JOHN STEELE’S friends were amazed to find him back in town almost
within a week after he had left with such lavish preparations for a long
stay in the wilderness. It was difficult for him to offer an adequate
explanation, and it grew to be most annoying, once he had constructed
his excuses, to be compelled to repeat them to every friend he met, and
listen without cursing to the inane advice given by people who didn’t in
the least know what they were talking about.
“What! back already?” cried Philip Manson, who had offered to place
a private car at his disposal if he would keep close to the railway.
Manson held that camping out in a private car was the right way to do
it, and that a canvas tent was a delusion and a snare. “Back already?”
exclaimed the general manager. “Why, John, you look as haggard as if
you’d been through a panic in the wheat market. Didn’t the Black Hills
agree with you?”
“No,” said John shortly and truthfully; “threatened to develop throat
trouble,” and he tapped his neck significantly.
“How long were you in the mountains?”
“Five days.”
“Oh, well, I told you how it would be before you left. That’s what
comes of sleeping in a cot-bed, over damp ground, under thin canvas. You
should have taken both my advice and my private car then you could have
carried all the comforts of town with you.”
Now that the immediate tension of the crisis had relaxed, John Steele
found himself very close to a mental and physical collapse. It was true
that the great Peter Berrington was dead, but the elation which that
startling piece of news had first caused subsided long before he
reached the city. Men die, but systems remain. Had the shadow of Peter
Berrington been lifted, after all, even though Peter himself was now a
shadow? The grotesque uncertainty of the situation was making rags of
John Steele’s nerves. Even as he walked through the crowded streets
he had to fight down an impulse to shriek aloud, raising his hands to
heaven and crying: “In God’s name, if you’re going to do anything, do it
_now_, and let’s have it over!”
It was not that he shrank from ruin, or even from death, both of which
he had faced within the past year. It was the uncertainty of when and
how the blow was to fall. He began to fear that something worse than
either ruin or death would overtake him. In the privacy of his own room
he would sometimes march up and down with set teeth and clenched fists,
saying to himself: “You must quit thinking of this, or you’ll go mad,”
and yet with all his strength of mind he could not stop his planning to
circumvent the unseen danger which threatened him.
The fantastic nature of the peril that surrounded him was such that if
it were made public, he would be laughed at from one end of the country
to the other. In a busy, practical, work-a-day world, it was incredible
that a group of men, only one of whom he had ever seen, and that most
casually, should sit in a sky-scraper in New York and actually plan
the murder of a young man in Chicago; for this group of men were
churchgoers, Sunday-school teachers, philanthropists who had founded
colleges; bestowers of charity on a scale of munificence hitherto
unexampled. And yet more potent than all these things was the fact that
they were hard-headed business men, the most successful business men in
the world, intent on their own affairs, and naturally far removed
from any thought of revenge, for the simple reason that revenge is not
business, and there is no money in it. It was quite true that this same
group, in early days, had been accused of burning rival factories, of
inciting riots, and of many other crimes against the peace and security
of the commonwealth, but these things had never been legally proven or
brought home to the group by irrefutable evidence. Where investigation
had followed crime, and the inquiry was not quashed, it had always
been shown that the rash acts were the work of over-zealous employees
exceeding their instructions. The hands of the financial group in the
tall building on Broadway were clean. No band of Quakers were more
set against violence than these mild-mannered men in New York. If John
Steele had told the story of the attempted lynching among the Black
Hills, the incredulous public would have looked upon the affair as a
practical joke played by humourous mountaineers on a tenderfoot from the
East. No one knew better than John Steele that to connect Dakota Bill of
the Black Hills with Nicholson of New York was an impossibility. He was
certain the miners knew nothing of Nicholson; that they held a genuine
lynching grievance against the owner of the mine, whoever he was, and
that they were acting quite naturally according to their instincts when
this supposed owner had fallen into their hands.
