ROCKERVELT settled with John Steele by drawing his cheque for three
hundred and ninety-eight thousand six hundred dollars, and it was the
circumvented Blair himself who carried through the negotiations. Steele
asked half a million at the beginning, but had made up his mind to
accept three hundred thousand dollars. As he wished to net this sum
clear, he added to it the amount he paid for the stock, including Miss
Slocum’s ten thousand dollars, and the percentage, which came to nearly
forty thousand more. Then he informed Blair he was forced to add ten
thousand dollars for that kick, which he did. He told Blair that he
remembered the kick on an average of once a day, and that this thought
humiliated him. Therefore he would be compelled to charge one hundred
dollars a day for thinking of the assault while negotiations were
pending. Whether this time-penalty hastened negotiations or not will
never be known, but it accounts for the odd figures on the Rockervelt
cheque, and, after paying all liabilities, Steele found himself with
more than his minimum sum in hand.
The station-master of Slocum Junction was given the position of
travelling man on the Wheat Belt Line, at a salary of fifty dollars
a week, which seemed to him princely. Miss Dorothy Slocum insisted on
finishing her year at the Bunkerville school, but during the Christmas
holidays she married the station-master, and they set up housekeeping
in Chicago with a nice little bank account of nearly fifty thousand
dollars. The young lady’s dream of life was now realised. She enjoyed
the privilege of being an inhabitant of the Western metropolis, in
comfortable circumstances, with everything at her disposal that a large
city had to bestow. John Steele, in the New Year, had the pleasure of
escorting the young woman to a _matinee_, and when he asked her if the
few weeks’ experience of Chicago had changed her mind regarding the
delights of the place, she replied that Chicago was heavenly; which
called up a smile to the young man’s lips as he remembered the story
of a Chicago man who had died and gone to the other place, and told an
inmate thereof that his new residence was preferable to Chicago. But
John didn’t tell the story to his companion. He complained pathetically
that she had broken his heart by marrying the station-master, but she
laughed and said she had broken his heart no more than Blair had broken
his neck by precipitating him down the railway embankment from the
running train--which, by the way, was true enough.
As time went on, he saw less and less of his Bunkerville friends. He was
rising rapidly in the financial world, had resigned his position on
the Wheat Belt Line, important as it was, and had set up an office for
himself. The newspapers made a great deal of his encounter with
old Rockervelt and his victory over the magnate, but Steele was a
clear-headed man who indulged in no delusions on the score of that
episode. He had spent some very anxious days while negotiations were
pending, and no one knew better than he that if Rockervelt had decided
to fight, it might have cost the great railway king more than he had
paid, but Steele would have been bankrupt when the battle was ended. He
resolved never again to combat a force so many thousand times stronger
than himself. He would be content with a smaller game and less risk.
John attributed the few grey hairs at his temple to those anxious days
while Rockervelt was making up his mind, keeping silent and giving forth
no sign.
But grey hairs do not necessarily bring wisdom, and so little does a man
suspect what is ahead of him that a few tears from a pretty woman
sent him into a contest without knowing who his adversary was, to find
himself at last face to face with the most formidable financial foe that
the world could offer.
He had almost forgotten his friends from the West, when one day the
young woman’s card was brought up to him as he sat in his office,
planning an aggression which was still further to augment his
ever-increasing bank account. He looked up with a smile as Dorothy
entered, but it was stricken from his lips when he saw how changed she
was. All colour had left her cheeks, and her eyes were red as if with
weeping.
“Good gracious!” he cried, springing to his feet, “what is the matter?
Have you been ill?”
“No,” she said, with a catch in her voice, sinking into the chair he
offered, “but I am nearly distracted. Oh, Mr. Steele! you said once that
the country was sweet and soothing after the turmoil of the city, and
I told you I was tired of the country’s dullness. It was a foolish,
foolish remark. I wish we were back there, and done with this dreadful
town!”
