Montague returned to New York and plunged into his work. The election at which he was scheduled to become president of the Northern Mississippi was not to come off for a month. Meantime there was no lack of work for him to do. It would, of course, be necessary for him to return to Mississippi to live, and he had to close up his affairs in New York. Also he wished to fit himself for the work of superintending a railroad. Through the courtesy of General Prentice, he was introduced to the president of one of the great transcontinental lines, and made a study of that official's office system. He went South again to inspect the work of the surveyors, and to consult with the engineers who had been selected for the work.
Price went ahead with his arrangements to take over the control of the road, without paying any attention to the old management. He sent for Montague one day, and introduced him to a Mr. Haskins, who was to be elected vice-president of the road. Haskins, he said, had formerly been general manager of the Tennessee Southern, and was a practical railroad man. Montague was to rely upon him for all the details of his work.
Haskins was a wiry, nervous little man, with a bad temper and a sarcastic tongue; he worshipped the gospel of efficiency, and in the consultations with him Montague got many curious lights upon the management of railroads. He learned, for instance, that a conspicuous item in the construction account was the money to be used in paying local government boards for right of way through towns and villages. Apparently no one even considered the possibility of securing the privilege by any other methods. Montague did not like the prospect, but he said nothing. Then again, the road was to purchase its rails and other necessaries from the Mississippi Steel Company, and apparently it was expected to pay a fancy price for these; it was not to ask for any of the discounts which were customary. Also Montague was troubled to learn that the secretary and treasurer of the road were to receive liberal salaries, and that no questions were to be asked, because they were relatives of Price.
All that he put up with; but matters came to a head about ten days before the election, when one day Haskins came to his office with the engineers' estimates, and with his own figures of the probable cost of the extension. Most of the figures were much higher than those which Montague had worked out for himself.
“We ought to do better on those contracts,” he said, pointing to some of the items.
“I dare say we might,” said Haskins; “but those contracts are to go to the Hill Manufacturing Company.”
“I don't understand you,” said Montague; “I thought that we were to advertise for bids.”
“Yes,” replied Haskins, “but that company is to get the contracts, all the same.”
“You mean,” asked Montague, “that we are not to give them to the lowest bidder?”
“I'm afraid not,” said the other.
“Has Price said anything to you to that effect?”
“He has.”
“But I don't understand,” said Montague; “what is this Hill Manufacturing Company?”
And Haskins smiled. “It's a concern that Price has organised himself,” he said.
Montague stared in amazement. “Price himself!” he gasped.
“His nephew is president of the company,” added the other.
“Is it a new company?” Montague asked.
“Organised especially for the purpose,” smiled the other.
“And what does it manufacture?”
“It doesn't manufacture anything; it simply sells.”
“In other words,” said Montague, “it's a device whereby Mr. Price proposes to rob the stockholders of the Northern Mississippi Railroad?”
“You can phrase it that way if you choose,” said Haskins, quietly; “but I wouldn't advise you to let Price hear you.”
“I thank you,” responded Montague, and brought the interview to an end.
He took a day to think the matter over. It was not his habit to act upon impulse. He saw that the time had come for him to speak, but he wished to be sure of his course of action before he began. He had dinner at the Club that evening, and, seeing his friend Major Venable ensconced in a big leather chair in the reading-room, he went and sat down beside him.
“How do you do, Major?” he said. “I've got another case that I want to ask you some questions about.”
“Always at your service,” said the Major.
“It has to do with a railroad,” said Montague. “Did you ever hear of such a thing as a railroad president organising a company to sell supplies to his own road?”
The Major smiled grimly. “Yes, I have heard of it,” he said.
“Is it common?” asked Montague.
“Not so common as you might suppose,” answered the other. “A railroad president is commonly not an important enough man to be permitted to do it. If it happens to be a big road, and the president is a power in it, why, then he may do it.”
“I see,” said Montague.
“That was Higgins's trick,” said the Major. “Higgins used to go around making speeches to Sunday schools; he was the kind of man that the newspapers like to refer to as a model citizen and a leader of enterprise. His brothers, and his brothers-in-law, and his cousins, and all his family went into business in order to sell things to his railroads. I heard of one story—it has never come out, but it's very amusing. Every year the road would advertise its contract for stationery. It used about a million dollars' worth, and there'd be long and most elaborate specifications published—columns and columns. But sandwiched away somewhere in the middle of a paragraph was the provision that the paper must all bear a certain watermark; and that watermark was patented by one of Higgins's companies! It didn't even own so much as a mill—it sublet all the contracts. When Higgins died, he left eighty million dollars; but they juggled the records, and you read in all the newspapers that he left 'a few millions.' That was in Philadelphia, where you can do such things.”
Montague sat thinking for a few moments. “But I can't see why they should do it in this case,” he said. “The men who are doing it own nearly all of the stock of the road.”
“What difference does that make?” asked the Major.
“Why, they are simply plundering their own property,” said Montague.
“Tut!” was the reply. “What do they care about the value of the property? They'll unload it before the public finds out; and in the meantime they are probably manipulating the stock. That's the scheme they're working with the street railroads over in Brooklyn, for instance; the more irregular the dividends are, the more violently the stock fluctuates, and the better they like it.”
