concern. The company at this time developed a habit of advancing prices a fraction of a cent per gallon every week, so that the papers could talk of the boom in the turpentine trade.

At 60 the Street thought there really must be something behind the movement, for no mere manipulation could put up the price thirty points in a month’s time, which shows what a wonderful artist Sharpe was. And people began to look curiously and admiringly and enviously and in many other ways at “Jakey” Greenbaum and his accomplices, and to accuse them of having intentionally kept down the price of the stock for a year in order to “freeze out” the poor, unsophisticated stockholders, and to “tire out” some of the early buyers, because “Turp,” being “a good thing,” Greenbaum et al. wanted it all for themselves. And Greenbaum et al. smiled guiltily and said nothing, though Jakey winked from time to time when they spoke to him about it; and old Isidore Wechsler cultivated a Napoleon III. look of devilish astuteness; and “Bob” Lindheim became almost dignified; and myopic little Morris Steinfelder gained 15 pounds and Rosenthal stopped patting everybody on the back, and mutely invited everybody to pat him on the back.

Then Sharpe sent for “Jakey,” and on the next day young “Eddie” Lazarus swaggeringly offered to wager $10,000 against $5,000 that a dividend on “Turp” stock would be declared during the year. Whereupon the newspapers of their own accord began to guess how great a dividend would be paid, and when; and various figures were mentioned in the Board room by brokers who confided to their hearers that they “got it on the dead q. t., straight from the inside.” And two days later Sharpe’s unsuspected brokers offered to pay 1¾ per cent for the dividend on 100,000 shares, said dividend to be declared within sixty days or the money forfeited. And the stock sold up to 66¾, and the public wanted it. A big, broad market had been established, in which one could buy or sell the stock with ease by the tens of thousands of shares. The 114,400 shares, which at the inception of the movement at the unsalable price of $30 a share represented a theoretical $3,432,000, now readily vendible at $65 a share, meant $7,422,000; not half bad for a few weeks’ work.

And still Sharpe, wonderful man that he was, gave no sign that he was about to begin unloading. Whereupon the other members of the pool began to wish he were not quite so greedy. They were satisfied to quit, they said. The presence of the pool’s stock in their offices began to irritate them. They knew the vicissitudes of life, the uncertainties of politics, and of the stock market. Supposing some crazy anarchist blew up the President of the United States, or the Emperor of Germany were to insult his grandmother, the market would “break” to pieces, and their $4,000,000 of paper profits would disappear. They implored, individually and collectively, Mr. Jacob Greenbaum to call on Sharpe; and Greenbaum, disregarding a still, small voice that warned him against it, went to Sharpe’s office, and came out of it, two minutes later, somewhat flushed, and assured his colleagues one by one that Sharpe was all right, and that he seemed to know his business. Also, that he was cranky that day. He always was, added Greenbaum forgivingly, when one of his horses lost a race.

The stock fluctuated between 60 and 65. It seemed to be having a resting spell. But as it had enjoyed these periods of repose on three several occasions during the rise—at 40 and 48 and 56–-the public became all the more eager to buy it whenever it fell to 60 or 59, for the Street was now full of tips that “Turp” would go to par. And such was the public’s speculative temper and Mr. Sharpe’s good work that disinterested observers were convinced the stock would surely sell above 90 at the very least. Mr. Sharpe still bought and sold, but he sold twice as much as he bought, and the big block he had been obliged to take in the course of his manipulation diminished. On the next day he hoped to begin selling the pool stock.

That very day Mr. Greenbaum, as he returned to his office from his luncheon, felt well pleased with the meal and therefore with himself and therefore with everything. He scanned a yard or two of the tape and smiled. “Turp” was certainly very active and very strong.

