“Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances.”Shakespeare.
“Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances.”
Shakespeare.
Jack Carleton stood in front of the ticker in Turner and Driver’s office, letting the narrow white ribbon run lightly through his fingers. For the moment he was alone. The big clock over on the post-office building had just boomed slowly the hour of twelve, and the little knot of customers, calmly or hurriedly, according to their several temperaments, had one by one gone out to lunch, for man must eat, though black care sit at his elbow. And indeed, though the little ticker still buzzed and whirred unceasingly, and the tape, with scarcely a halt or pause in its onward course, still ran as smoothly and persistently as ever, for the moment the worst of the drive seemed really to be over. So that presently Carleton lifted hiseyes, red-rimmed and tired from the blur of black and white beneath them, letting the quotations run on unheeded, and stood with eyes fixed on the spot where, just visible through the very top of the tall window, framed in with line and bar of blackened roof and dingy chimney top, there smiled cheerfully down into the gloom of the darkened office a cloudless patch of bright blue sky.
Imperceptibly the sound of the ticker ceased, and the white ribbon began fantastically to curl and twist in his hand, for all unconsciously his fingers had closed upon it, checking the smoothness of its onward flow. The little patch of blue sky had sent his thoughts wandering far afield. A moment before he had been standing there in the office, wondering miserably whether to try to pull out, while there was yet time, with a good part of his little fortune gone, or whether, with anchors grappling desperately for holding ground, to strive somehow to ride out the storm. And now, so long had his mind run upon things trivial and unimportant, that despite the panic, despite the danger he was in, thanks to that casual upward glance,he stood already in imagination at the first tee at the Country Club, the green of the valley lying smooth and fair beneath him, the couple ahead just disappearing over the farther dip of the hill, and he himself, well-limbered up, driver in hand, in the act of placing the new white ball on the well-made tee, properly confident of smashing it out a hundred and eighty yards away, amid the close-cropped velvet of the rolling turf. Absolutely a perfect day, he reflected, for the medal round; no wind, a bright sun, greens quick, yet true—and above all, he felt that he could win. Barnes was entered, of course, and Henderson himself—he was paired with him—and Henderson had told Jake Rogers that since he had changed his grip he could “put it all over” Carleton, match or medal, any time they met. Rogers, with his little crooked smile, had taken pains, of course, to repeat the remark, and while Jack had laughed and said, “Oh, sure, he can lick me all right,” in his own heart of hearts, nevertheless, he knew that he could trim Henderson, and somewhat grimly had awaited his chance. About a hundred andsixty would do it, he figured; say a seventy-nine to-day and an eighty-one to-morrow—two such perfect days in succession could hardly be—yes, about a couple of eighties would do the trick.
His vision faded as swiftly as it had come. The green of the links had vanished, and in its stead the four square walls of the office, swinging smoothly into place, had closed tightly in again upon him and his troubled fortunes. With a start, and a half-guilty flush, he glanced hastily over the yard or two of tape which he still held, looped and bent, in his tense fingers. But to his relief, as he quickly scanned the quotations, there seemed to be no cause for further immediate alarm. On the contrary, the general tone of things was still improving. Akme Mining was seventeen now, up two and a quarter; Suburban Electric had rallied to sixty-three; Fuel was up four, at eighty. With a sigh, Carleton’s eyes were raised again to the patch of blue sky.
And now into the office bustled Jim Turner, hurried and preoccupied, showing plainly the nervous strain of the last three days, and especially ofthat grim and ghastly yesterday, when for five endless hours it had seemed that the bottom of the market, if not, indeed, of the earth itself, might be going to fall out for ever and a day; a troubled, anxious time alike for broker and customer, banker and depositor, a time when the emergency brakes had been put on so suddenly and so hard that the whole great financial stage-coach had come momentarily to a standstill, with a jar so tremendous that scores of passengers, especially those who occupied only precarious standing-room, had been hurled bodily to the ground, and some indeed, according to the stern panic-law of self-preservation, had even been quietly and with despatch pushed over the side, in order to make better the chances of those remaining for keeping in safety the threatened security of their seats.
Turner headed straight for the ticker, as he neared it striving, with an obviousness scarcely reassuring, to appear cheerful and unconcerned. “Hullo, Jack,” he said, “how they coming now?” and without waiting for a reply, gathered up a dozen yards of the tape and let it pass quicklyunder his practised eye. “H’m,” he said, almost immediately, in a tone that plainly enough showed his relief, “not so bad, are they? Quite a lot better than they were an hour ago. Oh, I guess we’ll come through it somehow, after all.”
His tone gave Carleton measureless comfort. He found himself nodding with assurance. “Oh, yes,” he answered, “they’re really a lot better. I guess things are all right now. Do you suppose, Jim—” he hesitated, stopped, and then, with a flush of color, and his eyes averted from Turner’s face, “do you suppose, Jim, you’ll be able to see me through?”
Turner non-committally shrugged his shoulders. “Why,” he answered, not unkindly, “I guess so. Yes, if things don’t go all to the devil again, I guess we can. But you’re in too deep, Jack, for a man that hasn’t unlimited resources. It isn’t right, really. I’ll stand by you as long as I can—and when I can’t, I’ll let you know—and then, if you can’t do anything, and it gets too bad, why, business is business, Jack, and we’ll have to chuck you. That’s all wecando.”
Carleton gazed at him a little helplessly; then asked, “But you think the worst’s over, don’t you?” He spoke so trustfully, and with such confidence in the other’s judgment, that Turner gave a half-contemptuous, half-embarrassed laugh. “Why, yes,” he answered slowly, “Ithinkit is, but good Lord, Jack, at a time like this I’m not on the inside. I’m only one of the small fry. If I could tell you what you wanted to know, instead of just guessing at it, I wouldn’t be here, working for a living; I can tell you that; I’d be over touring the continent in a big French six-cylinder. That’s where I’d be.” He paused a moment; then, laying a hand on Carleton’s arm, continued, “But to the best of my knowledge, I really think the worstisover, and that things are going to right themselves. Gradually, of course; it’s going to take time; but they’ll right themselves, for all that. And I wouldn’t worry too much, Jack, if I were you. I’ll give you warning anyway, and if worst should come to worst, why, I suppose your old man would see you through, wouldn’t he, if it was a case of that or bust?”