“But this is the case of a railroad that is being built,” said Montague; “and they are putting up the money to build it.”
“Yes,” said the Major, “of course; and then they are paying it back to themselves by this dodge; and they'll still have the stock, and whatever they can get for it will be profit. And if the State Legislature comes along and asks any impertinent questions, they can open their books and say: 'See, we have spent this much for improvements. This is the cost of the road; and if you reduce our freight-rates, you will cut off our dividends and confiscate our property.'”
And the Major gazed at Montague with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Besides,” he said, “another thing. You say they are putting up the money. Are you sure it's their own money? Commonly the greater part of the cost of railroad building is paid by bonds, and they work those bonds off on banks and insurance companies and trust companies. Have you thought of that?”
“No, I hadn't,” said Montague.
“I know very few men in Wall Street who use their own money,” the Major added. “Take the case of Wyman, for instance. Wyman's railroad keeps a cash surplus of twenty or thirty millions, and Wyman uses that in Wall Street. And when he has made his profit, he takes it and salts it away in village improvement bonds all over the country. Do you see?”
“I see,” said Montague. “It's a bad game for the small stockholder.”
“It's a bad game for the small man of any sort,” said the Major. “When I was young, I can remember, a man would save a little money and put it into an enterprise of some sort, and whatever the profits were, he would get his share of them. But now, you see, the big men have got control, and they are greedier than they used to be. There is nothing hurts them so much as to see the little fellow get any share of the profits, and they've all sorts of schemes for doing him out of it. I could take a week off and tell you about them. You are manufacturing soap, we will say. You find there are too many soap manufacturers and too much soap, and so you propose to combine, and put your rivals out of business, and monopolise the soap market. Your properties are already capitalised at twice what they cost you, because you are naturally hopeful, and that is what you expected they would earn; but now for this new combination you issue stock to the amount of three times this imagined value. Then you fill the street with rumours of the wonders of your soap combination, and all the privileges and monopolies that you've got, and you unload your stock on the public, we'll say at eighty. You may have sold all your stock, but you've still got control of the corporation. The public is helpless and unorganised, and your men are in. Then the Street begins to hear disturbing rumours about the soap trust, and your board of directors meet and declare that it is impossible to pay any dividends. There is great indignation among the stockholders, and an opposition is organised, but you set the clock an hour ahead, and elect your ticket before the other fellow comes around. Or perhaps the troubles have already knocked the stock down sufficiently low to satisfy you, and you buy a majority of it back. Then the public hears that a new interest has purchased the soap trust, and that a new and honest administration is to be elected; and once more there is hope for soap. You buy a few more plants, and issue more stocks and bonds, and soap begins to boom, and you sell once more. You can work that regularly every two or three years, for there is always a new crop of investors, and nobody but a few people in Wall Street can possibly keep track of what you are doing.”
The Major paused for a while, and sat with a happy smile on his countenance. “You see,” he said, “there are floods and floods of wealth, pouring into Wall Street from all over the country. It comes to me like a vision. The crops are growing, the mines and the mills and the factories are working, and here is all the money. People don't like to take it and hide it up their chimneys—few people have chimneys nowadays. They want to invest it; and so you prepare investments for them. Take the street railroads here in New York, for instance. What could be a safer investment than the street railroads of the Metropolis? An absolute monopoly, and traffic growing so fast that construction can't keep up with it. Profits are sure. So people buy street railway stocks and bonds. In this case it's the politicians who organise the construction companies; that's their share, in return for the franchises. The insiders have a new scheme—the best yet; it's like a Gatling gun against bows and arrows. They organise a syndicate, and get the franchises for nothing, and then sell them to the company for millions. They've even sold franchises they didn't own, and railroad lines that hadn't been built. You'll find some improvements charged for four or five times over, and the improvements haven't yet been made. First and last they have paid themselves about thirty million dollars. And, in the meantime, the poor stockholder wonders why he doesn't get his dividends!”
“That's the investment market,” the Major continued after a pause; “but of course the biggest reservoirs of wealth are the insurance companies and the banks. It's there the real fortunes are made; you'll find you lose the greater part of your profits, unless you've got your own banks to take your bonds. I heard an amusing story the other day of a man who was manufacturing electrical supplies. He prides himself on being an honest business man, and having nothing to do with Wall Street. His company wanted to extend its business, and it issued a couple of hundred thousand dollars' worth of bonds, and went to the Fidelity Insurance Company and offered them at ninety. 'We aren't buying any bonds just at present,' said they, 'but suppose you try the National Trust Company.' So the man went there, and they offered him eighty for the bonds. That was the best he could do, and in the end he had to take it. And then the trust company turns the bonds over to the insurance company at par. I could name you half a dozen trust companies in New York that are simply syndicates of insurance people for the working of that little game.”
The Major paused. “You see it?” he asked.
“Yes, I see,” Montague replied.
“Is there a trust company by any chance back of this railroad you are talking of?”
“There is,” said Montague; and the Major shrugged his shoulders.
