THERE now projects across these pages the sinister shadow of a man. He
was one seldom seen except by his immediate business associates, and yet
seldom has a newspaper been issued that did not contain his name.
This was Peter Berrington, the greatest financial brain the world had
hitherto produced--the modern embodiment of Mammon. In early life there
had occurred to him the obvious proposition that if any one man could
control the manufacture and sale of some simple article in universal
use, he would secure a fortune greater than that of all the monarchs on
earth put together. Peter Berrington chose soap as his medium, and the
world-renowned trust called Amalgamated Soap has been the outcome. His
methods were as simple as his products. He offered what he considered a
fair price to a rival for his business and if that rival refused, Peter
crushed him by a competition the other could not withstand. Berrington
seemed to act on one fixed rule in life, which was to avoid the law
courts wherever possible; yet, nevertheless, he was haled to the bar on
many occasions, but invariably he escaped unscathed, without a stain on
his character, as if the soap he supplied to the universe had removed
even the suspicion of dishonesty from himself. It pleases the world to
buy soap under different titles, but it is all manufactured by the same
company. Berrington’s air-tight monopoly finally produced an annual
income in excess of the fortune any man on earth possessed twenty-five
years ago. With this ever-increasing income he bought banks, first in
New York, then in every other great city, and finally in the larger
towns. He purchased trust companies and insurance associations. He
bought railways and steamship lines, also city councils and State
legislators, judges, juries and senators. He was now the guardian and
manipulator of the people’s savings, and his banks had the handling of
all the money the United States Government possessed. Magazines printed
vivid articles exhibiting the dark points of his career. Peter never
entered a protest. Powerful newspapers hurled vigorous denunciations
against him, but Peter never replied. The few who knew him in private
life described him as a quiet, timorous man, apparently without opinions
of his own, who was withal deeply religious. Yet all the histories
printed of him never contained the record of any man who had defeated
him.
It was but natural, then, that the Chicago papers should make much of
John Steele’s encounter with this giant of the financial world. Steele
had met him on the battle-ground of the Chicago wheat-pit, and had
routed him, horse, foot and dragoons. _The Daily Blade’s_ exposure of
the real wheat situation of the country had been so sudden that the
barrels of money which Peter Berrington kept in readiness to buy the
whole crop, when he had hammered the price low enough, remained unopened
and unexpended.
Berrington would have made billions at one fell swoop had not this man
Steele blindly, quite unwittingly, stumbled across his path and tripped
him up. The newspapers exaggeratingly credited Steele with making many
more millions than he had actually secured, and it was only when the
anxious three days of panic had ended that Steele himself realised
what a tremendous fortune had been within his grasp if he could have
commanded the capital to manipulate the situation, or even if he had
risked all he actually possessed. Indeed, Steele perceived when too late
that he had blundered into the biggest deal ever projected upon this
earth, and while he undoubtedly spoiled the game for its inaugurates,
he did not himself profit nearly as much as might have been the case. He
began to question his own judgment, and the uneasy thought came to him
that if he had made terms that night with Nicholson in the office of the
Press Alliance, he might have made from ten to twenty millions instead
of three or four. Yet he was consoled by the belief that Peter would
have been true to no bargain he might have made, and in the end
would have robbed him of the agreed share. In spite of his religious
reputation, Peter was accredited with no qualms of conscience in a
business transaction.
The Western newspapers re-recited Steele’s brief besting of Rockervelt,
which was now utterly eclipsed by his victory over Berrington, and they
jocularly advised New York rustics to stay at home and not venture into
a real city like Chicago. In face of all this ridicule, and in spite of
accusations and denunciations levelled against him for his efforts to
mislead a free and incorruptible Press, Peter Berrington made no sign,
and New York silently swallowed up the mysterious Nicholson. A few
wiseacres in Chicago shook their heads as they read the laudations
of Mr. John Steele, saying the young man was not yet done with Peter
Berrington; and later events proved the correctness of their surmise.
Steele himself was not particularly frightened at the outlook, but
neither was he extremely pleased. He was sorry that Fate had brought him
into opposition with Peter Berrington, but he had learned that fact too
late to withdraw. When he met Nicholson, and became aware that the Great
Bear was Amalgamated Soap, he was already committed too deeply for half
measures to aid him. He had acted at once, decisively and successfully,
and would have been relieved had he merely got out even. It was his
usual luck that he came away with large profits, and for that he thanked
Fate, because he knew his enemy was ruthless. Success did not turn his
head in the least. He was a cool thinker and detested all this newspaper
notoriety. He knew fortunes were not made by the beating of drums, and
he kept very quiet until the hubbub was over, refusing to see reporters
or say anything about the matter, save to his most intimate friends. He
hoped that some fresh sensation would speedily drive his name from the
columns of the Press, and until that time came he sought shelter, doing
nothing. He comforted himself with the thought that Peter Berrington,
while merciless to an opponent, was merciless merely to acquire that
opponent’s business. He believed the great man to be entirely without
sentiment, and therefore surmised he would not seek revenge when an act
was once completed and done with. Nevertheless, he resolved to keep his
weather eye open, which was wise.