Alice Fuller, who led him so easily into the trap, as the tame animal in
the stockyards leads its fellows to the slaughter-pen--she, of course,
knew for whom she was acting, but John doubted if this knowledge led by
any followable clue to Nicholson. When he thought of the handsome girl,
he shuddered; and, for ten thousand reasons, that episode must never
become public. To be hoodwinked by a pretty woman was merely to join
the procession of fools that extended from the time of Adam to the year
1905.
It was difficult for Steele to cease his thoughts of the Amalgamated
Soap combination, for the papers continued full of Peter Berrington and
the financial upheaval which his sudden death was certain to cause. The
imagination of the world was touched by the fact that this tremendous
power which Peter Berrington had wielded in ever-increasing force for
nearly half a century now lapsed into the hands of a girl, Constance
Berrington, aged twenty-four, the only child of the billionaire. The
newspapers printed column after column about this young lady, who
appeared to be even more of a recluse than her father was. They
published portraits of her, no two alike--pictures ranging from the most
beautiful woman in Christendom to the most gaunt and ugly hag; which
seemed to indicate that photographs of Miss Constance were unobtainable,
and that the artists drew on their imagination as well as on their
Whatman pads. She avoided society, was never seen at such resorts as
Newport or Lenox; she took no part in the festivities of a great city,
and believed that the door of a theatre was the gate of hell. Gossip
said she was haunted by a fear of being married for her money, and so at
this early age had become a man-hater. It was also alleged that she kept
a conscience, a possession with which her father had never been credited
even by the wildest imaginative writer. She was going to devote her life
and her billions as far as possible to the undoing of the harm which her
parent had accomplished.
“She is fanatically religious,” proclaimed one newspaper.
“She is a plain, commonplace girl,” said another, “whose father has
bequeathed her his cash, but not his brains.”
When John Steele found he could not cease thinking over his paralysing
situation, which had entirely emasculated his initiative and wrecked his
business career; when he feared lunacy awaited him, he resolved to
meet this girl, and persuade her, if he could, to stop the huge, golden
Juggernaut which threatened to crush the life or reason out or him. Yet
it seemed cowardly for a grown man to make such an appeal to a young
girl who was an entire stranger to him, and who, if he actually
succeeded in reaching her presence, would most likely consider herself
insulted that such crimes as he placed before her without the slightest
proof, should be attributed to her father. Thus the interview would
doubtless end with his being turned out of the house by the servants.
Then again, even if she believed him--and the chances were only as one
in ten thousand--did she possess the actual as well as the nominal power
to stop the persecution? Was she like the Czar of Russia, helplessly at
the head of an organisation over whose movements the supposed chief had
no control?
Yet, after all, Steele had not gone so far towards insanity as to be in
any error regarding the real mover in the conspiracies of which he was
the victim. Nicholson was the man; there could be no doubt of that.
Twice Steele had beaten Nicholson to the ground. In the great wheat deal
he had exposed his treachery and dishonesty; had publicly shown him to
be an unscrupulous scoundrel; had prevented him from making millions
in a single coup, which was all prepared and certain to succeed had not
Steele disarranged the machinery. He had humiliated the man personally,
wounding his pride and crushing his self-esteem. Was it possible, then,
ever to make terms with one naturally so embittered? Steele braced
himself and resolved to try. Twice he had defeated him, and there
remained in John’s hand the powerful weapon of publicity. After all,
could Amalgamated Soap risk such an exposure as it was in Steele’s power
to cast forth to the eager Press of the country? Was it so certain
that the public would not believe the story he might tell regarding
Amalgamated Soap? Even though Nicholson was imbued with malice, his
colleagues would be more reasonable, more amenable to persuasion. They
would undoubtedly try to induce this angry man to refrain from tempting
the avalanche. He resolved to propose a treaty of peace with Nicholson.