“There you have it,” he said. “By and by they will find their first bond issue inadequate to meet the cost of the proposed improvements. The estimates of the engineers will be found too low, and there will be another issue of bonds, and your president's company will get another contract. And then the first thing you know, your president will organise a manufacturing enterprise along the line of his road, and the road will give him secret rebates, and practically carry his goods free; or else he'll organise a private-car line, and make the road pay for the privilege of hauling his cars. Or perhaps he's already got some industrial concern, and is simply building the road as a side issue.”
The Major stopped. He saw that Montague was staring at him with an expression of perplexity.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
“Good heavens, Major!” exclaimed the other. “Do you know what road I've been talking about?”
And the Major sank back in his chair and went into a fit of laughter. He laughed until he was purple in the face, and he could hardly find breath to speak.
“I really thought you did!” Montague protested. “It's exactly the situation.”
“Oh, dear me!” said the Major, fishing for his pocket handkerchief to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Dear me! It makes me think of our district attorney's lemon story. Did you ever hear it?”
“No,” said Montague, “I never did.”
“It was one of the bright spots in a dreary reform campaign that we had a few years ago. It seems that our young crusader was giving his audience a few illustrations of how dishonest officials could make money in this city.
“'Let us imagine a case,' he said. 'You are an inspector of fruit, and there is a scarcity of lemons in New York. There are two ships full of lemons on the way, and one ship gets in twenty-four hours ahead. Now the law requires that the fruit be carefully inspected. If you are too careful about it, it will take more than twenty-four hours, and the owner of the cargo will lose a small fortune. So he comes to you and offers you a thousand or two, and you don't stop to open every crate of his lemons.'
“The district attorney told that story at a meeting, and the next morning the newspapers published it. That afternoon he happened to meet a fruit inspector, who was an old friend of his. 'Say, old man,' said the inspector, 'who the devil told you about those lemons?'”
The next morning Montague called at Price's office.
“Mr. Price,” he said, “a matter has come up in my discussions with Mr. Haskins about which I thought it necessary to consult you immediately.”
“What is it?” asked Price.
“Mr. Haskins informs me that it is understood that the Hill Manufacturing Company is to be favoured in the matter of contracts.”
Montague was watching Price narrowly, and he saw his jaw set grimly, and a hostile look come upon his features. Price had been lounging back in his chair; now, slowly, he straightened himself up, as if to receive an attack.
“Well?” he asked.
“Is Mr. Haskins correct?” asked the other.
“He is correct.”
“He also stated that you are interested in the company. Is that true?”
“That is true.”
“He also stated that the company did not manufacture, but simply sold. Is that true?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Very well, Mr. Price,” said Montague. “This is a matter about which we must have an understanding without delay. In my preliminary talks with you I was informed that it was your wish to find a man who should run the road honestly. The situation which you have just outlined to me does not seem to me consistent with that programme.”
Montague was prepared for an angry response, but he saw the other make an effort and control himself.
“You must realise, Mr. Montague,” he said, “that you are not very familiar with methods in the railroad world. This company of which you speak possesses advantages; it can secure better terms—” Price stopped.
“You mean that it can purchase goods more cheaply than the railroad itself can?” demanded Montague.
“In some cases,” began the other.
“Very well, then,” he answered. “In any case where it can obtain better terms, there can be no objection to its receiving the contract. But that does not agree with what Mr. Haskins told me; he gave me to understand that we were to prepare to pay a much higher price because it would be necessary to give the contracts to the Hill Manufacturing Company; and that was my reason for coming to see you. I wish to have a distinct understanding with you upon this point. While I am president of the Northern Mississippi Railroad, everything that is purchased by the road will be purchased in fair competition, and the concern which will give us the lowest price for the quality of goods we need will receive our order. That is a matter about which there must be left no possible room for misunderstanding. I trust I have made myself clear?”
“You have made yourself clear,” said Price; and so the interview terminated.
Montague went back to his work, but with a heart full of misgivings. He would have liked to persuade himself that that was the end of the episode, but he could not do it. He foresaw that his job as president of a railroad would not be a sinecure.
With all his forebodings, however, he was unprepared for the development which came the next day. Young Curtiss called him up, early in the morning, and asked him to wait at his office. A few minutes later he came in, with evident agitation upon his countenance.
“Montague,” he said, “I have something important to tell you. I cannot leave you in ignorance about it. But before I begin, you must understand one thing—that I am taking my future in my hands by telling you. And you must promise me that you will never give the slightest hint that I have spoken to you.”
“I will promise,” said Montague. “What is it?”
“You must not even let on that you know,” added the other. “Price would know that I told you.”
“Oh, it's Price!” said Montague. “I'll promise to protect you. What is it?”
“He called up Davenant yesterday afternoon, and told him that you were not to be elected president of the road.”
Montague gazed at him in dismay.
“He says you are to be dropped entirely,” said the other. “Haskins is to be president. Davenant had to tell me, because I am one of the directors.”
“So that's it,” Montague whispered to himself.
“Do you know what's the matter?” asked Curtiss.
“Yes, I do,” said Montague.
“What is it?”
“It's a long story—just some graft that I wouldn't stand for.”
“Oh!” cried Curtiss, with sudden light. “Is it the Hill Manufacturing Company?”