The new celebrity he had attained brought all sorts and conditions of
men to his offices. He began to think that every wild-cat scheme in the
country was placed before him. Letters poured in from various parts of
the world, and he was offered gold mines, patents, railways, steamship
lines, industrial enterprises and what not. He took larger offices and
protected himself from intrusion. He became a much more difficult man to
see than even the President of the United States--or perhaps it would
be more fitting to say than Mr. Peter Berrington, for Peter allowed no
outsider to penetrate to his den.
There was one man, however, who succeeded in reaching the inner room of
John Steele, and his card bore the name of William Metcalfe. This card
had been preceded, however, by some excellent letters of introduction,
and so John Steele made an appointment with him. He was favourably
impressed by the appearance of Mr. Metcalfe, who did not look like
a city man, but rather a cross between a bluff farmer and a shrewd
manufacturer--which, indeed, he turned out to be. After seating himself,
William Metcalfe plunged directly into the heart of his business,
without preliminary, which also pleased John Steele.
“I know your time is valuable,” he said; “so is mine. I have undertaken
an operation that proves too big for me, and I want you to help me carry
it out.”
“I have three rules, Mr. Metcalfe, which I rarely break. In the first
place, I never finance anything. If, for instance, you wish to build a
factory, or to exploit a patent, it is useless coming to me expecting
help.”
“I have no factory to build and no patent to exploit,” said Metcalfe.
“My second rule is that the man with whom I go in, must be prepared
to put up dollar for dollar with me in hard cash, and not in future
prospects.”
“I am prepared to do that,” rejoined Metcalfe.
“My third rule is that I must see for myself and understand the business
offered. I do not give a hang for the opinions of experts. If the
proposal is complicated beyond my comprehension, I don’t go in.”
“Quite right,” commended Metcalfe. “None of your three rules will be
in the least infringed by me. Do you know anything of the beet-sugar
business?”
“I do not.”
“Did you ever hear of Bradley, of Bay City?’
“I did not.”
“Well, what Bradley accomplished may be understood by a ten-year-old
boy. He went over to Germany, and came back with a parcel of seeds in
his handbag, which seeds he planted. From that parcel has grown the
beet root industry of Michigan. There are now factories in that State
capitalised at ten millions of dollars. There are nearly a hundred
thousand acres of Michigan land in beets. Ten years ago I hadn’t a
penny; to-day I think I could put as much money on the table as you, and
all on account of those seeds Bradley brought from Germany. I own three
big factories in Michigan, and four others in States further west. You
hinted that you didn’t wish to deal in probabilities; but, if you will
forgive me for saying it, there is no industry in this country at the
present moment which offers greater promise than the manufacture of
sugar out of beetroot.”
“I dare say,” remarked Steele indifferently. “I am quite willing to
applaud the excellent Bradley, who made millions of beets grow where
none had grown before. I admire such a man exceedingly, even though
unprepared to follow in his steps. You see, Mr. Metcalfe, I am not a
useful citizen like yourself and Mr. Bradley. I simply make a raid at
some project, filch what I can, and get back into my den. As I told you,
I am not building factories, not even those that squeeze the succulent
beet. I squeeze my opponents on the Stock Exchange. My motto is large
profits and quick returns.”
“I am here to offer you immense profits and immediate returns. I
understand the sugar business down to the ground, and have realised its
possibilities for several years past. Therefore I determined to combine
all the big sugar factories at present existing in the United States.
Rapidly as I myself have acquired wealth, the sugar business has been
growing too quickly for me, and at the beginning of this year I saw
I had to put my project into action, or else interest a body of
financiers, which I did not wish to do, for my ambition is to control
the sugar-beet industry of the United States, and ultimately of the
world.”
“Ah, you hope to become a sort of sweetened Peter Berrington,” said
Steele, with a smile, and he thought of this remark somewhat grimly
later on.
“Exactly,” said Metcalfe seriously, without duplicating the other’s
smile. “As I told you, I own outright seven factories. I secured options
on all the rest, and in each case have paid down a forfeit, for I shall
be compelled to buy outright within the next month if I am to hold them.