Then came the doubt. Should Nicholson agree to such a pact, would he
keep it? Would he merely use it as a sedative to lull his intended
victim into false security? Such an outcome was very likely; still,
a frank talk with Nicholson could do no harm, and Steele had not the
slightest intention of being lulled into security by anything Nicholson
might say. Recalling to his mind the stony countenance of that human
sphinx, Steele could not delude himself that any appeal to conscience or
any plea for mercy would have the least chance of success. Nicholson was
as unemotional as the Pyramids; Steele could make no bargain with such
a man unless he had something to offer. Therefore he did not go
impetuously to New York and fling himself at the feet of Nemesis, the
divinity of chastisement and vengeance. He set about the preparation of
the goods he would trade with, this white Indian. It gratified him to
think that after all these months of doubt and uncertainty he could at
last come to a definite decision about anything.
There were no women in John Steele’s office. His confidential
stenographer was a quiet man, a little older than himself, named Henry
Russell. Steele touched an electric button on his desk, and Russell came
in, notebook in hand.
“Sit down, Russell. If I remember rightly, you were connected with a
newspaper in your early days?”
“In a very humble capacity, sir; I was merely a reporter.”
“Oh, don’t say ‘merely.’ A reporter is ever so much more important than
an editorial writer. Have you ever attempted a novel?”
“No, sir.”
“Still, you know something of literary form and the way a book is put
together, I suppose?”
“I know nothing about the writing of books, sir. I think I have a fair
knowledge of how a sentence should read.”
“Well, that’s the main thing. Still, as a reporter you must have seen a
good deal of the seamy side of life, and later you have had to do with
important business affairs, ever since you came into my employ.”
“That is very true, Mr. Steele.”
“Don’t you think you could concoct the plot of a novel? A novel of
every-day business life, let us say, like one of those that have been so
successful lately--a book pulsating with the greed of gold, and all that
sort of thing, you know? Unscrupulous men, and perhaps an adventuress
here and there, of perfectly stunning beauty. For instance, someone
resembling that girl who came in to see me a fortnight ago.”
“Y es, I remember her. She was good looking.”
“An amazing beauty, I thought her,” said Steele, thrusting his hands
into his trousers pockets and marching up and down the room. “Well,
couldn’t such a belle of the markets as that inspire you towards the
writing of a great work of fiction?”
Russell shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Steele.”
“There’s nothing much doing just now,” continued the promenading man.
“At this present moment I intended to be off on my vacation, but I found
the mountains too exciting--er--too dull I mean--and so you see I am
back among you earlier than I expected. Now, Russell, between ourselves,
there is nothing more absurd than for a successful business man to
attempt the writing of a novel. Yet I’m the sort of person who cannot
remain idle, and there is nothing in sight to do for a month or two. I’m
going to while away the time by composing a business novel, and I want
you to assist me. I’ll dictate the thing straight off to you, and you
must invent the names and kick the sentences into shape.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“And remember, Russell, of all the confidential transactions you’ve been
called upon to perform, this is the one in which I demand the utmost
secrecy. I should be the laughing stock of the town if it once got out
that I were plunging into fiction instead of into wheat.”
“I’ll never breathe a whisper of it, sir.”
“I am sure you won’t, and that is why I trust you. Now, we’ll just lock
the doors and refuse ourselves to all comers. If a novel is to be a
success nowadays, when people have so much to read and so little time
for reading, it must be as sensational as possible, and I think I can
do the trick. Anyhow, if it fails, there’s no great harm done, and for a
time we two will court that seclusion with which, I read in the papers,
all true literary men surround themselves.”
The two men worked together day after day, until the first draft of
the history was completed and typed; then they revised this copy very
thoroughly, and Steele directed that duplicates should be made, with
blanks left for all proper names. He professed himself dissatisfied with
the titles they had invented, and said that while the final manuscript
was being prepared, he would concoct more suitable appellations for his
main characters, and insert them with his own hand. This final revision
was accomplished by John Steele alone, when he inserted the real names;
then with his own hand he wrote the following letter to Stoliker, editor
of the _Daily Blade_:
_My dear Stoliker:_
_If the accompanying manuscript ever comes into your possession, I want
you first of all to remember that on a certain night I brought to you a
most remarkable article regarding the wheat situation in this country,
the truth of which you quite legitimately doubted. After-events proved
the accuracy of my statement, and you were thus enabled to score a great
triumph for your paper. Believe me, then, when I tell you that every
word here typed is true; for when you read the accompanying pages, I
shall not be by your side to use arguments in favour of its publication.