“It is,” said Montague.
It was Curtiss's turn to stare in amazement. “My God!” he gasped. “Do you mean that you have thrown up the sponge for that?”
“I haven't thrown up the sponge, by any means,” was the answer. “But that's why Price wants to get rid of me.”
“But, man!” cried the other. “How perfectly absurd!”
Montague fixed his glance upon him.
“Would you advise me to stand for it?” he asked.
“But, my dear fellow!” said Curtiss. “I've got some stock in that company myself.”
Montague sat in silence—he could think of nothing to say after that.
“What in the world do you suppose you have gone into?” protested the other. “A charity enterprise?” Then he stopped, seeing the look of pain upon his friend's face.
He put a hand upon his arm. “See here, old, man,” he said, “this is too bad, honestly. I understand how you feel, and it's a great credit to you; but you are living in the world, and you have got to be practical. You can't expect to take a railroad and run it as if it were an orphan asylum. You can't expect to do business, if you're going to have notions like that. It's really a shame, to give up a work like this for such a reason.”
Montague stiffened. “I assure you I haven't given up yet,” he replied grimly.
“But what are you going to do?” protested the other.
“I am going to fight,” said he.
“Fight?” echoed Curtiss. “But, man, you are perfectly helpless! Price and Ryder own the road, and they will do as they please with it.”
“You are one of the directors of the road,” said Montague. “And you know the situation. You know the pledges upon which the election of the new board was secured. Will you vote for Haskins as president?”
“My God, Montague!” protested the other. “What a thing to ask of me! You know perfectly well that I have no power in the road. All the stock I own, Price gave me, and what can I do? Why, my whole career would be ruined if I were to oppose him.”
“In other words,” said Montague, “you are a dummy. You are willing to sell your name and your character for a block of stock. You take a position of trust, and you betray it.”
The other's face hardened. “Oh, well,” he said, “if that's the way you put it—”
“That's not the way I put it!” said Montague. “That is simply the fact.”
“But,” cried the other, “don't you realise that they have a majority, even without me?”
“Perhaps they have,” said Montague; “but that is no reason why you should not do what is right.”
Curtiss arose. “There is nothing more to be said,” he remarked. “I am sorry you take it that way. I tried to do you a service.”
“I appreciate that,” said Montague, promptly. “For that I shall always be obliged to you.”
“In this fight that you propose to make,” said the other, “you must not forget that it is I who have brought you this information—”
“Do not trouble about that,” said Montague; “I will protect you. No one shall ever know that I had the information.”
Montague spent a half an hour pacing up and down his office in thought. Then he called his stenographer, and dictated a letter to his cousin, Mr. Lee, and to each of the three other persons whom he had approached in relation to their votes at the stockholders' meeting. “Certain matters have developed,” he wrote, “in connection with the affairs of the Northern Mississippi Railroad, which make me unwilling to accept the position of president. It is also my intention to resign from the board of directors of the road, in which I find myself powerless to prevent the things of which I disapprove.”
And then he went on to outline the plan which he intended to carry out, explaining that he offered to those whom he had been the means of influencing, the opportunity to go in with him upon equal terms. He requested them to communicate their decisions by telegraph; and two days later he had heard from them all, and was ready for business.
He called up Stanley Ryder, and made an appointment for an interview.
“Mr. Ryder,” he said, “a few weeks ago you talked with me in this office, and asked me to assist you in electing your ticket for the Northern Mississippi Railroad. You said that you wished me to become president of the road, and that the reason for the request was that you wanted a man whom you could depend upon for efficient and honest management. I accepted your offer in good faith; and I have made all arrangements, and put in a great deal of hard work at the task of fitting myself for the position. Now I have learned from Mr. Price's own lips that he has organised a company for the purpose of exploiting the road for his own private benefit. I told him that I was unwilling to stand for anything of the sort. Since then I have been thinking the matter over, and I have concluded that this situation will make it impossible for me to cooperate with Mr. Price. I have concluded, therefore, that it would be best for me to resign my position as a member of the board of directors, and also to withdraw my candidacy as president.”
Ryder had avoided Montague's gaze; he sat staring in front of him, and tapping nervously with a pencil upon his desk. It was some time before he answered.
“Mr. Montague,” he said, finally, “I am very sorry indeed to hear your decision. But taking all the circumstances into consideration, it seems to me that perhaps it is a wise one.”
Again there was a pause.
“You must permit me to thank you for what you have done,” Ryder added. “And I trust that this unfortunate episode will not alter our personal relationship.”
“Thank you,” said Montague, coldly.
He had waited to see what Ryder would say. He waited again, having no mind to help him in his embarrassment.
“As I say,” Ryder repeated, “I am very much obliged to you.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Montague. “But I trust that you do not expect to end our relationship in any such simple way as that.”
He saw Ryder's expression change. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“There is a matter of grave importance which has to be settled before we can part. As you know, I am personally the holder of five hundred shares of Northern Mississippi stock; and to that extent I am interested in the affairs of the road.”
“Most certainly,” said Ryder, quietly, “but I have nothing to do with that. As a stockholder of the road, you look to the board of directors.”