Now, the total cost of all the factories in the States at present, built
or building, comes to almost double the capital I possess. If you will
put up dollar for dollar with me, we will purchase these factories
outright. Then we will form the whole into a gigantic company. When this
is done, you can withdraw your money, and probably as much more as you
put in. If the public does not subscribe the full amount we demand, I
will guarantee to relieve you at par of all the shares that may fall to
your portion.”
“How can you guarantee to do that when at the present moment you have
not got more than half the necessary capital for forming the company?”
“I can guarantee it because I am certain the public will subscribe; but
even if they do not, the moment the company is formed there is a bank in
this city willing to advance me cash to the amount of three-quarters of
our capital. Therefore I can guarantee that you will double your money
within a month--that is, within a month of your putting it in. You say
you care nothing for the opinions of experts; neither do I, therefore
I propose that you become my guest for two weeks, and visit most of the
factories now under my control. You can see the books and balance-sheets
of my own concerns, and from what you learn under my tuition you will
be able to form a very good estimate of how the other factories are
placed.”
“I understand very little about company promoting,” said Steele
dubiously.
“I understood just as little a short time since, but it was necessary
that I should learn, and I have learnt. Besides, I have secured letters
of introduction to Far-well Brothers, the most substantial and honest
firm connected with that business in Chicago. The same people introduced
me to them that introduced me to you. Suppose, for instance, the
combined factories were to cost us ten million dollars. With such
prospects as there are ahead, we would be quite justified in forming a
company for twenty millions. If the public subscribed only half of what
we demanded, we would have our factories for nothing, and still control
the combination.”
“How about your working capital?”
“We don’t need working capital. Every factory is making money.”
“Well, candidly, Mr. Metcalfe, that project seems too easy and simple
to be entirely feasible. There must be something lying in wait to wreck
it.”
“Nothing so far as I can see,” said Metcalfe confidently.
“What if the public do not subscribe a penny?”
“Oh, I’ve looked out for that. When I got the options, there was, of
course, no longer any need for keeping the affair secret, and I have
already been promised subscriptions to the new company to the extent of
one-third the proposed capital of twenty millions. That one-third will
be subscribed in Michigan and Wisconsin alone, without touching the
State of Illinois or the capitalists of Chicago.”
“Very well, Mr. Metcalfe, you appear to have thought of everything. I’ll
accept your invitation, so long as it binds me to nothing, and will
go wherever you lead me, beginning, let us say, with one of your own
factories. I understand figures, and I shall want to see the books
and make a somewhat thorough search into the income of at least the
principal factories. You have no objection to that, I suppose?”
“No, not in the least. Big as our capitalisation will be, this is a
thoroughly sound industrial proposition, and before five years are over
I am certain that we will be justified in doubling our normal capital
if we wish to do so, and paying a mighty good percentage on the same.
Of course, I stand by the business. I suppose you wish to pull out as
quickly as possible.”
“Yes, that’s the idea. I hope you have not offered extravagant prices
for these factories?”
“That’s just the point. I have not. You see, as I told you, I am
thoroughly acquainted with the business. A capitalist from New York or
Chicago might have been deluded, but they cannot delude a practical man
like myself. Indeed, to convince you of the confidence that others show
in the proposed company, I may tell you that the capital promised comes
largely from the present owners of those factories, who appreciate the
economies to be inaugurated by combination, and who in some instances
are putting back into the new company the entire amount I shall pay
them.”
“Do they know you intend to capitalise for double what the property has
cost?”
“Naturally not, Mr. Steele. Of course they understand I am not in this
business entirely for my health; but apart from that, anyone conversant
with the progress the beet industry has made during the last four or
five years is well aware that the developments of the next five or six
will be something enormous.”
“All right, Mr Metcalfe I’m ready to go with you to-morrow, if that is
not too soon for you.”
John Steele’s visits to the beet-sugar district more than corroborated
all that Mr. Metcalfe had told him. Quietly he studied his host and
guide during the excursion, and the more he saw of him the better he
liked him. If there was an honest man in the country, that man appeared
to be William Metcalfe, in spite of his determination to capitalise the
properties for double what he paid for them. John’s own conscience was
not supersensitive on this point, and his private opinion would have
been that a man was a fool not to take all he could get. So, before they
returned to Chicago, he had quite made up his mind to become a partner
with William Metcalfe in forming the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company,
Metcalfe having no domicile in Chicago, the headquarters of the
new trust was the private office of John Steele and the apartments
adjoining. These adjoining apartments were occupied by William Metcalfe,
upon whose shoulders naturally fell the bulk of the work. It was he who
saw the lawyers to whom he had been introduced; who negotiated with
the bank and made such outside arrangements as were necessary in the
launching of so gigantic a scheme. Steele was more and more impressed
with the business capacity of his new partner as the days went on, and
he congratulated himself on being in conjunction with so capable a man.