Carleton shook his head. “No, I guess not,”he answered, “he would if he could, but there’s something queer about the property now. I didn’t know about it till a little while ago, and I don’t understand all the details yet; but the idea is that my father’s made Henry trustee of everything. Henry’s the whole shooting-match at home now, you know. So I guess it wouldn’t do to try the old gentleman. No, I’ve got in too deep, like a fool, and I’ve got to get out by myself or else drown; one of the two. But if I can only get by, this time, you can bet I’ll never be such an ass again. You see, Jim,” he added, ruefully enough, “I wanted to show people—”
Turner laughed, though without amusement. “Yes, I know,” he said dryly, “you wanted to come the young Napoleon racket. There’ve been others. You needn’t kick yourself for being the only one. But there must be some one that would help you out, Jack. Why couldn’t you go to your uncle himself?”
He made the suggestion casually enough, yet with a shrewd eye on the younger man’s expression. Carleton frowned. “Well,” he answered doubtfully,“I’d hate to do that. You know what Henry and I think of each other. I suppose I could, though, if I was dead up against it. But I’m not going to worry yet.” He glanced once more at the tape; then added, “Things really have steadied, haven’t they, Jim? I guess we’re all safe for to-day.”
Turner did not at once reply. The events of the last three days had to a large extent discouraged him from hazarding further prophecies. “Can’t tell,” he answered guardedly, at length, “can’t tell these days, but they’ve certainly steadied quite a bit; that’s sure; perhaps they’ll begin to pick up now.”
As he spoke, a clerk entered with a bundle of papers in his hand. “For you to sign, Mr. Turner,” he said, and Turner, taking them, departed into his private office. One or two quick lunchers, the vanguard of the returning stream of regular patrons, came in at the outer door; the first, thin, pale and dyspeptic looking, making hastily for the ticker, with no attempt to conceal his anxiety; the other, stout, red-faced, and philosophic, following more calmly, his hat on the back of hishead, making leisurely exploration with a toothpick the while, evidently with a certain not unpraiseworthy desire to show that even in the throes of a panic a man could still be game. As they approached, Carleton glanced first at the tape, then at his watch, then at the patch of blue sky. The tape said that Akme Mining was seventeen and a quarter, and that Suburban Electric was sixty-four and a half; the watch said that it was twelve-fifteen, and that the twelve-thirty train would get him to the Country Club in time for lunch; the patch of blue sky said “Come.” With a rather guilty haste he walked quickly toward the door, for a moment paused on the threshold, still listening to the whirring of the ticker; and then passed hurriedly out into the street.
It was Championship Cup day at the Country Club, and the locker room, when Carleton entered it two hours later, was crowded with excited men in various stages of dress and undress; men who had entered the Club five minutes before as respectable doctors, lawyers, bankers and businessmen, and who, five minutes later, were to emerge in a common indecorous garb of faded flannel shirts, dingy gray trousers and shapeless felt hats, making their way toward the first tee with an eagerness which in fulfilling their professional engagements, they were seldom, if ever, seen to display.
Carleton, entering, with the mechanical dexterity of long habit, almost with one motion stripped off coat and vest, collar and tie, and opening his locker, began pulling out his clubs and his battered golfing clothes. He affected not to see Henderson, thin and spare and brown, seated on a bench with knees drawn up under his chin and clasped by bare, sinewy arms.
Presently his rival rose and sauntered over to him across the room. He stood near Carleton in silence, and the two eyed each other with grins, hostile, yet friendly. Finally Henderson spoke. “Well,” he observed, without enthusiasm, “how’s the boy? Looking a little bit fine, what? A little bit pale for him, hey?” Carleton laughed, with elaborate disdain. “Oh, no, Tommy,” he returned,“can’t catch me that way. That’s too old a gag. Never felt better in my life, thanks. How are they scoring? Barnes finished yet?”
Henderson nodded. “Played this morning,” he said, “was going fine till the eighteenth, and then drove into the quarry, and dropped his nerve. Cost him nine for the hole, and did an eighty-five at that. Said his caddie moved just as he was swinging back for his drive; too bad, wasn’t it?”
His tone belied the grief expressed by his last words, and at his humorous wink Carleton openly smiled. Both could exult in the common enjoyment of seeing a dangerous rival put out of the running. “Yes, too bad,” he rejoined, “his eighty-five the best?”
Henderson shook his head. “No,” he answered, “fellow from Brooklawn did an eighty-three. Nothing much else under ninety, though; one or two eighty-nines, I believe, and an eighty-eight; better get limbered up a bit, Jack; it’s getting near our turn. See you outside.”
Carleton nodded, tightened his belt another hole, and reached for his clubs. Then, for a momentturning his back on the crowded room, he held out his hand, scanning the fingers critically. His ideas of conditioning himself were his own. He frowned slightly, shaking his head in displeasure. “That’s the first time that’s happened again so soon,” he muttered, “I thought I looked out for that this morning. Well, I know the answer, anyway,” and a couple of minutes later, wiping his lips with his handkerchief, he joined Henderson outside the club-house, and began leisurely to limber up.