“Besides being a stockholder myself,” continued Montague, without heeding this remark, “I have also to consider the interests of the three persons whom I interviewed in your behalf. I was the means of inducing these people to vote for the board which you named. I was the means of inducing them to place themselves in the power of Mr. Price and yourself. This being the case, I consider that my honour is involved, and that I am responsible to them.”
“What do you expect to do?” asked Ryder.
“I have written to them, informing them of my intention to withdraw. I have not told them the circumstances, but have simply indicated that I find myself powerless to prevent certain things to which I object. I have told them the course I intend to take, and offered them the opportunity to get out upon the same terms as myself. They have accepted the offer, and to-morrow I should receive their stock certificates, and their authorisation to dispose of them. I have my own certificates here; and I have to say that I consider you are under obligation to purchase this stock at the same price which you paid for the new stock; namely, fifty dollars a share.”
Ryder stared at him. “Mr. Montague, you amaze me!” he said.
“I am sorry for that,” said Montague. His voice was hard, and there was a grim look upon his face. He fixed his eyes upon Ryder. “Nevertheless,” he said, “it will be necessary for you to take the stock.”
“I am sorry to have to say it,” said Ryder, “but this seems to me impertinent.”
“The total number of shares,” said Montague, “is thirty-five hundred, and the price of them is one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”
The two gazed at each other. Ryder saw the look in Montague's eyes, and he did not repeat his sneer.
“May I ask,” he inquired, in a low voice, “what reason you have to believe that I will comply with this extraordinary request?”
“I have a very good reason, as I believe you will perceive,” said Montague. “You and Mr. Price have purchased this railroad, and you wish to plunder it. That is your privilege—apparently it is the custom here in Wall Street to play tricks upon the investing public. But you cannot play them upon me, because I know too much.”
“May I know what you propose to do?” asked Ryder.
“You certainly may,” said the other. “I propose to fight. Until you have purchased my stock and the stock of my friends, I shall remain a director in the railroad, and also a candidate for the position of president. I shall make a contest at the next directors' meeting, and if I fail in my purpose there, I shall carry the fight before the public. I flatter myself that my reputation will count for something in my old home; you will not be able to carry matters with quite the same high hand in Mississippi as you are accustomed to in New York. Also, I shall fight you in the courts. I don't happen to know just what is the law in regard to the plundering of a public-service corporation by its own directors, but I shall be very much surprised if I cannot find some ground upon which to put a stop to it. Also, as you know, I am in possession of facts regarding the means whereby you got your new privileges from the State Legislature—”
Ryder was glaring at him in rage. “Mr. Montague,” he cried, “this is blackmail!”
“You may call it that if you please,” said the other. “I shall not be afraid to face the charge, if you should see fit to bring it in the courts.”
Ryder started to reply, then caught his breath and gasped. When he spoke again, he had mastered himself. “It seems to me a most extraordinary thing,” he said. “Surely, Mr. Montague, you cannot feel at liberty to make public what you learned from Mr. Price and myself while you were acting as our confidential adviser! Surely you cannot have forgotten the pledge of secrecy which you gave me here in this office!”
“I have not forgotten it,” answered Montague. “And I have considered the matter with the greatest care. I consider that it is you who have violated a pledge. I believe that your violation was a deliberate one—that you had intended it from the very beginning. You assured me that you wished an honest administration of the road. I don't believe that you ever did wish it; I believe that you had no thought whatever except to use me as your tool to secure the control of the railroad, without buying out the remaining stockholders. Having accomplished that purpose, you are perfectly willing to have me retire. In fact, I have made up my mind that you never intended that I should be president—I have all along been suspicious about it. But I can assure you that you have struck the wrong man; you cannot play with me in any such manner. I have no idea whatever of retiring from the railroad and permitting you and Mr. Price to exploit it, and to deprive me of the value of my holdings—”
Montague was going on, but the other interrupted him quickly. “I recognise the justice of what you say there, Mr. Montague,” said he. “So far as your own shares are concerned, you are entitled to be bought out. I am sure that that is a fair basis—”
“On the contrary,” said Montague, “it's a basis the suggestion of which I take as an insult. I have been the means of placing other people at your mercy. My reputation and my promises were used for that purpose, and to whatever I am entitled, they are entitled equally. There can be no possible settlement except the one which I have offered you.”
Ryder could think of nothing more to say. He sat staring at the other. And Montague, who had no desire to prolong the interview, arose abruptly.
“I do not expect you to decide this matter immediately,” he said. “I presume that you will wish to consult with Mr. Price. I have made known my terms to you, and I have nothing more to say. Either you will accept the terms, or I shall drop everything else, and prepare to fight you at every step. I expect to receive the stock by this evening's mail, and I am obliged to ask you to favour me with a decision by to-morrow noon, so that we can close the matter up without delay.”
And with that he bowed formally and took his departure.
The next morning's mail brought him a letter from William E. Davenant. “My dear Mr. Montague,” it read. “It is reported to me that you have thirty-five hundred shares of the stock of the Northern Mississippi Railroad which you desire to sell at fifty dollars a share. If you will bring the stock to my office to-day, I shall be glad to purchase it.”