“Why, what has happened? Is it your husband, then, who is ill?”
“No--yes, he is--or, rather, yes and no; for, like myself, he is at his
wits’ end, and doesn’t know what to do; therefore I have come to seek
your advice,” and with this she broke down and wept.
John thought at first that her husband had been dismissed; and if that
were the case, Steele, being no longer connected with the railway, would
be powerless to aid. Still, he did not see why such an event should
cause so much distress, for a young couple in good health, with fifty
thousand dollars in the bank, are not exactly paupers, even in Chicago.
“My husband,” sobbed the woman at last, “has invested everything we
possess in wheat, and since that time the price of wheat has been
falling steadily. Now we are on the verge of ruin.”
“What on earth did he meddle with wheat for? It is more dangerous than
dynamite.”
“I don’t know,” wept the young woman; “but Tom thought it was sure to
rise.”
“Yes. They always think that. How much did he purchase?”
“One million bushels.”
“Good gracious! Do you happen to know the price?”
“Yes, seventy-eight cents.”
“Great Scott! Do you mean to say that you two silly young people took
on an obligation of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, when you
possess less than fifty thousand? When he made the deal, how much of a
margin did he put up?”
“You mean the money he gave the broker? Ten thousand dollars.”
“Ah, then a decline of a cent a bushel would wipe that out.”
“Yes, it did, and ever since wheat has been falling, until now it
is seventy-four and a quarter. We have given the brokers so far
thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, and if wheat drops another
cent, we have not the money to meet the call and will lose everything.
These last three weeks have been the most anxious time of my life.”
“I can well believe it. Now, what do you want me to do?”
“Mr. Steele, I want you to take over this wheat. It can’t possibly go
much lower, and Tom says it is bound to rise. This time last year it was
eighty-nine, and if it went up to that now we would net over a hundred
thousand dollars. You see, you would not need to take the risk we
have done, for we bought at seventy-eight, and you will be buying at
seventy-four and a quarter.”
“But I don’t see how my taking it over would help you.”
“Why if it went up to over eighty--and Tom says it is sure to do that
before many weeks are past--you would make a good profit and could give
us back our money.”
Serious as was the situation John could scarcely refrain from a smile at
such a beautiful specimen of feminine logic. Of course, if he wished
to dabble in wheat, he could buy at seventy-four now, and if it went to
eighty, secure the whole profit without paying anything to anyone.
“Is Tom at home just now?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you ask him to call this afternoon, and we will talk the
situation over.”
The young woman rose and beamed on him through her tears.
“Oh, I am sure you two will hit upon a plan. When I told Tom this
morning of the scheme I have just outlined to you he scoffed at me; but
you see its feasibility, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think I do. Anyhow, Tom and I will consult this afternoon about
it, and he’ll let you know at what decision we arrive.”
He shook hands with his visitor and was very glad to see her depart.
“Good gracious!” he said to himself when the door was shut, “how
fatuously silly she is! And to think that a little more than a year
ago I proposed to her! Poor girl! Beauty almost gone, too, at the first
whiff of trouble. Still, the situation is serious enough; but it is
easier to refuse a man than a woman. I’ll tell Tom what I think of him
when he comes. Imagine the cursed fool marching into Chicago like a
hayseed from the backwoods, and losing fifty thousand dollars inside
of three weeks. What he needs is a guardian; yet I’d like to help the
little woman, too, although I don’t see how I can. I wonder if wheat’s
going any lower. Hold up, Jack, my boy, don’t get thinking about the
price of wheat. That way madness lies. No, I’ll confine myself to giving
Tom a piece of my mind when I see him which will make him angry, so
we’ll quarrel, and then it’ll be easy to refuse him.”
At three o’clock the ex-station-master of Slocum Junction was shown into
John Steele’s private office. His face was so gaunt and haggard that
for a moment Steele felt sorry for him; but business is business, and
sympathy has no place in the wheat-pit. Tom shook hands and sat down
without a word; all his old jauntiness had left him.
