From the moment when Lawrence Macgowan, as secretary of Consolidated
Securities, called the annual meeting to order, a sense of impending
drama filled the auditorium. The Gayety Theater! What irony in the
name! Here was a struggle for more than life and death, a titanic
combat between looters and looted.
Every one knew that the issue lay between Armstrong and Macgowan; the
batteries of lawyers and advisers and experts and friends were but
incidentals of the stage setting. The life of Consolidated was at
stake--now this outward and visible symbol of sixteen thousand
investors would either be saved to its owners, or would be despoiled
and bled white.
From the start, Macgowan let himself go full sweep, in all his real
nature. Arbitrary, domineering, a sneering viciousness in eyes and
voice, he ruled the meeting with a hand of iron. Save for his own
little group, the hundreds of people around were enemies; they hated,
feared, distrusted him--and were helpless before him.
Macgowan, knowing that these people had gathered to watch his power
stripped away, took savage pleasure in making them feel that power,
in making them feel their own impotence before him, in making them
realize that he, and he alone, was the master of Consolidated
Securities.
And people had gathered to watch. Several hundred were here, the
majority from near-by points, others from a distance. These, almost
to a man, were behind Armstrong and his committee. Before and during
the meeting they were thronging about the hotel rooms, shaking hands,
encouraging, pouring their enthusiasm and confidence into the men who
were fighting for them.
While that long roll of the thousands of investors was being called
they sat silent, tense, listening and checking off proxies. Never
was the magnificent audacity of Macgowan more manifest than now, as
he sat there snarling at those who had come to pull him from his
position of power.
This arrogant, confident manner of Macgowan's was causing Armstrong
worry; he sought for the reason perpetually, and found none. Hour
after hour went by. The first day dragged out its length, the second
followed. Somewhere in the crowd Armstrong caught a glimpse of a
sallow, saturnine visage, lost it again instantly; after a time he
remembered that darkly vulpine countenance as the face of Ried
Williams. Williams! What was the man doing here? No matter.
And now the third day of the meeting. That afternoon would be
finished the long roll of the sixteen thousand and more investors.
With each name that was called, during these two days and a half, the
Protective Association showed its power more clearly. The proxies
held by Macgowan's satellites were clearly in the minority. As the
totals mounted up, victory became more and more assured to Armstrong.
And ever Mansfield sat aloof in thoughtful silence, scrutinizing
every word and act of the opposition with that lightning brain of his
ready to pounce; and Macgowan, realizing his peril, stepped
cautiously.
Noon came--noon of the third day.
It was an exultant noontide. Sessions was holding the newspaper and
financial writers at bay; Judge Holcomb and Doctor Bruton rested.
Armstrong and Mansfield lunched with Robert Dorns, who had come down
to enjoy the triumph. Calling up Aircastle Point, Armstrong was told
that Dorothy was asleep, and left word for her of the victory.
The afternoon session opened with a growing tension. The finish was
in sight. The last of the T's was called, and the end would now come
soon. Armstrong heard the droning rasp of Macgowan's voice, heard
the responses, mechanically checked off his own list. He swiftly
computed his figures. Close--but certain!
"We've beaten the voting trust!" he thought exultantly. "Beaten it!"
True. Of the thirty-five thousand shares of common outstanding, the
Association would vote a full nineteen thousand. Macgowan, despite
his control of the voting trust, would lose by fifteen hundred votes.
The illegal attachment had not availed him--
Suddenly Armstrong's head shot up. He was conscious of the
electrified thrill that passed through the entire audience. He was
conscious of a new name, not on his list, which had passed the lips
of Macgowan.
It was the name of Ried Williams.
A dead, tense hush fell upon all, through which pierced the voice of
Williams in its response. The wondering surprise passed into a low
gasp of incredulity. Macgowan sat sneering, defiant, his gaze
sweeping about in exultant challenge. The faces that stared up at
him had lost their glow of confidence and triumph; consternation was
in every eye, a dismayed stupefaction, despair!
Armstrong was dumbfounded, staggered. For Ried Williams answered for
ten thousand shares!
A low mutter passed through the crowd; it swelled and swelled into a
vibrant, angry roar of protest. The supercilious smile vanished from
the lips of Findlater. Macgowan, furious, bellowed for silence. At
last, unable to get it, he held out his hand toward the standing
figure of Mansfield in tacit permission. The uproar quieted.
As Mansfield voiced objection, Armstrong's attention was suddenly
dragged away. He found Jimmy Wren at his elbow, gripping his arm,
agitated and tense.
"Come to the telephone--long distance--French at Chicago wants you--"
"Damn the telephone!" Armstrong was trying to catch Mansfield's
voice. "Tell 'em--"
"You've got to come! It's the Chicago office--come and hear for
yourself! It's more important than anything here--"
One look into the eyes of Wren, and Armstrong obeyed. He rose,
suffered Wren to pilot him out, wondering what new stroke of fate was
to fall upon him. Ten thousand shares that did not exist! This was
more than audacity; it was insolence. Macgowan could never get away
with such action as this. He had passed the limit at last. His
effrontery had now over-reached itself--
"Hello!" Armstrong spoke into the telephone. "Armstrong speaking.
Who is it?"
He listened for a moment; his face changed. A start escaped him, as
though from some invisible blow.
"What's that again?" he demanded vibrantly. "Repeat it!"
Then, after a moment: "All right, French. Don't lose any sleep over
it. Much obliged to you."
He hung up the receiver and turned to Jimmy Wren. He was laughing,
but his eyes were dancing with the cold flame of sun-smitten ice.
"You heard, Jimmy? Want to start for Europe?"
Jimmy Wren gaped at him, then grinned and swung palm to palm with a
hearty grip.
"Damn Europe! I'm with you till hell freezes over, and you know it!"
"All right. Let's get back--"
He was too late. He found that the meeting had been adjourned until
next morning. Cursing, angry men were pouring from the place. He
encountered Mansfield and Dorns in company; the lawyer was white with
suppressed fury. Dorns regarded Armstrong grimly and bit hard at a
cigar.
"Well?" demanded Armstrong, as they got clear of the crowd. "Did you
stop him?"
Mansfield shook his head.
"There was a directors' meeting a week ago--a secret one," he said
crisply. "Ten thousand shares of stock were issued to Ried Williams.
His note for five thousand dollars was issued in payment. Then the
transfer books were closed."
Armstrong froze.
"Note--five thousand!" he said, unbelieving. "For stock worth two
hundred thousand on the market? Impossible!"
"It is illegal, but it's not impossible," said Mansfield. "It is a
fact. All Macgowan wants is to remain in power. This gives him a
clear voting majority, of course."
Armstrong pulled himself together.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait! There's something else you don't know--"
The two men looked at him, startled by his manner. He met the gaze
of Dorns, and laughed bitterly.
"Good thing you're here, Dorns," he said. "I just had a long
distance call from our Chicago manager. He had some information for
me. I've been indicted in Springfield, Illinois, for perjury in
connection with the sale of Food Products stock. Macgowan wanted the
indictment for use during the campaign, of course--well, he has it
now."