Having received the letters from the South, Montague went immediately. Davenant was formal; but Montague could catch a humorous twinkle in his eye, which seemed to say, quite confidentially, that he appreciated the joke.
“That ends the matter,” he said, as he blotted the last of Montague's signatures. “And I trust you will permit me to say, Mr. Montague, that I consider you an exceedingly capable business man.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” replied Montague, drily.
Montague was now a gentleman of leisure, comparatively speaking. He had two cases on his hands, but they did not occupy his time as had the prospect of running a railroad. They were contingency cases, and as they were against large corporations, Montague saw a lean year ahead of him. He smiled bitterly to himself as he realised that the only thing which had given him the courage to break with Price and Ryder had been the money which he and his brother Oliver had won by means of a Wall Street “tip.”
He received a letter from Alice. “I am going to remain a couple of weeks longer in Newport,” she wrote. “Who do you think has invited me—Laura Hegan. She has been perfectly lovely to me, and I go to her place next week. You will be interested to know that I had a long talk with her about you; I took occasion to tell her a few things that she ought to know. She was very nice about it. I am hoping that you will come up for another week end before I leave here. Harry Curtiss is going to spend his vacation here; you might come with him.”
Montague smiled to himself as he read this letter. He did not go with Curtiss. But the heat of the city was stifling, and the thought of the surf and the country was alluring, and he went up by way of the Sound one Friday night.
He was invited to dinner at the Hegans'. Jim Hegan was there himself—for the first occasion in three years. Mrs. Hegan declared that it was only because she had gone down to New York and fetched him.
It was the first time that Montague had ever been with Hegan for any length of time. He watched him with interest, for the man was a fascinating problem to him. He was so calm and serene—always courteous and friendly. But what was there behind the mask, Montague wondered. For forty years this man had toiled and fought in the arena of Wall Street, and with only one purpose and one thought in life, so far as Montague knew—the piling up of money. Jim Hegan indulged himself in none of the pleasures of rich men. He had no hobbies, and he seldom went into company. In his busy times it was said that he would use a dozen secretaries, and wear them all out. He was a gigantic engine which drove all day and all night—a machine for the making of money.
Montague did not care much for money himself, and he wondered about it. What did the man want it for? What did he expect to accomplish by it? What was the moral code, the outlook upon life, of a man who gave all his time to heaping up money? What reason did he give to himself for his own career? Some reason he must have, or he could not be so calm and cheerful. Or could it be that he had no thoughts about it at all? Was it simply a blind instinct with him? Was he an animal whose nature it was to make money, and who was untroubled by any scruples? This last idea seemed rather uncanny to Montague; he found himself watching Jim Hegan with a kind of awe; thinking of him as some terrible elemental force, blind and unconscious, like the lightning or the tornado.
For Jim Hegan was one of the wreckers. His fortune had been made by the methods which Major Venable had outlined, by buying aldermen and legislatures and governors; by getting franchises for nothing and selling them for millions; by organising huge swindles and unloading them upon the public. And here he sat upon the veranda of his home, in the twilight of an August evening, smoking a cigar and telling about an orphan asylum he had founded!
He was cheerful and kindly; he was even benevolent. And could it be that he had no idea of the trail of ruin and distress which he had left behind him? Montague found himself possessed by a sudden desire to penetrate beneath that reserve; to spring at the man and surprise him with some sudden question; to get at the reality of him, to know him as he was. This air of power and masterfulness, surely that must be the mask that he wore. And how was he to himself? When he was alone with his own conscience? Surely there must come doubt and wonder, unhappiness and loneliness! Surely, then, the lives that he had wrecked must come back to plague him! Surely the memories of treachery and cruelty must make him wince!
And from Hegan, Montague's thoughts went to his daughter. She, too, was serene and stately; Montague wondered what was in her mind. How much did she know about her father's career? Surely she could not have persuaded herself that all that she had heard was calumny. There might be question about this offence or that, but of the great broad facts there could be no question. And did she justify it and excuse it; or was she, too, secretly unhappy? And was this the reason for her pride, and for her bitter speeches? It was a continual topic of chatter in Society, how Laura Hegan had withdrawn herself from all of her mother's affairs, and was interesting herself in work in the slums. Could it be that Nemesis had overtaken Jim Hegan in the form of his daughter? That she was the conscience by which he was to be tormented?
Jim Hegan never talked about his affairs. In all the time that Montague spent with him during his two days at Newport, he gave just one hint for the other to go upon. “Money?” he remarked, that evening. “I don't care about money. Money is just chips to me.”
Life was a game, and the chips were dollars! What he had played for was power! And suddenly Montague seemed to see the career of this man, unrolled before him like a panorama. He had begun life as an office-boy; and above him were all the heights of business and finance; and the ladder by which to scale them was money. There were rivals with whom he fought; and the overcoming of these rivals had occupied all his time and his thought. If he had bought legislatures, it was because his rivals were trying to buy them. And perhaps then he did not even know that he was a wrecker; perhaps he would not have believed it if anyone had told him! He had travelled all the long journey of his life, trampling out opposition and crushing everything before him, nourishing in his heart the hope that some day, when he had attained to mastery, when there were no more rivals to oppose and thwart him—then he would be free to do good. Then he would no longer have to be a wrecker!
