A FOOL AND HIS MONEY
"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 his eyes, 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 and sixty 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 of that 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 quickly
under 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 we _can_ do."
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, "I _think_ it 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 worst _is_ over, 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 his head,
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
business men, 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 moment turning 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 the utmost 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 the bunker 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 two of 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 two o'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. Unlocking it, 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 it up. 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 I _can_ do." He rose,
shrugging his shoulders, and thrusting the papers into his pocket, he
hurriedly left the office.