“Well, my Christian friend,” began Steele in his severest manner, “when
I was the means of getting you transferred from Slocum Junction
to Chicago, and also had something to do towards endowing your
wife-that-was-to-be with nearly fifty thousand dollars, hang me if I
thought you would act the giddy farmer-come-to-town and blow it all away
in the wheat-pit! God bless my soul! haven’t you sense enough to
know that the biggest men in Chicago have been crumpled up in the
grain-market? How could _you_ expect to win where the richest and
shrewdest dealers in the city have failed? Don’t you read the papers?
Haven’t you any brains in your head at all? Is it only an intellectual
bluff that you are putting up before the public, pretending to be a
man of sense? Why, a ten-year-old boy born in Chicago would know better!
Wheat may be the staff of life when it leaves the flour-mill, but it’s
the cudgel of death in the speculative market!”
“So I’ve been told,” said Tom quietly.
“Well, you haven’t profited much by the telling. What in the name of all
the saints made you speculate in wheat?”
“I didn’t speculate.”
“I understand you bought a million bushels?”
“I did.”
“What’s that but speculating, then?”
“Look here, Mr. Steele, are you quite done with your abuse of me? Isn’t
there something more that you could say? That I wear a woollen shirt,
and haven’t any collar; that my trousers are turned up, and there’s mud
on my shoes? Do you see any straw out of the farmyard on my hair? If you
do, why don’t you mention it?”
John Steele laughed.
“Bravo, Tom,” he said; “that’s quite your Slocum Junction manner. I
supposed you were up a tree--that you had bought a million bushels of
wheat, spent thirty thousand dollars odd upon margins, and that now you
couldn’t carry it any longer. Am I right?”
“Quite right. That’s exactly the situation. Now, are you in the frame of
mind to listen to the biggest thing that there is in America to-day? Are
you in a financial position to take advantage of an opportunity that may
not recur for years? If you are, I’ll talk to you. If not, I’ll bid you
‘Good-bye,’ and go to someone else.”
“All right, Tom, I’m ready to listen, and willing to act if you can
convince me.”
“I can convince you quick enough, but are you able to act, as well as
ready?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, Tom, if you mean going in for a big wheat
speculation, I’m able, but not willing.”
“I told you I wasn’t speculating. Wheat will be over a dollar a bushel
before three months are past.”
“Is there going to be a war?”
“I don’t know; but this I do know, that the wheat crop of the entire
West is practically a failure--that is to say, late frosts this spring,
and the wet weeks we have had since, will knock off anywhere from thirty
to forty per cent, of the output. The Chicago wheat-pit is a pretty big
thing, but it isn’t the Almighty, neither is it the great and growing
West. It can do many things, but it can’t buck up against nature. Wheat
now we’ll say, is seventy-five cents a bushel, because of the belief
that there’s going to be an abundant crop; but if twenty-five per cent,
of that crop fails, it means that twenty-five per cent, is going to be
added to the present price of wheat. It means dollar wheat, that’s
what it means, and a man who knows this fact to-day can make unlimited
millions of money if he’s got the capital behind him. Of course, my
mistake was in biting off more than I could chew. If I had gone in
modestly, I could have carried it, and would have made a moderate
profit; but I was too greedy, and too much afraid Chicago would learn
the real state of the crops. I expected the news to be out long before
now; but instead of that the papers are blowing about full crops,
which either shows that they don’t know what they are talking about, or
there’s a nigger in the fence somewhere.”
“What makes you so very sure the crop’s a partial failure?”
“Because it’s my business to know, for one thing. I have travelled from
Chicago clear through to the Pacific coast; south as far as wheat is
grown; and up north into Canada. I don’t need to ask a farmer what
crop he expects; I can see with my own eyes the state of affairs. I was
brought up on wheat; I ploughed the fields and sowed the grain, and I
may say I was cradled in wheat, if you’ll forgive a farmer’s pun. Wheat?