Notwithstanding his increasing confidence he never for a moment relaxed
his vigilance, nor was anything done without his sanction and approval,
and he allowed no obscure point to pass without thoroughly mastering
it. Towards the conclusion of preliminary arrangements, he saw with some
apprehension that this project would involve every penny of capital he
possessed, and this, of course, was cause for anxiety, though not for
alarm, because all the omens were favourable. Yet his vigilance might
have been of little avail had not chance played into his hands. Steele
was constantly in the office; Metcalfe was frequently called elsewhere,
and in one of his absences a telegraph-boy brought in a message.
“Any answer?” asked the lad.
Steele tore open the envelope and gazed at the telegram for a moment,
uncomprehending. It was in cipher. Then he looked at the envelope and
saw it was addressed to his partner.
“No answer,” said Steele to the boy; “but look here, my lad, do you want
to earn fifty cents?”
“Sure,” replied the messenger.
“Very well, get me another envelope from the nearest telegraph-office. I
see this is for my partner, not for me.”
He threw half-a-dollar on the table, which the boy grasped eagerly.
“Be as quick as you can,” cried Steele, before he reached the door.
The cipher telegram was a long one, but speedily Steele wrote it out on
a sheet of paper. When the boy returned with the envelope, Steele placed
the telegram within it, sealed it, and addressed it in imitation of the
telegraphic clerk. Then he walked into the adjoining office and placed
the resealed telegram on Mr. Metcalfe’s desk.
“Now, why does honest William Metcalfe receive a long telegram in cipher
from New York?” said Steele to himself, knitting his brows. “He has
never even mentioned New York to me, yet he is in secret communication
with someone there. Lord! one can never tell when the biggest sort of
crank will not suddenly loom up as the most useful man in the world!”
cried Steele, as he suddenly bethought himself of Billy Brooks, a
jocular person who bored all Chicago with his knowledge of cipher,
claiming there was nothing he couldn’t unravel except the Knock Alphabet
cipher of the Russian Nihilists. And Billy had his office in the
fifteenth storey of the adjoining block. Steele shoved the copy of the
telegram in his trousers’ pocket, put on his silk hat, went down one
elevator, and up another, in almost less time than it takes to tell
about it.
“Say, Billy, I’ve got a cipher here that you can’t decode, and I’ve got
twenty dollars to bet on it.”
“Let’s see your cipher,” cried Billy, his eyes sparkling. “All ciphers
fall into seven distinct classes. These classes are then sub-divided
into----”
“Yes, I know, I know!” cried Steele impatiently. “Here’s the message.”
Billy glanced at it.
“Hand over your twenty dollars, Steele.”
“What! you haven’t solved it already?”
“No, but I see at a glance it falls into division three and into
sub-division nineteen. I’ll decode it within an hour. Shall I bring it
over to your office?”
“No, Billy, I’ll sit down right here, even if you are six hours at it.
I herewith place two ten-dollar bills on your desk, and if this proves
important, which it may or may not, I’ll multiply those bills by ten;
and for that number of days, at least, I shall require the utmost
secrecy.”
“All right, John, sit down and keep quiet, and there’s the latest
evening paper.”
There was silence in the room as Billy opened a bookcase and took down
one bulky tome, two medium-sized books, and a number of smaller volumes
that looked like dictionaries. Turning to his desk, he wrote the message
in a variety of different ways, on as many sheets of paper. For nearly
three-quarters of an hour no sound was heard but the scratching of a pen
now and then, and the rustle of leaves. Then the stillness was broken by
a war-whoop.
“Here you are, John, my boy; and I’ll take my Bible oath on its
accuracy. Couldn’t be such a series of coincidences as to run so
smoothly otherwise.
“Precious greenbacks! Loot divine!
Twenty dollars, you are mine!”
Billy jubilantly grasped the currency and shoved it into his pocket,
handing the sheet of paper to Steele, who read: “I shall occupy room
one hundred and fifty at the Grand Pacific Hotel on Thursday, the
twenty-seventh, at eleven a. m. Do not ask for me at the office, nor
take the elevator, but come up the stair, and rap twice. Wait two
minutes, and rap a third time. Bring all documents with you.”
There was no signature.
“Billy,” said Steele rather seriously, “we will now burn all your
figuring, if you don’t mind, and then I wish you to obliterate this from
your memory. I cannot tell until after Thursday whether it is important
or not. I think, however, if you keep mum, this will be worth an extra
two hundred dollars to you.”
“You can depend on me, John. We’re not all making money as fast as you
are. Of course, I know that financial ciphers are usually important.
Here’s the _débris_; burn it on the oilcloth, near the register.”