It was a quarter of an hour later when, in answer to their names, they stepped forward to the first tee. Henderson, having the honor, surveyed his footing with care, and then, absolutely cool and phlegmatic, teed his ball, eyed the direction flag waving on the cop bunker some seventy yards away, and with his provokingly easy swing drove a ball without much “ginger” behind it, a trifle high yet superlatively safe, unerring in direction and with some distance to it as well, for the road was a full hundred and fifty yards from the tee, and the little white sphere stood out plainly against the green of the turf some twenty yards beyond. Still with theutmost deliberation he stepped back off the tee, and Carleton took his place. His style was almost the antithesis of Henderson’s. His tee was scarcely more than a pinch of the damp sand, just enough to insure a good lie for his ball; almost negligently, it seemed, he fell at once into his stance, swinging back with an astonishing freedom, yet with complete mastery of a somewhat dashing style, and coming through into a finish absolutely superb. Low and straight sped his ball, hardly more than twenty feet over the top of the bunker; then, beginning slowly to rise, soaring magnificently onward, finally to come to a stop some fifty or sixty yards beyond the road. Henderson whistled as they walked down the path. “Some one’s feeling fine,” he said. “Glad you got in one good one, anyway, Jack.”
Carleton smiled grimly. “Oh, a few more at home like that I guess,” he retorted, “you’ve got to crack an eighty to-day, Tommy, if you want to be in the game.”
His second shot, indeed, seemed to bear out his words. Henderson had taken an iron, cleared thebunker that guarded the green, and was safely on its farther edge in two, but Carleton, playing a high, clean mashie, with plenty of back-spin, managed to lay his ball up within a dozen feet of the flag. On the green Henderson putted true and straight, his ball stopping so near the hole as to make a four a certainty. Carleton, with a little more deliberation than he had yet shown, eyed the line of his put. “Easy,” he muttered to himself, half-aloud, “nothing to it; easiest thing you know; just get the line, follow her through, and she—goes—down.”
With the final word the ball ticked against the farther edge of the cup, and dropped gently in for a three. Henderson, holing out, whistled again. “Somebody’s got their good eye with ’em,” he observed, and Carleton, picking up his ball, drew a long breath of content. “Oh, the devil,” he answered good-naturedly, “this is one of my days; I can do anything I want to to ’em to-day;” and in silence they strode away for the second tee.
Outward for the first nine holes they played, into a world, green under foot and blue and white above,the sunshine just pleasantly warm, the cool westerly breeze barely stirring the green leaves in the tree-tops, and faintly rousing the drooping direction flags below. A world of good-fellowship, a world of youth and joy, and withal, the rigor of the game to make them at times wholly unconscious, at times all the more conscious, of the glory above, around, beneath them. Henderson, the safe and sane, was on his game, making the first nine holes in an even forty, but Carleton played beyond himself. Twice only on the outward journey did he make mistakes, and for both he atoned by pulling off two shots well-nigh marvelous—one a clean, slashing brassie that put him on the edge of the green on the long fifth—four hundred and fifty yards—in two; one a straight, deadly put of twenty-five feet at the eighth; no wonder that Henderson unwillingly totaled a thirty-six for his rival, puckered his lips, but this time without the whistle, and mournfully shook his head. Coming in, indeed, Carleton’s pace slackened a bit, and his playing became, in Henderson’s phrase, “considerably more like a human being’s.” Mistakes, one or twoof them costly, were not lacking; his putting fell off a bit; his confidence seemed a little to diminish; yet, spite of all, he still played brilliantly, and when on the eighteenth, he drove a long, straight ball, far over the quarry, with no danger between him and the home hole, Henderson was forced to admit defeat. He himself finished as steadily as ever, coming in without any serious error, without anything especially brilliant, with a card all fours and fives, in forty-two, and thus handed it an eighty-two for the round. Carleton’s card in was more irregular; it was marred by two sixes, but these were balanced by two threes and an occasional four, altogether forty-one for the second nine, and a total of seventy-seven. Surely, the gold medal lay all but in his grasp, and Henderson, indeed, had the grace to acknowledge it. “You’re all right, Jack,” he said, as they parted, “see you to-morrow afternoon, but I guess you’ve got things cinched; this is your lucky day;” and Carleton, though perforce he shrugged his shoulders and said that no one could ever tell, felt in his heart that the prize was as good as won.
At the club-house he dressed, and then, finding that he had plenty of time, walked leisurely down to the train, and started back for town. For a while, just comfortably tired with the afternoon’s round, he was content to sit back in his seat with passive enjoyment, with eyes half closed, playing over again each stroke of the round in pleasant retrospect, again smashing straight low balls from the tee, again laying up his approach shots, again successfully holing long, difficult puts. It made pleasant enough dreaming, and he sat thus until Hillside was reached.
Then suddenly, two men, entering hurriedly, took the vacant seat behind him, evidently resuming their conversation where it had been broken off as they had boarded the train. Their first words drove golf a million miles from his brain. “So it busted clean to hell, did it?” asked the stout man, panting with haste and excitement.
“Did it?” echoed his companion, with a certain dismal pride, the sense of proprietorship that one gains in the communication of bad news, “well, I should say it did. Didn’t begin till twoo’clock, and then, say, you never saw such a time in your life. Smash—Bang—Smash! Everything thrown over, right and left; why, down at Wellman’s—”
The train roared into the long tunnel, and the rest of the sentence was lost. It was enough, and Carleton, sitting motionless, felt a sudden sickening reaction creep over him. A game of golf—a gold medal—and the market again in the grip of a panic beside which the first break of three days ago must have been as nothing. And then, insistently, he began to wonder—how bad—how bad? His margin had been slender enough before—hardly sufficient, really, to pass muster unless tinctured with the dangerous kindness of friendship—he clenched his hands; his mouth had gone suddenly dry—
Inside the smoky station the train came to a halt. Alighting, he paused to buy the evening papers from a clamorous newsboy; then without stopping even to glance at them, hastened straight to his office. It was long after the hour of closing. The office boy was gone, the door made fast. Unlockingit, he entered, sat down at his desk, and began hastily to examine the letters and memoranda reposing there. “Ring up Mr. Turner,” was penciled half a dozen times in the office boy’s round, sprawling hand, with various additions, “Important,” “Urgent,” “At once,” “Ring 698, Lincoln;” that was Harris and Wheeler’s; “Ring Main, 422;” that was Claxton Brothers. He turned to the papers. Lord above, what headlines! Panic—market crash—houses suspended—banks in danger—half dazed, he gazed for a moment around him, as if doubting that it could all be real; then, with a grim feeling that nothing could much matter now, he read steadily the long rows of stock quotations; and ever, as he read down a column, values dropped downward with him, and never, as he turned to the top of the next, did they rise again. Once more he had to stop, unable to grasp the truth; Akme Mining, nine and a half; Suburban Electric, forty-seven; Fuel, sixty-three; it was all impossible.