And perhaps that was the meaning of his pitiful little effort—an orphan asylum! It seemed to Montague that the gods must shake with Olympian laughter when they contemplated the spectacle of Jim Hegan and his orphan asylum: Jim Hegan, who could have filled a score of orphan asylums with the children of the men whom he had driven to ruin and suicide!
These thoughts were seething in Montague's mind, and they would not let him rest. Perhaps it was just as well that he did not stay too long that evening. After all, what was the use? Jim Hegan was what circumstances had made him. Vain was the dream of peace and well doing—there was always another rival! There was a new battle on just at present, if one might believe the gossip of the Street; Hegan and Wyman were at each other's throats. They would fight out their quarrel, and there was no way to prevent them—even though they pulled down the pillars of the nation about each other's heads.
As to just what these men were doing in their struggles, Montague got new information every day. The next morning, while he was sitting on the piazza of one of the hotels watching the people, he recognised a familiar face, and greeted the young engineer, Lieutenant Long, who came and sat down beside him.
“Well,” said Montague, “have you heard anything from our friend Gamble?”
“He's back in the bosom of his family again,” said the young officer. “He got tired of the splurge.”
“Great fellow, Gamble,” said Montague.
“I liked him very much,” said the Lieutenant. “He's not beautiful to look at, but his heart's in the right place.”
Montague thought for a moment, then asked, “Did he ever send you your oil specifications?”
“You bet he did!” said the other. “And say, they were great! The Department will think I'm an expert.”
“Indeed,” said Montague.
“It was a precious lucky thing for me,” said the officer. “I'd have been in quite a predicament, you know.”
He paused for a moment. “You cannot imagine,” he said, “the position that we naval officers are in. Do you know, I think some word must have got out about that contract.”
“You don't say so,” said Montague, with interest.
“I do. By gad, I thought of writing to headquarters about it. I was approached no less than three times!”
“Indeed!”
“Fancy,” said the officer. “A young chap got himself introduced to me by one of my friends here. He stuck by me the whole evening, and afterwards, as we were strolling home, he opened up on me in this fashion. He'd heard from a friend in Washington that I was one of those who had been asked to write specifications for the oil contracts of the Navy; and he had some friends who were interested in oil, and who might be able to advise me. He hinted that it might be a good thing for me. Just think of it!”
“I can imagine it was unpleasant.”
“I tell you, it sets a man to thinking,” said the Lieutenant. “You know the men in our service are exposed to that sort of thing all the time, and some of them are trying to live a good deal higher than their incomes warrant. It's a thing that we've all got to look out for; I can stand graft in politics and in business, but when it comes to the Army and Navy—I tell you, that's where I'm ready to fight.”
Montague said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
“Gamble said something about your being interested in a fight against the Steel Trust,” said the other. “Is that so?”
“It was so,” replied Montague. “I'm out of it now.”
“What we were saying made me think of the Steel Trust,” said the Lieutenant. “We get some glimpses of that concern in the Navy, you know.”
“I hadn't thought of that,” said Montague.
“Ask any man in the service about it,” said the Lieutenant. “It's an old scar that we carry around in our souls—it won't heal. I mean the armour-plate frauds.”
“Sure enough!” said Montague. He carried a long list of indictments against the steel kings in his mind; but he had forgotten this one.
“I know about it particularly,” the other continued, “because my father was on the board of investigation fifteen years ago. I am disposed to be a little keen on the subject, because what he found out at that time practically caused his death.”
Montague darted a keen glance at the young officer, who sat gazing ahead in sombre thought. “Fancy how a naval man feels,” he said. “We are told that our ships are going to the Pacific, and any hour the safety of the nation may depend upon them! And they are covered with rotten armour plate that was made by old Harrison, and sold to the Government for four or five times what it cost. Take one case that I know about—the Oregon. I've got a brother on board her to-day. During the Spanish War the whole country was watching her and praying for her. And I could go on board that battleship and put my finger on the spot in her conning-tower that has a series of blow-holes straight through the middle of it—holes that old Harrison had drilled through and plugged up with an iron bar. If ever that plate was struck by a shell, it would splinter like so much glass.”
Montague listened, half dazed. “Can one see that?” he cried.
“See it? No!” said the officer. “It's all on the inside of the plate, of course. When they got through with their dirty work, they would treat the surface, and who would ever know the difference?”
“But then, how can YOU know it?” asked Montague.
“I?” said the other. “Because my father had laid before him the history of that plate from the hour it was made until it was put in: the original copies of the doctored shop records, and the affidavits of the man who did the work. He had the same thing in a hundred other cases. I know the man who has the papers at this day.”
“You see,” continued the Lieutenant, after a pause, “the Government's specifications required that each plate should undergo an elaborate set of treatments; and the shop records of each plate were kept. But, of course, it cost enormous sums to get these treatments right, and even then hundreds of the plates would be bad. So when the shop records came up to the office, young Ingham and Davidson would go over them and edit them and bring them up to standard—that's the way those brilliant young fellows made all the money that they are spending on chorus girls and actresses to-day. They would have these shop records recopied, but they did not always tear up the old ones, and somebody in the office hid them, and that was how the Government got hold of the story.”