Why, I know all about wheat on the field, even if I don’t recognise it
in the Chicago pit. You see, my business is looking after freight, and
the chief freight of our road is wheat. Therefore, wherever wheat grows
I must visit that spot, and I have done so. I give you my oath that
wheat is bound to be a dollar a bushel before two months are past. It’s
under seventy-five cents now, and it doesn’t take much figuring to show
the possibilities of the situation. Three things are wanted: knowledge,
courage, money. I have given you the knowledge; do you possess the other
two requisites?”
“Tom, I esteem you very much--more so now than when you came in; but,
after all’s said and done, I’d be simply banking on one man’s word.
Suppose I go in half a million dollars? You say that knowledge is the
first requisite. Have I got that knowledge? I have not. I have merely
your word that you have the knowledge.”
“Yes, that’s a good point to make,” said Tom imperturbably. “You don’t
know me well enough to risk it. That’s all right. Now, I see on your
wall the big map of our road, which I suppose you have kept as a relic
of your connection with the Wheat Belt Line. It’s a lovely map, with the
Wheat Belt Line in heavy black as the great thing, and the United States
sort of hung around it as a background. There,” continued Tom, waving
his hand towards the huge map on the wall, “coloured yellow by Rand,
McNally and Co., are the wheat-producing districts of the United States
and Canada. Now, I’ve been all over that yellow ground. I assert that in
no part of it is the wheat crop normal. You pick out at random five or
six spots in that yellow ground, and I’ll tell you just what percentage
of failure there’ll be in those places you select. Then get on the train
and visit them, question the farmers, and find out if they corroborate
my statement. If they do, the chances are strong I am right about every
other district.”
John Steele got up and began pacing the floor, his hands thrust in his
trousers pockets, his forehead wrinkled with a frown.
“Tom, that’s pretty straight talk,” he said at last. “I haven’t been
following the wheat-market--it’s out of my line; but I dimly remember
seeing in the papers not very long ago an estimate that we were going to
have the most profitable wheat crop of recent years. Of course, that
may be newspaper talk; but if recollection serves, it was backed up by
telegrams from all over the West. How do you account for that?”
“I don’t account for it. I am merely stating what I know. If the papers
made such an estimate they were wrong, that’s all.”
Steele stopped in his walk and touched an electric button on his desk. A
young man appeared in response.
“Holmes,” said Steele, “there was an account of the wheat crop all over
the country in the papers the other day--occupied a page, I think. Go to
the nearest newspaper office and get a copy. As you go out, tell Bronson
to come in here.”
When Bronson appeared, Steele said sharply: “Find out for me, from some
reliable source, the lowest price of wheat for the last ten years.”
In an amazingly short space of time Holmes reappeared with a newspaper
a week old, and laid it on Mr. Steele’s desk, and Bronson brought in an
array of figures.
“Here we are!” cried Steele, jerking open the crackling sheet.
“‘Wonderful harvests ahead! Tremendous wheat crops!’ Of course, it must be
remembered that prophesying prosperity is always popular, and newspapers
like that sort of news. Now, I shall select twenty-five places named in
this paper. The useful Bronson will find out for me a reliable man
in each place, and I will telegraph him. By to-morrow we should have
replies from some fifteen or twenty of them; and if the majority say
that the wheat crop is a failure, then I think we may rely on your
forecast. Now, let us see what Bronson’s figures are. Sixty-five,
sixty-two and a half, sixty-four and an eighth, fifty-three and
five-eighths, forty-eight and three-quarters--gee-whillikins, that’s
getting down to bedrock!--fifty, fifty-four and nine-eighths, sixty-nine
and one-eighth, eighty-five--ah! that’s something like--seventy-four and
a quarter, and so on. Why, it seems from this that no man is safe in
buying for a rise if he pays more than fifty cents a bushel, while you
have bought at seventy-eight! Septimus Severus! I admire your nerve, but
not your judgment. Well, drop in to-morrow, about two, and we’ll see
what the telegrams bring us.”
