A POINTER--WORTH WHAT?
“I wish I had half your luck, Jack,” said Ed one morning shortly after
the young messenger had scooped in that $5,000 on L. S. stock.
“I suppose you are referring to what I made the other day.”
“Yes; and I can’t see how you did it.”
“I’m not surprised. I gave you the tip to buy as many shares as you
could put up the margin for. Did you do it? No; you were afraid to risk
even a ten-dollar note on a good thing. Well, you lost your chance.”
“I lost more than that,” said Ed, with a mournful look.
“What did you lose?”
“Fifteen plunks.”
“In what way?”
“Well, after you told me you had collared five thousand dollars on L.
S. I went home and kicked myself around the block.”
“That was right. You deserved it. If you’d only bought two shares of L.
S. as I told you to at first, you might have made seventy-five dollars
clear profit.”
“That’s what I said to myself. I felt I’d been a chump. You made a
bunch of easy money while I hadn’t made a sou. Well, along came Denny
McFadden, and I told him what a calf I’d been. He asked me if I had any
money. I told him I had fifteen dollars. Then he offered to put me next
to something that beat stocks all hollow. I knew what he meant, and
fought shy. But he talked me into going around to a certain pool-room
with him, just to see how the thing was worked.”
“You needn’t go any further, Ed,” said Jack. “I know what you’re going
to say. Denny got you to wager your fifteen dollars on some horse
before you left. Isn’t that it?”
“Yes; I put the whole thing on Custard Pie, a long shot, one hundred
to one. Denny said he had a tip that the nag was slated to win next
day. He’d been over at the track and claimed he knew all about it.
It was the same as picking up the money, and when I got the fifteen
hundred I was to give him five hundred for the tip.”
“Ed, you’re easy. I thought you knew what Denny is by this time. As
for racing, don’t you know that race-tracks are open gambling-places,
maintained in defiance of the State Constitution because of a law
passed corruptly?”
“I know pool-rooms are maintained in defiance of the law, but at the
tracks you can bet all you want. I don’t see why----”
“I’m not going to argue the matter, Ed. I’m interested in the stock
market, not in the race-track. Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for
you the next time I catch on to a good thing: I’ll put up twenty-five
dollars for you in connection with my own venture. That’ll give you a
small stake if I win.”
“If you do that, Jack, you’re a brick,” said Ed, brightening up.
“I’ll do it, all right.” And there the matter dropped for the time
being.
In spite of the well-meant advice of Oliver Bird and Mr. Bishop, Jack
was itching another crack at the market.
All the same, it wasn’t his idea to go at the thing blindfolded.
He hardly expected to pick up another tip like the last.
Still, he kept his eyes and ears wide open, so that in case anything
worth while drifted his way it wouldn’t get by him.
Any small favor would be thankfully received.
He was on speaking terms with a good many brokers, and he knew every
prominent one by sight.
Next day Jack was coming along New Street about lunch hour, when he ran
into Hartz, the Exchange Place broker.
Hartz was a little, wiry man, with snappy black eyes, and was about as
shrewd as you find them down in the financial district.
Ever since the day Jack saved Oliver Bird from taking his own life in
the office of the broker, Hartz had taken more or less notice of the
boy, which was something unusual for him to do.
As we have already seen, he gave Ed Potter a job entirely on Jack’s
recommendation.
“Hello, young man! Who are you running into?” exclaimed the broker,
grabbing the boy with both his arms and holding him tight.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartz, but I didn’t see you.”
“No; I’m not quite as big as Bird,” grinned Hartz. “How long have you
been on the Street now, Hazard?”
“Six months, sir.”
“Look as if you’d cut your eye teeth by this time. It’s a wonder you
don’t get into trouble with that tongue of yours.”
“Why so?” asked Jack, in surprise.
“Yesterday morning, when you came into my office, young Percy
Chamberlain, secretary for the resident manager of the British and
North American Fire Insurance Company, was there talking to Miss
Kitson, my stenographer. Just as you stepped up to her desk he remarked
that he was the last remaining member of his family, whereupon you said
you read in the morning paper that the lobster was becoming extinct.
And I suppose you wondered why Chamberlain left the office in a huff.
You’re a peach!”
Jack grinned.
“Percy makes me tired,” he said. “He’s always dropping in and bothering
our typewriter with his silly remarks, so I make a point of giving a
shot where I can.”
There was a twinkle in Hartz’s eye.
“Ever take a flyer on the market?” he asked, suddenly.
“Once.”
“When was that?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“How did you come out?”
“Ahead.”
“Lucky boy.”
“I s’pose you haven’t any tips to give away, have you, Mr. Hartz?”
grinned Jack. “You owe me one for saving that carpet of yours the day
Mr. Bird got reckless.”
“Don’t carry such things about with me,” said Hartz, in his sharp,
off-hand way. Then, after fixing the boy with his penetrating eyes a
moment, he suddenly said: “If you’ve got twenty-five or fifty dollars
you haven’t any use for, you might buy a few shares of D. & G. just to
keep your thoughts off Percy Chamberlain,” and the broker nodded and
walked away.
Jack looked after him.
“A few shares of D. & G.,” he muttered. “I wonder if he meant that?
I noticed that stock went up a point yesterday and two points so far
to-day. Looks as if it was a safe investment. I’d give something to
find out if that was the stock I saw him rushing about after this
morning on the floor of the Exchange? It isn’t like him, or any other
broker, for that matter, to give out a real, Simon-pure pointer. It
isn’t business. Still, I notice Hartz treats me different from most
people. Maybe he’s grateful because I saved him from something like
a scandal; at any rate, a good many hard things would have been said
about him if Mr. Bird had killed himself up in his office that morning.
I’ll have to think this over. I guess it wouldn’t be fair to tell
anyone what he said about buying D. & G. He kind of sized me up pretty
sharp before he opened his mouth about it. I know he doesn’t like
Chamberlain coming in his office and taking up Miss Kitson’s time, and
he was tickled because I started the dude on the run. I’d like to make
another haul out of the market. Hartz hasn’t the least idea I have
$5,000 in bank. If he had, I guess----”
“Hello, Jack!” interrupted the voice of Ed Potter, and his chum grasped
him by the arm. “Let’s go in here and have a bite.”
Jack allowed his friend to steer him into a crowded New Street
quick-lunch house.
They ordered coffee and stew as soon as a couple of stools were vacated.
“I s’pose you haven’t the least idea whether or not your boss is
buying any D. & G. stock, have you?” whispered Jack.
Ed shook his head.
“You can’t learn much up in that place, I can tell you that. I know
Hartz did buy a block of some kind of stock yesterday from a Mr.
Warren, for I was sent over to get it.”
“You mean George Warren, of--Broad Street?”
“Yep.”
Jack made a mental note.
“And I fetched another stack of stock this morning from Bentley &
Clews.”
“You don’t know what that was?”
“Nope.”
“Say, Ed, s’pose we take in the Academy to-night,” said Jack, suddenly
changing the subject.
“I’m with you. What’s playing there?”
“‘In Old Japan.’ Well, so long. I’ll wait for you at the house.”