I shall either have disappeared, or, more probably, I shall be dead. In
either case, this manuscript, every name in which is real, will give you
a clue to the disaster which has overtaken me. In the meantime I remain,
Your friend,_
_John Steele._
This letter and the manuscript he wrapped up into a parcel, which he
securely sealed. On the outside he wrote instructions that in the case
of his death or disappearance the package was to be handed intact to
Stoliker, of the _Daily Blade_. The other package, with a duplicate
of the letter to Stoliker, was placed in the vault of a depository,
supposed to be the greatest strong-room in the city, which, he
afterwards learned with some amusement, belonged to Amalgamated Soap.
The thin key and the code word which opened this receptacle he placed in
a sealed envelope which he left in the hands of his legal advisers, with
instructions to forward the envelope to Stoliker in case of his death or
disappearance.
All this accomplished to his satisfaction, he took the Limited to New
York, and entered the tall building on Broadway which was body to the
brain that directed the activities of Amalgamated Soap. Asking that his
card should be taken to Mr. Nicholson, and replying to an inquiry that
he had no appointment, he was taken into a small but richly furnished
waiting-room, which he saw to be one of many on the eleventh floor, and
there he rested for nearly half an hour before a messenger entered and
announced that Mr. Nicholson would be pleased to see him.
Nicholson’s room was large and sumptuous, with several windows opening
on Broadway. The two financiers, big and little, met on the plane of
ordinary politeness, without any effusion of mutual regard on the one
hand, or evidence of mutual distrust on the other.
“I have called,” said Steele, “to see if we can come to any workable
arrangement.”
“In what line of activity?” asked Nicholson.
“In a line of passivity rather than of activity,” explained Steele,
with a smile. “When I was a youngster, and engaged in a fight, it was
etiquette that as soon as the under boy hollered ‘Enough!’ the fellow on
top ceased pummelling him. I have come all the way from Chicago to cry
‘Enough!’”
Nicholson’s eyebrows raised very slightly.
“I fear I do not understand you, Mr. Steele.”
“Oh, yes, you do. It will save time and talk, if we take certain things
for granted. When we first met, I was so unfortunate as to find myself
opposed to you. I admit frankly that I entirely underestimated your
genius and your power. Since then, on one occasion you came within an
ace of ruining me. On a second and more recent occasion you came within
an ace of causing my death. Now, I have called at the captain’s office
to settle. In the language of the wild and woolly West, my hands are up,
and you have the drop on me. What are your terms?”
For a few moments Nicholson regarded his visitor with an expression in
which mild surprise was mingled with equally mild anxiety. When at
last he spoke, his voice was perceptibly lowered, as if he addressed an
invalid in a sick-room.
“You are not looking very well, Mr. Steele?”
“No, nor feeling well, either, Mr. Nicholson.”
“I am sorry to hear it. What is the trouble?”
“Amalgamated Soap, I should say,” said John, with a dreary laugh.
“Excellent for the complexion, but mighty bad for the nerves.”
“I shall make no pretence of misunderstanding your meaning, Mr. Steele,”
Nicholson went on with the patient enunciation one uses towards an
unreasonable child. “You are hinting that in revenge for fancied
opposition on your part, either I personally or the company with which
I am associated, or both, have entered into a conspiracy, first to rob,
and secondly to murder you. I hesitate to speak so bluntly, but, as you
quite sensibly remark, we should be frank with each other.”
“Your bluntness is more than compensated for by your accuracy, Mr.
Nicholson. What you describe is exactly what you have done. Mere
accident saved me from ruin in the Consolidated Beet Sugar formation.