“Suppose, meanwhile, wheat falls another cent or two, what am I to do?”
“Oh, they can’t hurt you to-day--it’s after four o’clock; and to-morrow
we’ll see what is best to be done. It is useless to conceal from you
the fact that there is an unholy gulf between seventy-eight at which you
bought, and fifty, to which wheat has on more than one occasion fallen.
That means a little deficit of two hundred and eighty thousand dollars
on your gentle flutter.”
“The truth must come out soon, Mr. Steele, and it may be published any
morning. When that happens, wheat will go up like a balloon.”
“All right, Tom, I can say nothing further just now. To-morrow you will
find me brimful of information, and quite decided as to the course I
shall take.”
With this the visitor had to be content. Next day he arrived at Steele’s
office in a more cheerful frame of mind. Wheat had closed the day before
one-eighth stronger than it was in the morning. The conference this
time was short, sharp, and decisive. Steele was thoroughly the man of
business.
“I received seventeen replies,” he said, “and they all corroborate your
forecast. Now, what do you wish me to do with the little parcel of wheat
standing against your name?”
“I thought that in return for the tip you might relieve me of
three-quarters of it.”
“I’ll relieve you of it all. I’ve given orders to my brokers to buy a
pretty large slice of the wheat crop. This purchase may perhaps send up
the price to the seventy-eight at which you purchased. If it does, I’ll
sell out your lot and send you the money, which I advise you to invest
in gilt-edged securities and leave wheat alone.”
“All right,” said Tom. “I know when I’ve had enough. Nevertheless, it’s
a sure thing, and I hate to let go.”
“If it’s a sure thing,” said Steele, “I’ll hand over to you a percentage
of what I win, in return for the information you have given me. You
go straight home, taking this newspaper with you. Write out a report
similar in length to these Press Alliance telegrams, giving name of
locality and the actual state of the crop in each district. Let nobody
know what you are doing, and work all night, if necessary, until the
report is complete. Then bring it to me, and I’ll have it typewritten in
this office. Now, this is my busy day. Clear out. Goodbye.”
Steele’s buying took the market by surprise. No one knew, of course,
who the purchaser was, but the price rose rapidly, point by point, until
seventy-eight was again reached, and then Steele instantly gave orders
for the sale of the million bushels that stood in Tom’s name, for the
double purpose of getting the man his money, and lowering the price
so that his own purchases might be accomplished at a less figure
than seventy-eight. The sale took place an hour before the closing of
business, and chanced to be just in the nick of time. Orders to sell
came in from somewhere--supposedly from New York, and wheat was offered
in any quantity at practically any price the buyers liked to pay.
Someone was hammering down the market. A fight was on between two
unknowns, and pandemonium was let loose in Chicago. The pit went wild,
and prices came down with a run. Steele had already stopped his buyers,
and he stood from under. Closing prices for wheat were sixty-five,
three-eighths. John Steele did some deep thinking and close figuring
that night. In spite of his purchases of the day, he had still a million
dollars left to gamble with.
“My friend the bear,” he said to himself, “is very likely to keep up his
antics to-morrow, to frighten the opposition. If he squeezes down prices
to sixty, I’ll buy five million bushels. Every cent of a drop will mean
a loss of fifty thousand dollars. It reached fifty in ‘94, and next
year a cent and a quarter less, but this price has never on any other
occasion been touched in the last forty years. Even if it drops to that,
I’ll have lost half a million or so, but I can still hang on. I’m not
trying to corner the market; so, Mr. Bruin, go ahead, and let us see
what happens.”
Next day the panic and the slump continued. Wheat fell to fifty-nine,
and between that price and sixty-one John Steele secured his five
million bushels.