Through the slide in the office door a letter fluttered gently to the floor. He rose and picked itup. It had Turner’s name in the corner. Inside was a hasty scrawl, “Things very bad; must have ten thousand additional margin at opening to-morrow, sure.” As he laid it down, the telephone rang; “Yes,” he answered, “Mr. Harris; oh, yes, I know; five thousand; yes; thanks; you’ve got to have it at the opening; all right; good-by.” He hung up the receiver, and turned to confront a telegraph boy at his elbow. He hastily signed, and ripped open the envelope. This time the laconic message was from Claxton Brothers. “Good,” he muttered, “only five thousand more. This is fine,” and he threw himself back in his office chair, and for a moment or two thought hard. Then he smiled ironically. “Oh, yes,” he muttered, “Henderson got it right, as usual; this is certainly my lucky day;” then after a moment, he added, “Well, I suppose it’s a case of must now. It’s all Icando.” He rose, shrugging his shoulders, and thrusting the papers into his pocket, he hurriedly left the office.
“What is left when honour is lost?”Publius Syrus.
“What is left when honour is lost?”
Publius Syrus.
Twilight was falling over The Birches, and Edward Carleton, seated alone on the piazza, gazed out over the darkening fields into a world of ever blending shadows and onward creeping dusk. Always, as long as the weather permitted, after his evening meal, he loved to sit there, puffing quietly at his big, old-fashioned, curved pipe, and letting his memory roam back at will through scene after scene from the long years that now lay behind him; or sometimes, more rarely, living in the present, content merely to gaze out on blossoming flower, and tree in full leaf; to watch the fiery colors of the sunset glow and die in the far-off west; to hear from the orchard across the road a robin singing his good night song; to listen tothe thousand wonderful secrets which Nature at the last loves to whisper to those who have lived their lives pure in deed and word, and who have journeyed far onward into the shadow, still kindly and serene, with the wonderful dreams of childhood making beautiful their minds, and in their hearts the faith of little children.
Often Henry Carleton sat there with him, but to-night the old man was alone. An hour ago, a message had come from Henry, saying that he would not be home until the following evening—perhaps not even then—that business matters of importance had arisen, making it necessary that he should remain in town. Characteristic of Henry Carleton’s unfailing thoughtfulness the message had been, and it was of his brother, and, with a half-sigh, of Jack as well, that Edward Carleton was thinking now, as the darkness pressed closer and closer around the old house that had sheltered for so many generations so many fathers and sons of the Carleton blood.
From the entrance to the gravel walk, the soundof footsteps smote briskly on his ear and he glanced up to see a tall and familiar figure coming up the path. A moment later, and Jack had hastily mounted the steps, scarce seeming to heed his father’s greeting, and speaking at once, in a voice strangely unlike his own. “Father,” he said, “where’s Henry?”
The old man gazed at him in surprise. “He’s not at home, Jack,” he answered, and then, with a momentary foreboding, “What is it, my boy? Nothing wrong?”
Jack laughed, a little grimly. “No, nothing like that,” he answered, “I’m in trouble, that’s all. I’ve stayed too long in a falling market, and got caught. If I can’t get help from Henry, I guess I’m done.”
In the darkness Edward Carleton reached out his hand, and laid it on his son’s shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said, “I’m sorry. If only Henry has the money available. But I don’t know. These must be terrible times for every one. Tell him if there’s any way he can use what he holds for me, that I asked him to do so. I’m so sorry, Jack—so sorry—”
With what was for him unusual feeling, Jack took his father’s hand in both his own. “Thank you, father,” he said, “I know you are. It’s all my own fault, of course. I don’t deserve any help. But it’s all come so suddenly. I never thought—”
He broke off abruptly, then spoke again. “Well, I suppose I must get back in town, I haven’t much time. I never dreamed of not finding Henry here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. Good night, father,” and he was gone.
It was nearly two hours later when he hastened down Adams Street toward the Harmon Building, where high overhead in many a window, lights ordinarily extinguished by five or six o’clock, were still burning brightly; some of them, indeed, destined to gleam and flicker throughout that long, anxious summer’s night, and only to pale at last as the first faint streaks of dawn struck through the shades on the men who planned and toiled within, working feverishly, with gray, unshaven faces, and weary, bloodshot, deep-sunken eyes.
Getting out of the elevator at the fourth floor, Jack hastily made his way into Henry Carleton’soffices. Once there, however, although his name was quickly sent in, he was compelled to wait for a full half hour in the outer corridor, until at length a bell rang sharply, and a tired looking clerk, with a nod of his head toward the inner office, signified that the audience was granted. With a curious sense of old-time familiarity, Jack entered the big square room which he had visited last, now upward of three years ago, and closed the door behind him.
Over by the window, Henry Carleton was seated at his desk. He was a man of about fifty, in complexion so dark as to appear almost swarthy, and with coal black hair and beard, here and there just faintly touched with gray. He was tall, much of Jack’s height and build, yet constructed upon finer lines, with a sinuous grace of movement that had about it something almost feline. His face was rather long, the forehead and cheek-bones high, the eyes were black and piercing, and the lips of the strong, well-chiseled mouth noticeably full and red. Altogether, an interesting face, a fitting index to the dual personality of the man—Henry Carletonthe shrewd and able leader in the business world, and Henry Carleton the musician and man of letters—the artist to his finger-tips.
As Jack entered, he glanced up pleasantly enough, though far back in his eyes there lurked a hidden gleam of some emotion difficult to fathom. “Why, hello, Jack,” he said, “I’m surprised to seeyou. What brings you here? Sit down.” He motioned toward a chair.