Less than a month ago I was led across the plains by one of your
minions--a most charming, beautiful, and fascinating young woman--into a
death-trap, from which I escaped largely through my own ingenuity. Now,
I have written down a rather vivid and strictly accurate account of
these doings. I have put in your name, and that of Amalgamated Soap, and
my own, and there are three copies of this narrative in existence, two
of them with a slow match attached which you can very easily light.”
“Meaning that this interesting account will appear in print, Mr.
Steele?”
[Illustration: 0291]
“Quite so. Now, I ask you, Mr. Nicholson, is it worth while going any
further with this feud? We’re not illicit distillers in the mountains
trying to pot-shot each other, but two supposedly sane men; and the
world is amply wide enough for both. What do you say?”
“Really, Mr. Steele, it’s rather difficult to know what to say without
seeming impolite. Many things have been printed about Amalgamated Soap
during the last twenty years, and so far they have never been replied
to, nor have our dividends been adversely affected. A few of the
articles I have read. Some were largely statistical, others of a
defamatory character, others, again, contained the two qualities
combined. But you, Mr. Steele, threaten to inject a most unusual and
interesting quality--namely, that of an attractive young man journeying
across the prairies with a beautiful and mysterious young woman. If I
raised a finger to prevent the publication of a human document so well
calculated to touch the better and more sentimental parts of our nature,
I should consider that I was depriving my fellow-creatures of a source
of pure enjoyment. I believe we sometimes unite beauty and soap in our
advertisements. Attractive pictures they are. But this romance of the
Black Hills----”
“How do you know it was the Black Hills?” asked Steele quickly.
“Didn’t you mention that locality?”
“I said the plains.”
“Then I beg pardon--this romance of the plains----”
“Now, stop a moment, Nicholson; just stop where you are. Do you see what
a blunder you’ve made? For your own purpose, whatever it may be, you
have been pretending that this human document of mine, as you call
it, is a myth. Yet, in the calm and choice language with which you are
describing it, you have suddenly given yourself away. You know the mine
was in the Black Hills, and, of course, I knew you knew from the very
first. Now, let us quit sparring. I asked you what your terms were. I am
not using threats at all. I am merely trying to come to an arrangement.
Suppose, on the third attack, you succeed in driving me to the wall.
What good will it do you?”
“None at all, Mr. Steele, and I assure you I have not the least
desire to interfere even in the remotest degree with your affairs. You
evidently attribute to me more-power than I possess. The undertakings
of our association are all matters of mutual arrangement between the
directors, of whom I happen to be one. We meet each day at eleven
o’clock, and I trust you will believe me when I say that if I proposed
to my colleagues either the robbery or murder of Mr. John Steele, I
should be very promptly asked to resign my position, and deservedly so.
Really, Mr. Steele, if I may make an appeal to your own common sense,
you must admit that the building up of the prestige of this company,
its successful carrying on, its increase of business in all parts of the
world, are not accomplished by such bizarre devices as you ascribe to
us.”
“Do you mean to say that you did not, in my own presence, attempt to
wreck the Consolidated Beet Sugar Company when you thought I would be
ruined by it, and immediately go to allotment when you learned I had
escaped the trap?”
“I am very glad you mentioned that, Mr. Steele, because a few simple
words will show you that I am not the Machiavelli you suppose me to be.
To wreck you I should have been compelled to wreck ourselves to at
least an equal amount, and it is not the custom of Amalgamated Soap to
purchase revenge at so excessive a price. It is one of our principles
never to enter into any company put before the public unless the capital
is fully subscribed. To my surprise I learned that we were a million
short, therefore I could not agree to go to allotment.”
“But you went to allotment all the same when you learned I was out.”
“Pardon me, it was not learning that you were out of it which caused me
to change my mind. It was knowing you had sent a letter to the papers
informing the public that we were interested in the Consolidated Beet
Sugar Company. The moment our good name was involved I proposed going
to allotment; but before doing so I myself drew my cheque for a million
dollars and bought the unsold shares. Your being in or out of the
Company had nothing to do with my action.”