Who were the operators? That was what the papers wanted to know. Was it,
as surmised, a contest between New York and Chicago? All the well-known
dealers were interviewed, but each and every one insisted he was merely
an interested spectator, holding an umbrella over his head. There was
going to be a blizzard, so everybody had his eye on the cyclone cellar.
Experts said it was a good time to seek cover.
Of course, John Steele might have rested on his oars. He was reasonably
safe--in fact, he was perfectly safe if he merely held on, which was
a good position to be in. But he had a plan of his own, although he
resolved not to buy further unless wheat reached the low limit of half a
dollar. In that case he feared he would plunge. This night, however, he
proceeded to carry out his plan, which led to amazing results. He put
Tom’s report of the wheat crop’s condition, now nicely typewritten, into
his inside pocket, and locked up his office.
All the upper windows of a commodious business block were aglow with
electric light. It was the home of the Press Alliance, with telegraphic
nerves reaching to the furthermost parts of the earth. Its business
was to gather news, which it furnished to journals belonging to the
Alliance. John Steele was acquainted with Simmonds, the manager,
and resolved to pay him an evening call at what was certainly a most
inopportune moment. The great hive was a-hum with activity. The wild
day on the Stock Exchange was enough of itself to keep it throbbing.
Simmonds was a busy man, but he received John Steele, who came in cool
and self-possessed, with courtesy and respect.
“Well, Simmonds, I suppose you’re just rushed to death, so I’ll not
detain you a moment. I want to see one of your men who is less busy, if,
indeed, he is here to-night.”
“We’re all here to-night, Steele. I hope you’ve not been dabbling in
wheat?”
[Illustration: 0201]
“Me? No fear. Wheat’s rather out of my line.”
“Somebody’s going to get badly hurt before the week is out.”
“So I understand,” said Steele nonchalantly, as if it were none of his
affair. “By the way, talking of wheat, you gather statistics of the
crops from all over the country, don’t you--your company, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, several times a year.”
“From what office is that done, New York or Chicago?”
“Chicago, of course.”
“Who is in charge of that department?”
“Nicholson. Why?”
“I should like to have a chat with him if he’s not too busy.”
“Well, you’ve mentioned the one man who isn’t busy to-night. You see,
his work is a daylight job.”
“What sort of a fellow is he?”
“He’s a new man--at least, he’s been with us only six months--that is,
at this office. He came on from New York. Splendid fellow, though, and
well up to his work.”
“Good. May I see him?”
“I’ll find out if he’s in his room.”
Simmonds spoke through a telephone, and then said:
“Yes, Mr. Nicholson will see you; but I say, Steele, don’t meddle with
wheat. If you want any information from him, remember he can’t give it
out, except to the morning papers.”
“Oh, I shan’t buy a bushel of wheat; don’t be frightened.”
“This boy will take you to Mr. Nicholson’s room. Good night.”
Nicholson proved to be a man of uncertain age. His hair was closely
cropped, his face smoothly shaven, bearing a look of determination and
power, which one might not have expected to find in a mere subordinate.
“Is this Mr. John Steele,” he asked pleasantly, “the Napoleon of finance
who stood out against Rockervelt?”
“Well, I don’t know about the Napoleon part of it, Mr. Nicholson, but
Rockervelt and I had a little negotiation a while ago which I trust
ended in our mutual advantage. Now, Mr. Nicholson,” continued Steele,
sitting down in the chair offered him, “if you are not too busy I should
like to ask you a few questions.”
“I am not very busy, Mr. Steele, and shall be pleased to answer any
question you ask, so long as the information sought belongs to me, and
not to my employers.”
“Who is your employer, Mr. Nicholson?”
“My employer? Why, the Press Alliance, of course.”
“The Press Alliance is one of your employers, I know. Your nominal
employer, let us say. It pays you to collect accurate information. Who
pays you for disseminating false news in the daily journals of this
country?”