Jack Carleton came forward into the room, standing a little awkwardly with his hand on the back of the proffered seat. “It’s the market, Henry,” he said briefly, “I’ve got caught. I have to raise twenty thousand by the opening to-morrow, or go under. I’ve just come from home; I thought I’d find you there. I’ll tell you the truth. I hate like hell to come to you, and you know it, but I’ve got to get the money somehow, and if you can help me, I wish to Heaven you would.”
Henry Carleton gazed at him meditatively. “Better sit down,” he said curtly, and this time Jack accepted the invitation. There was a short silence. Then Henry Carleton drew a tiny note-bookfrom his pocket, and looked up, with pencil poised, “Now let’s have it,” he said.
Jack Carleton frowned. It was easy enough to see that the confession of his sins was little less than torture to him. “Well,” he began, a trifle defiantly, “it’s like this. I’ve got in a trifle deeper than I meant to when I started. Things looked so like a cinch, I couldn’t help it. I’ve fifteen hundred shares of Suburban Electric, and seven hundred Akme Mining, and five hundred Fuel, and a little other stuff besides. My heaviest account’s with Turner and Driver; then I’ve got an account with Harris and Wheeler, and another with Claxton Brothers; altogether—”
Piece by piece the whole story came out. Henry Carleton wrote, figured, meditated; asked a question here, another there; meditated again. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. He spoke with deliberation, weighing his words. “No one can tell,” he said, “what the next twenty-four hours are going to bring. But what you ought to do is clear. You’ve got to lighten up, to start with. Close out your account with Harris, and with theClaxtons; hang on to what you have at Turner and Driver’s, if you can. That’s enough; and that’s our problem: how best to try to carry it through.”
As if the words brought him measureless comfort, Jack drew a long breath of relief. “You think, then,” he asked, almost timidly, “you can fix it somehow? You think you can get me by?”
Henry Carleton did not at once reply, and when he finally spoke, it was but to answer Jack’s question with another. “Have you done everything you can yourself?” he queried. “Where else have you tried?”
Jack gave a short mirthless laugh. “Wherehaven’tI tried?” he retorted. “I’ve tackled about every friend and acquaintance I’ve got in the world. I began four days ago. And I’ve had the same identical come-back from every one of them. They’re sorry, but they have to look out for themselves first. And security. They all talk about that. I never knew before that security cut such a lot of ice with people. But it does.”
Henry Carleton nodded grimly. “Yes, it does,” he answered dryly, “most of us make that discoverysooner or later. And generally for ourselves, too. And when you mention security, Jack, you’ve come right down to the root of the whole trouble. We might as well acknowledge it now. I can’t help you myself. I tell you so frankly. I couldn’t use trust funds for such a purpose, of course. Any one would tell you that. That’s out of the question. And my own money is hopelessly tied up. I couldn’t get the sum you need under a month, if I could then. But there’s one thing I might do. It isn’t business. I hate to try it. But I don’t want to see you disgraced, Jack, if I can help it. Wait here a minute, till I see—”
He rose and walked over to the telephone booth in the rear of his office, and entering, closed the door behind him. In two minutes he came back to his desk, penciled a name on a card, and handed it to Jack. “This fellow Farrington,” he said shortly, “is under some obligations to me. I think you’ll get what you want from him. Better see him anyway. He’s in the Jefferson Building, top floor. I told him you’d be there in ten minutes, at the most.”
Jack Carleton rose. “I’m much obliged,Henry,” he said, a little lamely, “you’re very good. I’m much obliged. I’ll go right over, of course.”
The other stood gazing at him with a curious expression on his swarthy face, a curious gleam far back in his dark eyes. “Don’t mention it,” he said smoothly, “Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn’t bring dishonor on the name, whatever we do.”
Unerringly he had pierced the weak joint in the armor. Jack’s face went whiter than before. He stood for a moment silent, then spoke with effort. “No,” he answered, “we mustn’t do that,” and turning, he left the room.
Up-town toward the Jefferson Building he hurried, half-daring, yet half-fearing, to hope. Noting the number of the room on the framed directory placarded within, he left the elevator at the tenth floor, and hastening down the corridor, paused opposite the door. Externally the office was a modest one, with “H. O. Farrington, Agent” inscribed in plain black lettering on the glass. Entering, he found the interior to correspond. A tiny room, with a small enclosure at one end, within which satFarrington himself, a man perhaps best described by saying that he perfectly typified that somewhat vague being whom most of us have in mind when we speak glibly of the “average man.” “Average” best described him in height, build, and appearance, the nondescript sort of person whom one meets on Monday, and passes in the street on Tuesday, wholly unconscious of ever having seen him before.
As Jack entered, he glanced up quickly. “Mr. Carleton?” he questioned, and as Jack nodded, motioned to a chair. “Just a minute,” he said, and bent over his writing again. Presently, as he stopped, and reached for a sheet of blotting paper, Jack ventured to speak. “I don’t know how much you know about this—” he began, but the other raised his hand. “All right,” he said briefly, and shoved a check and a receipt across the desk, “Sign, please.”
Mechanically Jack glanced at the check. It was for the amount required. Mechanically, too, he signed the receipt, and handed it back to Farrington. Half unable to realize his good fortune, herose, the check in his hand. “I’m greatly obliged,” he said.
Farrington made no reply. Evidently words with him were precious things. Perforce Jack turned to go, and then, half-way to the door, turned.
“Mr. Farrington,” he said hesitatingly, “if things should go lower—”
Farrington did not look up. “They won’t,” he said tersely.
Again Jack hesitated. Then, finally, “But if they should—” he said again.
A little impatiently, Farrington raised his head. “We’ll see you through,” he said. “Good night.” And Jack, not disposed to quarrel further with fortune, closed the door behind him.