“You will not come to terms, then?”
“There are no terms to come to.”
“Is this your last word, Mr. Nicholson?”
“If you will pardon the liberty I take, Mr. Steele, I shall venture some
last words on another subject. As I said when you came in, you are not
looking well. Do you know what paranoea means?”
“I do not.”
“Then, if you take my advice, you will consult a physician and ask him
about it.”
“I’ll ask you, to save the physician’s fee. What is paranoea?”
“It is a disease of the brain, and its symptom is fear. The victim
imagines that someone, or everyone, is plotting against him. All
the energies he possesses are directed towards the circumvention of
conspiracies that are wholly imaginary. This disease, if not checked,
leads to insanity or suicide.”
John Steele rose to his feet.
“Does paranoea ever lead to murder, Mr. Nicholson?”
“Quite frequently.”
“Then as I have been told that the directors of Amalgamated Soap are a
most piously inclined body, please solicit their prayers that I may not
be afflicted with the malady you mention. I thank you for giving me so
much of your time, and now bid you ‘Good day.’”
“Good-bye, Mr. Steele,” said Nicholson, rising; then speaking in
his suavest manner, he said: “If ever you entertain any project that
requires more capital than you can command, I shall be most pleased to
submit it to Mr. John Berrington, and perhaps we may be of assistance
to you. As I told you before, I have the utmost admiration for your
financial ability.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nicholson; I shall bear your kind invitation in mind.
However, I may inform you that I have entirely dropped out of all
speculative business. I am one of the few men who know when they have
had enough. I have accumulated all the money I shall need during my
lifetime, and I intend to take care of it.”
“A most sensible resolution, Mr. Steele; and once more good-bye, with
many thanks for the visit.”
John Steele walked up Broadway the most depressed man in New York. His
attempted compromise had proven a complete failure; his journey East
a loss of time. And yet of what value was time to him, who dared not
undertake the most innocent project through fear of the developments
that might follow? Nicholson had said that fear was the symptom of the
malady he had so graphically depicted. Could it be possible, Steele
asked himself, that he was actually the victim of a disease, every
indication of which he seemed to possess? Nicholson had evidently
planted that thought in his brain to his further disquietude. That man,
who rarely allowed a smile to lighten his face, had inwardly laughed at
him, flouted him, defied him! and all done with soothing, contemptuous
insults.
Steele walked slowly up Broadway until he came to its intersection with
Fifth Avenue, and then he followed the latter street, aimlessly making
for his hotel. Nevertheless, when he came opposite the hotel he wandered
past it and on up the Avenue. Suddenly he shook himself together and
denied the cowardliness which he had hitherto attributed to the design
forming in his mind. He would appeal to a woman, and if he could not
thus circumvent the demoniac Nicholson, he would go out of business
entirely, as he had threatened, and either travel or take up some
interesting recreative occupation. He made inquiries, was directed to
the Berrington residence, walked up the steps of that palace, and rang
the bell. A servant in gorgeous livery opened the door.
“I wish to speak with Miss Berrington,” he said.
“Not at ’ome, sir,” was the curt answer.
Steele put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a twenty-dollar bill.
“I think the lady is in,” he said quietly, handing this legal tender to
the man in plush. Even in the residences of millionaires tips of this
size are unusual, and the haughty menial at once melted. He pocketed the
money.
“No, sir,” he said, “she is not in town at all. Speaking confidentially,
sir, Miss Berrington’s that peculiar she don’t like New York. Her
ladyship--I beg your pardon, sir--Miss Berrington is at her country
’ome some distance out of town, sir.”
“How far? Where is it?”
“On a lake, sir. I don’t quite remember its name. Begins with a h’S, I
think, sir.”
“Lake Saratoga?” suggested Steele.