If John Steele expected a start of guilty surprise or a flash of anger
or a demand for explanation, he was disappointed. The impassive face
remained impassive. The piercing eyes narrowed a little, perhaps, but
he could have sworn that the faint glimmer of a smile hovered about the
firm lips. The voice that spoke was under perfect control.
“They say that all things come to him who waits, and here is an
illustration of it. The man for whom every reporter in Chicago is
searching, and whom I am most desirous to meet, walks right into my
office. How many million bushels of wheat did you buy to-day, Mr.
Steele?”
John Steele was a much more genial person than this man from New York.
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Mr. Nicholson, I am delighted to have made your acquaintance. Your wild
guess that I am the buyer of wheat is really flattering to me. Yet your
own reference to my little contest with Rockervelt should have reminded
you that I deal in railways, and not in grain.”
“The reason I wished to meet you,” went on Mr. Nicholson, as if the
other had not spoken, “is because I have a message to you from my
chiefs.”
“Yes, but you have not mentioned who your chiefs are.”
“There is no need to mention them, Mr. Steele. When I tell you they own
banks in every city in the United States; that the income of the head of
our combination is fifty million dollars a year from merely one branch
of his activity; that we have employees in the United States Treasury
powerful enough to cause the funds of this country to be placed for
safety in our banks; that my principals can, if they wish, gamble
with the savings of the people of the United States deposited in their
keeping; that they have agents in every part of the world, and that
there is not a country in Europe, Asia, or Africa which does not pay
tribute to them; when I have said all this, Mr. Steele, I think two
things may be taken for granted--first: no names need be mentioned;
second: you are opposed to a power infinitely greater than that of Mr.
Rockervelt or any other financial force which the world contains.”
“You are right in both surmises, Mr. Nicholson, and I experience that
keen joy which warriors feel with foemen worthy of their steel--if you
will excuse the apparent pun on my own name. I am really quoting from
Scott, not the railway man of that name, but the poet. And now for your
message, Mr. Nicholson.”
“You admit, then, that you are the buyer?”
“I’ll admit anything in the face of such a formidable rival.”
“Very well. My chiefs are the most generous of men.”
“Oh, we all know that.”
“If you have lost money these last two days, they will refund it. They
are even willing to allow you a reasonable profit, and I am empowered to
negotiate regarding the figures.”
“And all this for pure philanthropy, Mr. Nicholson?”
“All this if you will merely stand aside and not interfere in a market
you do not understand, and complicate a situation that is already
somewhat delicate.”
“And if I refuse to stand aside?”
“If you refuse, they will crush you, as they have crushed many a
cleverer man.”
“Ah! that’s not tactful, Nicholson, and I’m sure it would not meet
the approval of your employers. Your last remark is apt to provoke
opposition rather than compliance. Would it surprise you to know that I
possess a more potent backer than even your distinguished chief?”
“More potent? Yes, it would surprise me. Have you any reluctance in
mentioning the name?”
“Not the slightest--it’s a lady.”
“A lady?”
“Yes. Dame Nature--a charming old woman if you stand in with her; a blue
terror if you go against her. The wheat crop in America this year will
be only three-quarters of the normal yield, if it is that much. You can
juggle with the fact for a little time, but you can’t conceal it. Even
the great firm on Broadway cannot make a blade of wheat grow where one
has been killed by the frost--not in the same year, at least. So you
may telegraph to your distinguished principals and tell them that
John Steele and Dame Nature are going to dance a minuet with those two
Corsican brothers of New York, and your fraternal friends will find
some difficulty in keeping pace with the music. And so good-bye, Mr.
Nicholson.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Steele. I am very sorry we cannot come to terms.”
Once outside, Steele hailed a cab and drove to the Chicago Daily Blade
building. Here, as at the Press Alliance, everyone was hard at work; but
Steele’s name was good for entrance almost anywhere in Chicago, and the
managing editor did not keep him waiting.