Steele’s investigation of the Grand Pacific Hotel floor occupied by room
one hundred and fifty showed him that this apartment was well chosen,
for neither of the rooms on either side had a communicating door.
However, he engaged room one hundred and forty-nine, on the opposite
side of the hall, and before ten o’clock on the twenty-seventh he took
up his position inside that apartment. When eleven o’clock approached,
he locked his door, shoved the table against it, stood thereon, and
looked through the transom into the hall. He darkened his own window so
that he could not be observed by anyone glancing up outside. He heard
the first knock, then cautiously peered down and recognised William
Metcalfe standing there, facing the opposite door, with a bundle under
his arm. After the third knock, Metcalfe entered, but opened the door
so slightly that Steele could see nothing within, nor did he hear any
greeting voice. A full hour passed with not a sound from the closed
room, then Metcalfe came out again, with the bundle still under his arm,
and walked quietly away, leaving his partner on watch at the transom.
Time goes slowly for a man on tip-toe with eyes strained, but at last
his patience was rewarded. The door opposite opened, and the head of
Nicholson appeared. He glanced quickly up and down the hall, and as the
way was apparently clear, stepped out and vanished. John Steele came
down from the table, drew aside the curtains, and let the light into
the darkened room. He poured some water from the carafe into a tumbler,
swallowed the liquid at a gulp, then sank into the arm-chair beside
the bed. He gave utterance to an uneasy laugh, then muttered a sentence
which might be called unexpected: “Billy Brooks, my boy, you’ll get your
two hundred dollars!”
Drawing a deep breath, he then concentrated his mind on the crisis with
which he was confronted. Metcalfe was probably the owner of the sugar
factories, and was, as he had said, a well-known business man in
Michigan; but, nevertheless, here was undoubted proof that he was a
minion of Amalgamated Soap, a mere pawn in the hands of Peter Berrington
and his strong colleague, Nicholson. Every penny John Steele possessed
was sunk in Consolidated Sugar, and that these men meant to ruin him
he had not the slightest doubt. The question was, How could they do it?
Even if Metcalfe’s books had been false, even if a hundred per cent,
too much had been paid for the factories, there would still be something
left for him out of the wreck. Yet from the moment he saw the face of
Nicholson at that door, he knew Amalgamated Soap had determined to
strip him of every _sou_ he possessed. The first obvious suggestion
that occurred to him was that here was the occasion for consulting a
first-class lawyer, yet what could a lawyer do for him? He had no money
to fight. The more he thought of the situation, the worse it appeared.
No doubt Farwell Brothers were employees of Amalgamated Soap. No
doubt the bank in which his funds were deposited belonged to the same
all-embracing combination. There were a hundred perfectly legal methods
by which the amount lodged there could be tied up, while, if he appealed
to the law, the expense would be tremendous, and he might be dragged
from court to court; new trial could follow new trial, and appeal tread
on the heels of appeal until his millions had vanished into thin air. He
was as entirely in the hands of Amalgamated Soap as if he had been
tied in a bundle and presented to that celebrated company. Terror was
imported into the situation by his uncertainty as to what method these
financial buccaneers would adopt. Yet at that distressful moment his
mind wandered to the comic opera of the “Mikado,” and a smile came to
his lips. Would it be long and lingering, with boiling oil at the end of
it, or would it be the short, sharp shock of the executioner’s stroke?
His resentment turned more against the apparently honest Metcalfe
than toward even Nicholson or Peter Berrington. He would have liked
to throttle that man, but he knew that, whatever the outcome, he must
retain his grip on himself and present an impassive exterior to his
colleague and the world.
Next morning John Steele met his partner as usual with a smile on his
face.
“Well, Metcalfe, how are things going?”
“Oh, everything’s coming our way,” said Metcalfe. “This trick will be
done so easily that you’ll wonder you ever doubted its success.”
“Well, I hope so, I hope so,” replied Steele, the possible double
meaning of his partner’s phrase striking him like a blow in the face;
but the smile never wavered.
Technically the company had already been formed--that is to say, a
number of clerks in Steele’s office, together with the brothers Farwell,
had constituted themselves the Consolidated Sugar Beet Company, with
various powers duly set forth, organised under the laws of the State of
New Jersey, and when officers were selected, the beet sugar factories
were bought by this company at just double the price Steele and Metcalfe
had paid for them. Then the officials resigned in a body, when cheques
had been passed and everything done with beautiful legality, while
Steele and Metcalfe and their nominees took their places on the board.