“It begins with a h’S, sir,” repeated the man thoughtfully; then with
a sudden burst of inspiration: “Oh, yes, sir, Superior--Lake Superior,
sir.”
“Great Heavens!” cried Steele, unable to repress a smile, “that isn’t
just exactly in the environs of New York. I suppose you couldn’t tell me
whether the house is on the Canadian or the United States side?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t say, sir, being it’s in Michigan, sir.”
“Oh, well, that’s near enough; I can guess the rest.” The man in plush
pronounced the name of the State as if the first syllable were spelt
M-i-t-c-h.
“Yes, sir, her ladyship--beg your pardon--Miss Berrington owns a large
estate there, so they tell me--thousands and thousands of acres, all
covered with forests, and there’s a big ’ouse full of servants; but
her lady--but Miss Berrington receives nobody, sir. Not if you brought a
letter from the King of Hengland, sir.”
“Ha! rather exclusive, isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thanking the man, Steele turned away and walked down the Avenue to
his hotel, resolved to let the Berring-tons or the Nicholsons do
their worst. He would attempt no further parley with any of the gang,
and--probably inspired by the accent of the servitor in plush--gave
serious thought to the investing of all his money in British Consols,
small as was the percentage granted by that celebrated security. He took
it for granted that the Government of Britain was probably free from
the influence of the Berrington crowd, and he was rapidly coming to the
conclusion that no other sphere of human activity was.
Arriving at his hotel, he found a telegram waiting for him. It proved to
be from Philip Manson, and it ran:
_Congratulate me. Have just been appointed president of the Wheat Belt
System. Important development. Great opening here that just suits you.
Must see you immediately. If you cannot come here, telegraph me, and I
will go to New York._
“Ye Gods!” cried Steele, bracing back his shoulders, while the chronic
look of anxiety vanished like mist before the sun, “just at the point
when I don’t know what to do, here comes my chance. I’ll bet a farm
Manson is going to offer me the vice-presidency of the road. I’ll take
it like a shot, and raise the freight rates on soap if Philip will let
me.”
He seized a telegraph blank and wrote:
_Heartiest congratulations. The right man in right place. You need not
come to New York, as I am leaving for home to-night. I shall accept your
opening, whatever it is._
Before two days were past, John Steele was closeted with Manson in the
president’s room of the huge Wheat Belt building. The great, flat
table in the centre was covered with broad maps taken from the civil
engineer’s department, maps unknown to the general public.
“Now, John,” said his friend, “I’m in a position to offer you the
absolute surety of doubling, trebling, or even quadrupling your money.”
“Thunder!” cried Steele in a tone of disappointment, “I thought you were
going to present me with the vice-presidency of the road.”
Manson glanced up at him in surprise.
“Would you take it?” he asked.
“Take it? Of course. That’s what I thought I was engaging to do when I
telegraphed from New York.”
“Why, no sooner said than done, John. I’d no idea you wished to get back
into the railway business. I should think a man who can make millions
outside wouldn’t be content to sit here at a salary of ten or fifteen
thousand a year.”
“I am tired of making millions,” said Steele.
“You don’t mean to say,” protested Manson with something like dismay in
his words, “you don’t mean to say you won’t go in with us? I took your
telegram as consent, and because I could thus guarantee the bringing in
of a big capitalist, I have induced others to join and secured an extra
slice for myself.”
“Where there are millions to be made,” said Steele dubiously, “there is
always a risk, and I had determined not to accept any more chances.”
“There is no chance about this, John; it is a sure thing, and the
development of it rests entirely in my hands. You can double your money
and pull out within ten days after I give the word, and I’ll give the
word whenever you say so.”
“What’s your project, Mr. Manson?”
“Well, you see, the Wheat Belt Line, which has been one of the most
prosperous roads in the country for some years past, is going to build a
branch running two hundred and seventy miles northwest until it taps the
Wisconsin Pacific. This red line shows you where the road will run. The
Wheat Belt Line has secured all the timber land on each side, but the
former president, whose place I have taken, and myself have an option on
the prairie and the stump-lands where timber has been cut. The president
resigned simply to give his whole time to this land company, and that’s
why I am in his place. Now, we can get the property at prairie value
just now; but the minute we begin surveying, up it will jump. You can
trust me to keep my word. If you join us, I shall give the order for
surveying the line the moment deeds of the land are in our possession.”