“In such a market,” thought Mr. Greenbaum, “Sharpe can’t possibly tell he’s getting stock from me. In order to be on the safe side I’m going to let him have a couple of thousand. Then, should anything happen, I’d be that much ahead. Ike!” he called to a clerk.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sell two—wait; make it 3,000–-no, never mind. Send for Mr. Ed Lazarus.” And he muttered to himself, with a sub-thrill of pleasure: “I can just as well as not make it 5,000 shares.”

“Eddie,” he said to his partner’s son, “give an order to some of the room traders, say to Willie Schiff, to sell five—er—six—tell him to sell 7,000 shares of Turpentine and to borrow the stock. I am not selling a share, see?” with a wink. “It’s short selling by him, do you understand?”

“Do I? Well, I guess. I’ll fix that part O.K.,” said young Lazarus, complacently. He thought he would cover Greenbaum’s tracks so well as to deceive everybody, including that highly disagreeable man, Samuel Wimbleton Sharpe. He felt so confident, so elated, did the young man, that when he gave the order to his friend and club-mate, Willie Schiff, he raised it to 10,000 shares. Greenbaum’s breach of faith had grown from the relatively small lot of 2,000 shares to five times that amount. It was to all appearances short stock, and it was duly “borrowed” by young Schiff. It was advisable that it should so appear. In the first place no member of the pool could supply the stock which he held, because Sharpe could trace the selling to the office, as he had the numbers of the stock certificates. And, again, short selling does not have the weakening effect that long selling has. When stock is sold short it is evident that sooner or later the seller will have to buy it back; that is, a future demand for the stock is assured from this source, if from no other. Whereas, long stock is that actually held by some one.

Isidore Wechsler, who held 14,000 shares, was suffering from a bad liver the same day that Greenbaum was suffering from nothing at all, not even a conscience. A famous art collection would be sold at auction that week, and he felt sure his vulgar friend, “Abe” Wolff, would buy a couple of exceptionally fine Troyons and a world-famous Corot, merely to get his name in the papers.

“‘Turp,’ 62⅞,” said his nephew, who was standing by the ticker.

Then old Wechsler had an idea. If he sold 2,000 shares of Turpentine at 62 or 63, he would have enough to buy the best ten canvases of the collection. His name—and the amounts paid—would grace the columns of the papers. What was 3,000 shares, or even 4,000, when Sharpe had made such a big, broad market for the stock?

“Why, I might as well make it 5,000 shares while I’m about it, for there’s no telling what may happen if Sharpe should overstay his market. I’ll build a new stable at Westhurst”—his country place—“and call it,” said old Wechsler to himself, in his peculiar, facetious way so renowned in Wall Street, “the Turpentine Horse Hotel, in honor of Sharpe.” And so his 5,000 shares were sold by E. Halford, who had the order from Herzog, Wertheim & Co., who received it from Wechsler. It was short selling, of course.

Total breach of faith, 15,000 shares.

Now that very evening Bob Lindheim’s extremely handsome wife wanted a necklace, and wanted it at once; also she wanted it of filbert-sized diamonds. She had heard her husband speak highly of Sam Sharpe’s masterly manipulation of Turpentine, and she knew he was “in on the ground floor.” She read the newspapers, and she always followed the stock market diligently, for Bob, being young and loving, used to give her a share in his stock deals from time to time, and she learned to figure for herself her “paper” or theoretical profits, when there were any, so that Bob couldn’t have “welched” if he had wished. On this particular evening she had statistics ready for him, showing how much money he had made; and she wanted that necklace. She had longed for it for months. It cost only $17,000. But there was also a lovely bracelet, diamonds and rubies, and——

Lindheim, to his everlasting credit, remonstrated and told her: “Wait until the pool realizes, sweetheart. I don’t know at what price that will be, for Sharpe says nothing. But I know we’ll all make something handsome, and so will you. I’ll give you 500 shares at 30. There!”

“But I want it now!” she protested, pouting. She was certainly beautiful, and when she pouted, with her rich, red lips——

“Wait a week, dear,” he urged nevertheless.