It was a quarter of ten on the morning following when he entered Turner and Driver’s office, advancing to meet the senior partner with the little strip of paper in his outstretched hand. Turner took it eagerly enough, and as he scanned the amount, he nodded, while a wrinkle or two seemed to vanish from his puckered and frowning brow.Then he looked up. “Well, you got it,” he said, and Carleton hastened to assent. “Oh, yes,” he returned lightly, “I got it all right. Why, didn’t you think I would?”
The broker shrugged his shoulders. “Hard telling anything these days,” he answered, “but I’ll tell you one thing, though; you’re mighty lucky to be able to put your hands on it so easy. There’ll be more than one poor devil this morning who would pretty near give his soul for a tenth part of what you’ve got here. It’s a bad time for customers, Jack, and I don’t mind telling you—” he lowered his voice confidentially—“that it’s a bad time for brokers, too. A little piece of paper like this—” he waved the check gently to and fro—“is a nice comforting sight for a man; between you and me, I wouldn’t mind seeing three or four mates to it. Yes, I’m glad to get it all right, on my account, and on yours, too.”
Jack nodded. Somehow, entirely without justification, as he well knew, the check had given him a feeling of great stability; at once, on receiving it, he had felt that he had risen in his own self-esteem.“Yes,” he assented, “I’m glad myself; and you needn’t worry about my account, Jim. We’ll just leave it this way. Don’t treat mine as an ordinary account; don’t sell me out, whatever happens. I’ve friends that’ll see me through anything. If things should go lower, and you should need more margin, just let me know, and I’ll get it over to you right away. Will that be satisfactory?”
The broker nodded. “Why, yes, Jack,” he answered, “knowing the way you’re fixed, I guess that’ll be all right, though with nine men out of ten, of course I wouldn’t consider such a way of doing things. Business is business, and when it comes right down to the fine point, why, it’s the cold hard cash that counts, and nothing else; not friendship, or honor, or gratitude, or common decency, even—” both face and voice had hardened as he spoke; it was not his first panic—and then his look met Carleton’s fairly and squarely. “But with you, Jack,” he continued, “it’s different, as I say. Only let’s be perfectly sure that we understand each other. I don’t believe myself, you know, that things can go much lower; I think the chancesare they’ve steadied for good; but for argument, let’s suppose they do. Then, as I understand it, you don’t want to have me sell you out at any price, no matter how far they break. You’ll make good any time I ask you to. You give me your word on that?”
Carleton readily enough assented. “Why, sure,” he answered lightly, “of course I do; you needn’t worry; I’ll make good,” and the broker nodded, well pleased.
“One thing less to bother over, then,” he said. “You’ll excuse me now, Jack, won’t you? This is going to be a horrible busy day, anyway, and the Lord send it’s nothing worse than that; it wouldn’t take much now to raise the very deuce.”
As he spoke theNews Despatchboy entered, tossing down on the table a half dozen sheets fresh from the press. Turner glanced at them, and handed them over to Carleton, shaking his head as he did so. “London’s not feeling gay,” he observed, “I call that a pretty ragged opening myself. I don’t know what you think of it.”
Carleton read and nodded. It seemed as ifeverything in the half dozen pages made for discouragement. London had opened weak—lamentably weak. There were rumors of this—rumors of that—sickly, unhealthy mushroom growths of the night. There was talk of failures—suspensions—financial troubles of every kind—even the good name of a great bank was bandied carelessly to and fro. Silently Turner crossed the room, and took his seat at his desk; silently Carleton walked out into the customers’ room, and joined the other unfortunates who had come slowly straggling in, and who now stood around the ticker, waiting gloomily and apprehensively for the opening bell to ring.
The tension of the moment was plainly enough to be read in the attitudes and expressions of the members of the little group, not one of whom failed in some manner or other to betray the fact that he was far from possessing his usual poise and calm. Most of them, either consciously or unconsciously, showed their nervousness so plainly and even painfully that it was impossible to misinterpret the anxious glances cast first at the clock, then at the tape,as the moment of the opening drew near. One or two, indeed, essayed a nonchalance so obviously assumed as to render even more apparent the emotion it sought to conceal. One young fellow, with hat shoved far back on his head, hair in disorder, and a restless, frightened look in his eyes, glanced at Carleton as he approached.
“Howyoustanding it, Jack?” he queried, with a faint attempt at jocularity. “Bad night to sleep last night,Icalled it; guess most likely ’twas something in the air.”
Another man, he of the toothpick, stout and coarse, held forth at some length for the benefit of the rest. “Oh, it was perfectly clear, the whole thing,” he was saying, with the air of one to whom all the mysteries and marvels of stock fluctuations are but as matters writ large in print the most plain. “You see Rockman and Sharp and Haverfeller got together on this thing, and then they had a conference with Horgan, and got him to say that he’d keep his hands off, and let things alone; then they had a clear chance, and you can see what they’ve donewith it; oh, they’re clever all right; when those fellows get together, it’s time to look out; you can’t beat ’em.”
He spoke with a certain condescending finality, as if he had somehow once and for all fixed the status of the panic. After a moment or two a gray, scholarly looking little man, with gentle, puzzled eyes, addressed him, speaking with an air of timid respect for the stout man’s evident knowledge.
“Do you imagine, sir,” he asked, “that securities will decline still further in value? If they should, I am afraid that I might find myself seriously involved. I can’t seem to understand this whole affair; I was led to believe—”
The big man, charmed with the novelty of having a genuine, voluntary listener, interrupted him at once.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry,” he said largely, “they might open ’em off a little lower, perhaps, but they’ll go back again. Don’t you fret; the country’s all right; they’ll come back; they always do.”
The little man seemed vastly comforted. “I’mvery glad to hear you say so,” he answered. “It would come very hard—I had no idea the risk was so great—I was led to believe—”
The young man with the rumpled hair turned a trifle disgustedly to Carleton. “Heard from London?” he asked abruptly. His brief, and not wholly unintelligent connection with the game had led him to believe firmly in facts and figures, not in the dangerous pastime of theorizing over values, or speculating as to what the next move of the “big fellows” might be.