It was arranged that there should be seven directors. Steele was to
nominate two, and Metcalfe was to nominate two, while they were to agree
mutually on the chairman. Metcalfe had proposed that the elder Farwell
should be chairman, and he nominated the younger as his colleague on the
board. Farwell, who knew every intricacy of company law, was accepted by
Steele, and there was still one nomination open to Metcalfe, which
name he excused himself at this time from proposing, as he was not well
enough acquainted with business men in Chicago to fill the place at the
moment. He even intimated that he was willing to accept a nominee of
Steele’s, and this seemingly friendly suggestion had prevented any
suspicion of the board being packed against him, arising in Jack
Steele’s mind. He remembered this now with bitterness, when it was too
late for remedy. Steele and his two colleagues could tie the vote of
Metcalfe and his colleagues, but the chairman would have the casting
vote. Since he had seen the determined face of Nicholson in the corridor
of the Grand Pacific, he had no doubt that the Farwell brothers were the
minions of Peter Berrington.
At last the trap laid for the public was sprung, and the public, as
usual, was nipped. The success of the flotation was immediate, although
applications did not come within a million of the sum asked for. After
the flotation, Metcalfe’s manner changed perceptibly. Steele watched
him as a cat watches a mouse, and saw that he was now perturbed and
apparently dissatisfied.
“Why!” cried Steele to him, the morning after the figures were known to
them, “you don’t seem nearly so happy as I expected. You surely did not
look for the shares to be subscribed twice over?”
“No,” said Metcalfe gloomily, “but the amount that has been subscribed
shows what vitality there was in the scheme.”
“Vitality!” cried Steele. “Bless my soul! you never doubted it, did
you?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Metcalfe hastily. “No. I told you we were dead sure
of a third, and the actual subscriptions have more than justified my
forecast.”
“They have indeed!” cried Steele enthusiastically.
“I tell you what it is, Metcalfe, you’re one of the first financiers of
this country.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Metcalfe, in no way cheered by the compliment.
“It isn’t nonsense,” said the genial Steele. “You’ve taken lessons from
a first-rate master, for I look on Nicholson as one of the best men in
the business.”
When John Steele had plumped a similar pointed remark at Nicholson, not
the slightest change of expression had disturbed that individual’s
calm visage. William Metcalfe kept his countenance under less perfect
restraint. Steele’s smile was gentle and friendly, but his keen eyes
missed no note of the other’s face. He watched a ruddy flush mount
into his partner’s cheeks. He noticed the embarrassed hesitation that
accompanied his utterance.
“Mr. Nicholson! Ah, yes, certainly, certainly. He’s not a friend of
mine, of course, only a slight and recent acquaintance. Not the sort of
man, Nicholson, to form friendships easily.”
“Really?” asked Steele. “I met him only once, but he seemed rather
genial.”
“A great business man, a great business man,” hurriedly muttered
Metcalfe, obviously trying to get himself under control once more,
playing for time, and not quite knowing what he was saying.
“So I have been informed,” remarked Steele with easy carelessness. “One
of the Amalgamated Soap group, I understand.”
“Quite so,” rejoined Metcalfe, his own man once more. “You see, Mr.
Steele, I thought it would strengthen us tremendously if I could get a
man like Nicholson to become interested in our project. The mere rumour
that Amalgamated Soap was behind us would have been worth millions to us
at the present juncture.”
“I quite agree with you, Metcalfe. Amalgamated Soap is a name to conjure
with. The public worship success, and there you have success in its
most highly developed form. Why didn’t you let me know? I might have
been of some assistance to you.”
“Well, in the first place, I did not wish to mention so important
a matter until I was sure of carrying it through. No use of giving
promises that you cannot make good. In the second place, I was not aware
that you knew Nicholson.”
“Oh, you were quite right; it was just a casual meeting, when we were
introduced by a mutual friend. I don’t flatter myself that my views
would have any influence upon a man of Nicholson’s standing in the
financial world. But there is another part I don’t quite understand. I
admit the value of Nicholson’s name to us, but why wasn’t his connection
divulged in time to influence subscriptions?”
“You see, it was like this,” hesitated Metcalfe, for a liar must be a
most agile person, and Steele’s questions had a fashion of touching the
spot. “It was like this. I did not really conclude my arrangement with
Nicholson until this morning. He’s a very difficult man to handle, and
he knows as well as anyone his own value. I imagine he wished to see
which way the cat was going to jump before he committed himself.”
“Well, Metcalfe, the cat has jumped entirely our way, even if the
leap did not reach the furthest mark we staked out. The success of the
subscriptions, then, induced Nicholson to join us?”
“Quite so, quite so, with the proviso that he is to have the vacant seat
at the board, unless you have any objection.”
“Objection? Certainly not. I am highly delighted with our acquisition.
Besides, the seat at the board is entirely in your gift. I have no right
to object, even if I wished to do so.”