“Good evening, Stoliker,” began Steele. “I have got in my pocket the
greatest newspaper ‘beat’ that has ever been let loose on Chicago since
the night of the Brooklyn Theatre Fire.”
“Then, Steele, you’re as welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring.
Out with it.”
“There’s been a gigantic conspiracy to delude the Press and people of
the United States.”
“Oh, they’re always trying that,” said Stoliker indifferently.
“Yes, but this time they’ve succeeded, up to this evening. Just cast
your eye over this document.”
A managing editor is quick to form an accurate estimate of the
proportions of a piece of news submitted to him.
“If anyone else had brought this in,” said Stoliker slowly, “do you know
what I should have thought?”
“Yes, you would think it an attempt of the bulls to get in out of the
rain.”
“Exactly. You’ve hit it the first time. Can you vouch for the accuracy
of this?”
“I can.”
“You won’t be offended, Steele, if I ask you one more question, only
one?”
“I know what the question is.”
“What is it?”
“You are going to ask if I have been buying wheat?”
“Well, you seem to know exactly what’s in my mind. Conversation is
rather superfluous with so sharp a man as you are. _Have_ you been
buying wheat?”
“Yes, I’m the person who caused the flutter in the market these last two
days.”
“If I publish this, the price of wheat will instantly jump up.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Oh, that’s the evident object of the whole thing. If I prove that the
wheat crop of America is from twenty-five to thirty per cent, short, up
goes the price of wheat.”
“My dear Stoliker, your paper will sell like hot cakes, but no one will
believe a word you say. Everyone on ’Change will think exactly as you
do--that this is a device of the bulls, and so the price of wheat is
likely to remain stationary for some hours. But this sensational and
categorical statement is bound to make everybody uneasy, and there will
be a good deal of telegraphing going on during the forenoon. By the time
the evening papers are out, it will begin to dawn on commercial Chicago
that you’ve done the biggest thing that’s been done for years. After
that, every moment will enhance your reputation.”
“Quite so, _if_--and that ‘if’ is the biggest word in the dictionary
just now--if this article is accurate. If it isn’t, then the reverse of
all you have predicted will happen.”
“My dear Stoliker, I was quite prepared for this unbelief, I therefore
took the precaution before the bank closed to get a certified cheque
for a hundred thousand dollars, and here it is. Pay this into your bank
tomorrow, and offer in your paper a hundred thousand dollars to anyone
who will prove the report inaccurate. It has been compiled by a man I
can vouch for, in the employ of the Wheat Belt Line, who has visited
every spot mentioned in the report. Now, time is precious; I give you
five minutes in which to make up your mind.”
“I don’t need them; my mind is made up. I’ll print it.”
Next day, events proved that Steele was no false prophet. Wheat
fluctuated for a time up and down, then began to rise steadily, and at
last shot up like a rocket, ending at eighty-three and a quarter. Before
the week was out it was well over the dollar mark, and John Steele was
richer by more than three millions of dollars. The night of the day
in which he sold out he strolled into the Press Alliance offices and
visited his perturbed friend Simmonds.
“I would like to see Mr. Nicholson again,” he said.
“Oh, curse him!” cried Simmonds, “he’s gone to New York; and I wish he
had never left there. I suppose you don’t know what a hole he put us
into, because you’re not interested in wheat.”
“Really? Why, I was tremendously impressed by Nicholson’s manner and
appearance!”
“Oh, his manner and appearance were all right. He came here with the
very highest recommendations--in fact, he was the one man in our employ
of all the hundreds here that I had orders from headquarters not to
dismiss on any account. I was as much taken with his looks as you were.
I would have sworn he was true to his employers, yet I have not the
slightest doubt he sold them as if they were a flock of sheep.”
“You are mistaken, Simmonds. He was perfectly true to his employers.”