Carleton nodded. “Weak,” he answered, his tone pitched low and meant for his neighbor’s ear only, “horribly weak; and all sorts of stories starting, too; it looks as bad as it could.”
The young man nodded. “I supposed so,” he said, with resignation, and then added whimsically, “Well, there’s no use crying about it, I guess, but it certainly looks as if this was the time when little Willie gets it good and plenty, right in the neck.”
Just in front of them, a pale, slender man, with blinking eyes, and a mumbling, trembling mouth that was never still, talked steadily in an undertone,apparently partly to himself, partly to the man who stood at his shoulder, a red-faced farmer with a hundred shares of Akme at stake. “Now’d be the time,” he muttered, “now’d be the time to jump right in; jump right in and buy four or five thousand shares; a man could make a fortune, and get out for good; it’s the chance of a man’s life; to jump right in and buy four or five thousand shares.”
The countryman gazed at him in silence, sizing him up at first curiously, and then with a certain amused and not unkindly contempt. “Four or five thousand!” he said, at last. “That ain’t enough. Buy ten thousand while you’re at it. You’ll get twice as rich then,” but the nervous man seemed to take no offense, and indeed, not even to notice the remark. “Now’s the time,” he rambled on, and it was clear that it was to himself alone that his mumblings were addressed, “to jump right in; that’s the thing to do.”
To Carleton, all at once it seemed that the group around the ticker was a gathering merely of the wrecks of men—of idle fools of greater or less degree. All of them he pitied, except the big,coarse man with the toothpick, for whom he felt a huge dislike; and most of all his pity went out to the gentle man with the puzzled eyes; something unfair there seemed to be in such a one being decoyed into the market game—something repellant, as if one had lied, deliberately and maliciously, to a child. Pity or anger—old or young—was there in all the group, he reflected with sudden distaste, one real man? And then, instant and unexpected, a lightning flame of keenest irony seemed to sear its way into his very soul; suppose Farrington had withheld the check? Was there, in all the group,himself included, one real man—
The bell rang. The ticker whirred. For a moment the dozen heads were grouped closely together over the tape, and then—the first quotation, five hundred Fuel at fifty-seven, gave warning of the truth; and the second and third verified it beyond all doubt or questioning. No further need of argument; no further agony; the suspense was over. So weak was the opening as to be almost incredible, so weak that it took a moment or two to adjust oneself to the shock. Akme Mining had closed thenight before at ten. Carleton, figuring on the lowest, had imagined that it might open at eight and a half, or even eight. Two thousand shares came over the tape at six and a quarter. Everything else was in like ratio; everything else kept the same proportion—or lack of it. For perhaps ten seconds there was silence absolute, and then the reaction came. The young man with the rumpled hair turned sharply away, his hands thrust deep into his trousers’ pockets, his lips curiously twisted and contorted, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. He gazed up at the blank wall, nodding unsmilingly to himself. “I thought so,” he observed, quietly, “in the neck.”
The man with the mumbling mouth started again to speak. “Now,” he muttered, “now would be the time; to jump right in—” and then, as if just for a moment he caught a glimpse of himself and the figure he made, old and futile, worn out and wan, he stopped abruptly, rubbing his eyes, and for a time spoke no more, only standing there motionless, with the force of a habit too strong to be broken, glancing down unseeingly at the rows of littleblack letters and figures that issued steadily from the ticker, only to pass, unregarded and unmeaning, beneath the vacancy of his gaze.
Carleton had stood staring grimly with the rest. In a moment he felt a hand laid upon his arm, and turned to meet the wistful glance of the little gray man. “I beg your pardon,” he asked timidly, “but can you tell me at what price Kentucky Coal is selling? I dislike to trouble you, but I am entirely unfamiliar with the abbreviations used.”
Carleton nodded with the feeling that he might as well deal the little man a blow squarely between the eyes. “Forty-eight,” he said shortly.
The little man turned very pale. “Forty-eight,” he repeated mechanically, “can it be so? Forty-eight!” He shook his head slowly from side to side, then glanced at Carleton with a smile infinitely gentle and pathetic. “And to earn it,” he murmured, “took me twenty years;” and then again, after a pause, “twenty years; and I’m afraid I’m pretty old to begin again now.”
Carleton’s heart smote him. Gladly enough would he have sought to aid, if a half of his owndepleted fortune had remained to him. He stood for a moment as if in a dream. The whole scene—the familiar office, the stock-board, the ticker, the disheartened, discouraged group of unsuccessful gamblers—it was all real enough, and yet at the same time about it all there clung an air somehow theatric, melodramatic, hard of realization. Then, from the doorway, Turner called him sharply, and he hastened into the private office. Outwardly, the broker still had a pretty good grip on himself, but in his tone his rising excitement was easily enough discerned. “Look, Jack,” he said quickly, “things are bad; there’s all sorts of talk coming over our private wire. Hell’s broke loose; that’s the amount of it. I want you to get me ten thousand on your account as quick as the Lord’ll let you; get fifteen, if you can. It’s better for us both that way. Saves worrying—any more than anybody can help. And Jack,” he added, “I’m not supposed to know this, neither are you. But they’re letting go a raft of your father’s stuff over at Brown’s. I don’t know what the devil it means, but I call it a mighty bad sign.”
Carleton nodded, and without wasting time, left the room. The ten minutes’ walk between Turner’s office and the Jefferson Building he covered in half that time, and striding hastily down the corridor, had almost reached Farrington’s door when a tall, red-faced young man, emerging with equal speed, pulled up short to avoid the threatened collision, and stood back for Carleton to enter. Glancing at him, Jack recognized a casual acquaintance, and nodded to him as he passed. “How are you, Cummings?” he said, and the other, looking at him a little curiously, returned his salutation, and then passed quickly on.
Farrington was seated at his desk, and Jack at once, and without ceremony, entered. Farrington, glancing up, acknowledged his greeting, with a curt nod; then looked at him with questioning gaze. “Well?” he said.