“It sounds almost incredible!” exclaimed Montague.
“Take the story of plate H619, of the Oregon,” said the Lieutenant. “That was one of a whole group of plates, which was selected for the ballistic tests at Indian Head. After it had been selected, it was taken back into the company's shops at night, and secretly retreated three times. And then of course it passed the tests, and the whole group was passed with it!”
“What was done about it?” Montague asked.
“Nothing much was ever done about it,” said the other. “The Government could not afford to let the real facts get out. But, of course, the insiders in the Navy knew it, and the memory will last as long as the ships last. As I say, it killed my father.”
“But weren't the men punished at all?”
“There was a Board appointed to try the case, and they awarded the Government about six hundred thousand dollars' damages. There's a man here in this hotel now who could tell you that story straight from the inside.” And the Lieutenant paused and looked about him. Suddenly he stood up, and went to the railing and called to a man who was passing on the other side of the street.
“Hello, Bates,” he said, “come here.”
“Oh! Bates of the Express!” said Montague.
“You know him, do you?” asked the Lieutenant. “Hello, Bates! Have they put you on the Society notes?”
“I'm hunting interviews,” replied the other. “How do you do, Mr. Montague? Glad to see you again.”
“Come up,” said the Lieutenant, “and have a seat.”
“I was talking to Mr. Montague about the armour-plate frauds,” he added, when the other had drawn up a chair. “I told him you knew the story of the Government's investigation. Bates comes from Pittsburg, you know.”
“Yes, I know it,” Montague replied.
“That was the first newspaper story I ever worked on,” said Bates. “Of course, the Pittsburg papers didn't print the facts, but I got them all the same. And afterwards I came to know intimately a lawyer in Pittsburg who had charge of a secret investigation; and every time I read in the newspapers that old Harrison has given a new library, it sets my blood to boiling all over again.”
“I sometimes think,” put in the other, “that if somebody could be found to tell that story to the American people, they would rise up and drive the old scoundrel out of the country.”
“You could never bring it home to him,” said Bates; “he's too cunning for that. He has always turned his dirty work over to other people. You remember during the big strike how he ran away and left the job to William Roberts; and after it was all over, he came back smiling.”
“And then buying out the Government to keep himself from being punished!” said the Lieutenant, savagely.
Montague turned and looked at him. “What is that?”
“That is the story that Bates's lawyer friend can tell,” was the reply. “The board of officers awarded six hundred thousand dollars' damages to the Government; and the case was appealed to the President of the United States, and he sold out the Navy!”
“Sold it out!” gasped Montague.
The officer shrugged his shoulders. “That's what I call it,” he said. “One day old Harrison startled the country by making a speech in support of the President's policy of tariff reform; and the next day the lawyer got word that the award was to be scaled down about seventy-five per cent!”
“And then,” added Bates, “William Roberts came down from Pittsburg, and bought up the Democratic party in Congress; and so the country got neither the damages nor the tariff reform. And then a few years later old Harrison sold out to the Steel Trust, and got off with a four-hundred-million-dollar mortgage on the American people!”
Bates sank back in his chair. “It's not a very pleasant topic for a holiday afternoon,” he said. “But I can't forget about it. It's this kind of thing that does it, you know—this.” And he waved his hand about at the gay assemblage. “The women spending their money on dresses and diamonds, and the men tearing the country to pieces to get it. You'll hear people talk about it—they say these idle rich harm nobody but themselves; but I tell you they spread a trail of corruption wherever they go. Don't you believe that, Mr. Montague?”
“I believe it,” said he.
“Take these New England towns,” said Bates; “and look at the people in them. The ones who had any energy got up and went West years ago; and those who are left haven't any jaw-bones. Did you ever notice it? And it's just the same, wherever this pleasure crowd comes; it turns the men into boarding-house keepers and lackeys, and the girls into waitresses and prostitutes.”
“They learn to take tips!” put in the Lieutenant.
“Everything they've got is for sale to city people,” said Bates. “Politically, there isn't a rottener little corner in the whole United States of America than this same Rhode Island—and how much that's saying, you can imagine. You can buy votes on election day as you'd buy herrings, and there's not the remotest effort at reform, nor any hope of it.”
“You speak bitterly,” said Montague.
“I am bitter,” said Bates. “But it doesn't often break out. I hold my tongue, and stew in my own juice. We newspaper men see the game, you know. We are behind the scenes, and we see the sawdust put into the dolls. We have to work in this rottenness all the time, and some of us don't like it, I can tell you. But what can we do?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I spend my time getting facts together, and nine times out of ten my newspaper won't print them.”
“I should think you'd quit,” said the other, in a low voice.
“What better can I do?” asked the reporter. “I have the facts; and once in a while there comes an explosion, and I get my chance. So I stick at the job. I can't but believe that if you keep putting these things before the people, sometime, sooner or later, they will do something. Sometime there will come a man who has a conscience and a voice, and who won't sell out. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?”
“Yes,” said Montague, “I think so.”