This was said with such an air of childlike simplicity that the
perturbed Metcalfe, who seemingly still retained some remnants of
conscience, showed confusion.
“True enough,” he murmured. “Still, I should not like to nominate anyone
who might be personally distasteful to you.”
“I cannot imagine, Metcalfe, why you should suppose Nicholson could be
distasteful to anyone. He is a tower of strength. I am overjoyed that
you have induced him to join us.”
“I am very much relieved to hear you say so,” rejoined Metcalfe, who
seemed bewildered at the turn things had taken.
The preliminary meetings of the company had all been held in Steele’s
offices. This afternoon, however, the directors were to forgather at
the board-room of the bank in which the deposits of the subscribers were
lodged. Steele was thus to beard the lion in the lion’s own den, for
he now no longer doubted that this bank was owned by Peter Berrington,
Nicholson and their colleagues. The appointed hour was three o’clock,
and John Steele arrived on the stroke, the last man to appear. Nicholson
stood in the centre of the group. Metcalfe, who had quite recovered his
composure, said with a fine air of good comradeship:
“I think you two gentlemen have met before, so a formal introduction is
not necessary between Mr. Steele and Mr. Nicholson.”
“I had the somewhat chastened satisfaction of encountering Mr. Steele
once under conditions I am not likely to forget,” said Nicholson
quietly, with impressive geniality. “I count myself one of Mr. Steele’s
numerous admirers.”
“It is kind of you to say that, Mr. Nicholson,” replied John, extending
his hand, while that winning smile of his played about his lips. “On
the occasion to which you refer, I was so unhappy as to be placed in
opposition to Amalgamated Soap. I am the more gratified, therefore, to
find myself in some measure a colleague of so distinguished a coterie,
even if I am admitted into but an outer temple, as it were.”
“Your gratification, Mr. Steele, is as nothing compared to my own at
seeing you here amongst us.”
John Steele bowed his acknowledgment. It was if the lion had begun by
complimenting Daniel.
“Gentlemen, I think the hour has struck,” said the grave Farwell senior,
taking his seat at the head of the long table.
The directors ranged themselves on either side, Nicholson at the right
hand of the chairman, Metcalfe next him, and the younger Farwell the
third on that side. Opposite Nicholson sat John Steele, and beside him
his two nominees. Thus quietly the lines of battle were formed and to
all outward appearance the meeting resembled a love-feast. Bunches of
papers were heaped before the chairman, while writing-pads, pens and
ink were placed in front of each director. Steele, assuming a negligent,
unconcerned air that was admirably put on, wondered what particular
battery Nicholson would unmask. The latter’s eyes were bent on his
writing-pad, and he tried one nib after another, as if to find a pen to
his satisfaction. The chairman, in droning voice, recited the history of
the company up to its going before the public, read documents, and gave
various figures which it might be supposed were familiar to all there
assembled. There was silence around the table. Nicholson never looked up
until the chairman announced the amount of public subscription.
“What’s that, Mr. Farwell?” he asked quietly, raising his head. “What
are the figures?”
Farwell repeated them.
“And how much do you say is the authorised capital of the company?”
Farwell named the sum.
“Then we are a million short?”
“Nearly so, Mr. Nicholson.”
Nicholson’s face became set and stern. Slowly he turned towards Metcalfe
on his right hand, whose eyes shifted uneasily from one to another
without ever resting on John Steele.
“I understood, sir,” said Nicholson very slowly, as if weighing his
words, “that all the money was in the bank?”
“I told you, sir,” replied the hesitating Metcalfe, “that there was in
the bank all the capital we thought necessary.”
“Necessary?” echoed Nicholson, in cold, even tones. “We make a demand
upon the public. We state that the value of our property is so much. The
public responds by offering us a million less. Necessary? I have
never yet had anything to do with a company whose capital was not
over-subscribed. I have never yet sanctioned the sending out of letters
of allotment unaccompanied by letters of regret.”
John Steele had difficulty in keeping the smile from his lips. The tones
of righteous indignation were not in the least overdone. The expression
of virtuous disapproval at being tricked, on the splendidly chiselled,
clear-cut face, was marvellous in its reserve; in its hint of unlimited
power behind. Steele felt, rather than saw, the uneasiness of the two
colleagues by his side, who realised, without exactly understanding why,
that things were going desperately wrong, like an engineer who sees an
open bridge in front of him, and finds the brakes will not work.
“Admirably acted,” said Steele to himself. “We pay good money to visit
the theatre, and yet there is such histrionic talent as this in the
business world.”
Then aloud, in a voice mildly protesting, he said: “Nevertheless, Mr.