“Well,” Jack echoed, a trifle deprecatingly, “you can guess what I’ve come for, I suppose. You saw the opening. I want ten thousand more—fifteen, if I can have it—but ten will do.”
Farrington looked him straight in the eye.
“Ten will do,” he echoed; then, dryly, “I should think it would.” He paused for the veriest instant, then added, with the utmost directness, “It’s no go, Mr. Carleton. I’m caught myself. I can’t let you have a cent.”
At the words the blood seemed suddenly to leave Jack Carleton’s heart. Something tightened in his throat, and a faint mist seemed to gather between Farrington’s face and his own. Then, as he came to himself, “Can’t let me have it!” he cried sharply. “Why, you told me last night you’d see me through, you won’t go back on your word now. The money’s promised. It’s too late.”
Farrington’s face was expressionless. “You don’t realize,” he said, “what a time this is. It’s one day out of a million—the worst there’s ever been. If I could have foreseen—”
The telephone on his desk rang sharply, and he turned to answer it. Jack Carleton sat as if stunned. This man had lied to him; had given him his word, and now, with the market hopelessly lower, retracted it; had thrown him a rope, and, as he hung helpless in mid air, was leaning coollyforward to cut it, and let him perish. And he had promised Turner—his word of honor. He felt physically faint and sick. Farrington hung up the receiver, and then, as Jack started to speak, an interruption occurred. Suddenly the door opened, and Cummings appeared in the entrance. He seemed greatly hurried and excited, as if he had been running hard. “All ready, Hal,” he cried, “he’ll ring you any minute now. And when he does, buy like hell! For the personal, of course! He says—”
Quickly Farrington cut in on him. “Shut up!” he cried, so sharply that Jack could not but note his tone, “Can’t you see I’m busy? Wait outside, till I’m through,” and Cummings, his red face many shades redder than before, at once hastily withdrew.
Immediately Carleton leaned forward. “Look here,” he cried desperately, “this isn’t right. You told me you’d see me through. Those were your very words. You can’t go back on them now. If you do, you’ve got me ruined—worse than ruined. It isn’t only the money; I’ve pledged my word; pledged myself to make good. I’ve got tohave it, Farrington; that’s all; I’ve got to; can’t you understand?”
Farrington frowned. “Youcan’thave it,” he answered sharply, “and don’t take that tone to me, either, Mr. Carleton. Haven’t I given you twenty thousand already? You must have misunderstood me last night. I said I’d see you through if I could, and now I find I can’t. That’s all. I tell you I can’t; and I won’t stop to split hairs about it, either. I’ve got too much at stake. You’d better not wait, Mr. Carleton. There’s no use in it. There’s nothing for you here.”
Carleton’s eyes blazed. Just for an instant things swam before him; for an instant he half crouched, like an animal about to spring. In the office, absolute stillness reigned, save for the tall clock in the corner ticking off the seconds—five—ten—fifteen—and then, all at once, his tightly closed hands unclenched, his lips relaxed; on the instant he stood erect, and without speaking, turned quickly on his heel, and left the room.
Grim and white of face, he burst five minutes later into Turner’s private office, with a bearing sochanged that Turner could not help but notice it, and read the trouble there. “Something wrong?” he asked sharply, and Carleton nodded, with a strange feeling as if he were acting a part in some sinister dream. “I couldn’t get it,” he said.
Turner gazed at him, frowning. “Nonsense,” he cried, and Carleton could have laughed hysterically to hear his own words of ten minutes before coming back to him: “You’ve got to get it. You told me you were all right, Jack. You can’t do this now. Last night was the time to settle or sell. You can’t turn around now. It’s too late.”
Carleton’s face was haggard, his mouth dry. He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t get it,” he said again.
The broker’s eyes grew suddenly hard. “Of course you can,” he cried, “you said you could; you know you can get it, Jack; go ahead!”
But Carleton only shook his head once more. “It’s no use,” he answered wearily, “Ican’tget it, I say. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
It was an unfortunate phrase. The broker sneered. “Oh, no,” he cried, “of course not.You wouldn’t lie to me. How about this morning?” And then, struck suddenly by the expression on Carleton’s face, and perhaps a little ashamed of his own loss of self-control, he hastened to add, in a tone kindlier by far, “Come, come, Jack, this isn’t like you. There’s something queer here. You told me you had friends who’d see you through. You told me that not three hours ago. And if you lied to me, it was a dirty thing to do, and a foolish thing, as well. Because now I’ve got to sell you out; there’s no other way; and it leaves you ruined, and costs me money, besides. But I won’t preach. Thank God, that’s one thing I’ve never done yet. You’ve been a good customer here, and a good friend of mine, too. So give it to me straight, Jack. If you lied to me, tell me so. It’s bad enough for you; I won’t make it any worse. I’ll keep my head shut, and you can pay me back as you’re able. But now look here—” and his tone hardened again—“if it isn’t that; if it’s somebody else that’s lied toyou, and fooled us both, why that’s a different story altogether. There’s nothing to stop us then, and by God, we won’t let it stop us,either. We’ll tell the story all over this town, till we make somebody good and sorry for what he’s done. Give it to me straight, Jack. How did it happen? Is this whole business up to somebody else, or is it up to you? Was it the truth you told me, or was it a lie?”
For a moment Carleton stood silent. Through his tired brain flashed evil thoughts—suspicion—conjecture—the possibility of a just revenge. And yet—it was all so confused—so uncertain. Blame there was somewhere—but where? What could he really do? And then, curiously enough, once more he seemed to see before his eyes the dark face of Henry Carleton; once again he seemed to hear him say, “The Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn’t bring dishonor on the name.” And in that sudden instant Jack Carleton ceased all at once to be a boy, and became a man. Low and hesitating came the words, the words that in the broker’s eyes branded him for ever as a coward, beaten and disgraced, and yet his gaze, fixed on Turner’s face, never faltered. “Jim,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s up to me. I told you a lie.”