“How much money do you expect me to put up, Mr. Manson?”
“You couldn’t invest twenty millions, I suppose?”
“Twenty millions! Heavens and earth, no! It would practically clean me
out to furnish nine.”
“I mentioned the bigger amount simply because I am sure you will double
your money within a month, and the more you put in, the more you’re
going to take out. You see, this is not a speculation, but a certainty.”
For a few minutes Steele walked up and down the room, hands deep in
his pockets, as was his custom, brow wrinkled and head bent. At last he
said, with the old ring of decision in his voice:
“All right, Mr. Manson, I’ll go in; but if I fail, you must give me the
vice-presidency, as a sort of consolation prize.”
“I’ll give it to you now,” said Manson. “But it can’t fail. I tell you
everything is in my hands. It is not as if this were any bluff. The
proposed line is a road that is becoming more and more needed every day,
and the land is good for the money, even if the road were never built.
It’s as safe as government bonds.”
It would be going over ground already sufficiently covered to recount
the history of the Western Land Syndicate. Steele had resolved not to
invest more than half his fortune; but once a man is involved in an
important enterprise, he rarely can predict where he will stop. A scheme
grows and grows, and often the financier is compelled to involve himself
more and more deeply in order to protect the money already ventured,
and finally it becomes all or nothing. Besides this, every speculator is
something of the gambler, and once the game has begun, the betting fever
has him in its clutch. Before a month was past, Steele had not only paid
over every dollar he possessed, but had also become deeply indebted to
his bank. In borrowing from the bank he made his irretrievable mistake.
As the president had said, the land was intrinsically worth the money
paid for it; and if John Steele had merely risked his own assets, he
might have been penniless for ten years, but he would ultimately have
been sure of getting back what he paid, and probably a good deal more.
But to borrow hundreds of thousands at sixty days, in the expectation
that he would take profits enough to pay the loan before that time
expired, was an action he himself, in less feverish moments, would have
been the first to condemn. He felt the utmost confidence in his old
friend, the new president, and it may be said at once that Manson
throughout the history of what was known as the Great Land Bubble, was
perfectly honest and sincere. He was merely a pawn on the board, moved
by an unseen force of which he knew nothing.
On the afternoon of the day when the final payment on the land was made,
the president of the Wheat Belt Line entered the room of his subordinate
with a piece of paper in his hand. His face was white as chalk and he
could not speak. He dropped into a chair, before John Steele’s desk, and
the latter, with a premonition of what was coming, took the paper from
his trembling hand. It was a telegram from New York, and ran as follows:
_The Peter Berrington Estate has acquired control of the Wheat Belt
system. The new Board of Directors yesterday resolved to abandon the
Wisconsin Pacific Branch. If the branch is built at all, which is
doubtful, it will begin a hundred and seventy miles West of the
point formerly selected. You will, therefore, countermand at once
any instructions previously given regarding the Wisconsin Pacific
connection. The board also refuses to ratify the nomination of John
Steele as vice-president of the road.--Nicholson._
“Cheer up!” said John, with a laugh that sounded just a trifle hollow.
“Cheer up, old man. I know all about this, and you’re not in the least
to blame. You acted in good faith throughout.”
“It’s horrible, John, horrible; but still, you know, you have the land,
and before long that will realise all you’ve put in.”
“Yes, Mr. Manson, I’ve got the land; that’s one consolation.”
But he knew perfectly well he hadn’t. He knew that when the sixty days
were up the bank would foreclose, which was exactly what happened. There
were practically no bidders for so large a plot, and Nicholson purchased
the property for the exact amount owing to the bank.
The ruin of John Steele was complete.