Nicholson, the million shares left on our hands are quite marketable. We
have ample capital to go on with, and Mr. Metcalfe will assure you that
the factories themselves are all on a paying basis. You cannot surely
mean that having arrived at this stage, we are not to proceed to
allotment, Mr. Nicholson?”
“That is exactly what I _do_ mean,” replied Nicholson, speaking as
mildly as his opponent had done. “My colleagues would never consent to
admit connection with a company formed in the circumstances now before
us. Our duty to the public----”
“Mr. Nicholson, I quite appreciate your position, and that of your
colleagues, Mr. Peter Berrington and the rest. The public would indeed
be shocked to learn that Peter, one of our religious pillars, could
be guilty of anything in the least oblique. As cleanliness is next to
godliness, we are all aware that Amalgamated Soap stands close to the
Pearly Gates, and the only thing we fear about Peter is that when he
gets to heaven he shall find another saint of the same name there before
him, which may lead to confusion of identity. I take it for granted, Mr.
Nicholson, that you are about to move a resolution requiring all this
money to be returned to the subscribers. If you will propose such a
motion, I shall be very happy to second it.”
An electric silence fell on the group, the kind of silence which on a
hot summer’s night precedes a clap of thunder. Nicholson drew a long
breath and squared his shoulders. Metcalfe gazed in fascinated dismay
at John Steele. Even the Farwells showed traces of human interest.
Nicholson did not venture to challenge a vote. After a few moments of
this embarrassing stillness he said gently:
“Perhaps Mr. John Steele has something else to propose?”
“No, I have not,” said Steele; “but with the chairman’s permission,
there being no motion before the house, I should like to make a personal
explanation which may save you future trouble.”
The chairman nodded permission, and Nicholson said:
“We shall be interested to hear anything you say, Mr. Steele.”
“To return the money is, of course, to wreck the company. Hitherto this
company has been associated with the names of John Steele and William
Metcalfe. Tomorrow the sensation of the daily journals all over the
country will be the collapse of the big scheme which those two men
undertook to float. Mr. William Metcalfe is unknown in Chicago; is but
a stool-pigeon well paid for the part he has enacted, and he disappears
from the scene. John Steele stands the brunt. All the funds he possesses
are in Amalgamated Soap’s bank. His affairs are in the hands of
Amalgamated Soap lawyers. One legal difficulty after another comes up;
there is a long fight over the remains, and at last Amalgamated Soap
steps in and sweeps up the _débris_. They are in possession of valuable
property scattered throughout the West in the beet-sugar line; they
announce their possession and the reconstruction of the company, and
everything is beautiful, but John Steele is mangled in the collision,
with no insurance, even for his relatives.
“When I learned the other week that Mr. Nicholson was interested in
this company, I felt like the man who had gone down into a cave and
unexpectedly clutched a huge bear at the black bottom of it. That man
did not stop to question the intentions of the bear; he simply got out.
I followed his example. In the wheat deal Mr. Nicholson knows of, I made
several millions, and ever since then certain capitalists in this city
have begged me if I fell in with a similar good thing not to hug it all
to myself, but allow them to come in on the ground floor, and I promised
to do so. The moment I knew Mr. Nicholson was to have something to
do with the beet-sugar project, I went directly to these capitalists,
pledged them to secrecy, guaranteed that Amalgamated Soap was head and
shoulders in this deal, and that no less a person than Mr. Nicholson
himself would assume charge of the company. Gentlemen, they bit
instantly. I sold out my share to them for the money it had cost me,
and fifty per cent, additional; and, furthermore, I got the cash. Now
I shall read you a letter which will appear in the Chicago newspapers
to-morrow morning.”
To the Editor:
Sir--The Consolidated Beet Sugar Company, with which my name has
hitherto been associated, and which has been so splendidly supported by
Western capital, as indicated by the subscriptions now in the bank,
will hereafter be in charge of the eminent financiers associated
with Amalgamated Soap. I am pleased to state that this will be almost
entirely a Chicago enterprise, and that some of the best men in this
city have bought out my interests therein. I have only to add that Mr.
Nicholson himself is now a member of the board of directors, and nothing
further need be said to assure all concerned of the immense prosperity
which awaits this company, and the far-reaching advantages it will offer
both to agriculture and manufacture in the West.
Yours sincerely,
John Steele.
“And now, gentlemen,” said Steele, as he folded up the copy of this
letter and placed it in his inside pocket, “nothing remains for me to
do but to resign my seat on the board, as I have no longer the slightest
interest in this company. But before handing in my formal resignation, I
shall be pleased to second any motion Mr. Nicholson cares to propose.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Nicholson, quite unruffled, “I move we now proceed
to allotment.”
“I have pleasure in seconding the motion,” said John Steele, rising,
bowing to the company, and leaving the room.