THE MISER IN HIS DEN
The one point of pride in Nicholas Frye's nature was his absolute belief
in his own shrewdness. "They can't get the best of me," he would say to
himself when he had won an unusually knotty case, and winking one of his
cat-like eyes he would say, half aloud, "I'm shrewd, I'm shrewd as the
devil!" He knew he was both hated and feared by his fellow-members of
the bar, but it mattered not to him. Being hated he didn't mind, and
being feared flattered his vanity to an intense degree. When Uncle Terry
put himself in his power and, like a good-natured old sheep, stood to be
sheared, Frye only laughed at his client's stupidity and set out to
continue the robbery as long as possible. Messrs. Thygeson & Company, of
Stockholm, who had first employed him to hunt up an heir to the estate
of old Eric Peterson, whose son Neils and his young wife had been lost
on the coast of Maine, fared no better. To them he only stated that he
had found several promising clues and was following them as rapidly as
possible, but it all cost money, and would they kindly send a draft on
account for necessary expenses? etc., etc. To shear them as close as
possible and as long as he could before giving any return for their
money was part of his game. All were fish that came to his net, and all
were treated alike and robbed from start to finish. When Albert had
turned his back upon him, and, worse than that, taken away his best
client, as he afterwards learned, the old scoundrel suffered the worst
blow to his vanity he ever received. "Curse the fellow!" he would say to
himself. "I'll pay him and have revenge if I live long enough, and I'll
never rest till I do. No man ever got the best of me, and in the long
run no man ever shall!" Like an Indian he bided his time, though waiting
and watching with his merciless yellow eyes until the chance might come
when he could deal a ruinous blow.
But there is a Nemesis that follows evil-doers in this world, ready to
strike with an invisible hand all who are lost to the sense of right and
justice. In Frye's case the avenging goddess lurked in his inordinate
belief in his own shrewdness, coupled with a fatuous love of
speculation. A few lucky ventures at first in the stock market had
fanned the flame until he believed he was as invincible in State Street
as he was in Pemberton Square.
Then along came a war-cloud in Europe; stocks began to drop and
provisions to advance. September wheat was then selling in Chicago at
ninety cents. Frye bought fifty thousand bushels on a margin. France and
Germany growled, and wheat rose to ninety-four. Frye sold, clearing two
thousand dollars. Then it dropped a cent, and Frye bought a hundred
thousand bushels more. Once again the war-cloud grew black, and wheat
rose to ninety-eight. The papers were full of wild rumors, and "The Wall
Street Bugle" said wheat would look cheap at a dollar and a half inside
of a month. Then it advanced to one dollar, and Frye lost his head. His
holdings showed a profit of seven thousand dollars, and sudden riches
stared him in the face. Once more the two bellicose foreign powers
growled and showed their teeth. Wheat rose another cent, and Frye
doubled his holdings. Then the powers that had growled smiled faintly,
and in one day wheat fell to ninety-three and remained there. Frye's
holdings now showed a net loss of eight thousand dollars, and he kicked
the office boy out, locked the door in Pemberton Square, and from ten
till three watched the quotations in State Street until wheat fell to
ninety, and then he began to look around to raise more money. He had now
put up over sixteen thousand dollars, and wheat was still falling. At
every drop of a cent he was called upon for two thousand dollars. Day by
day it vibrated, now going up a cent, and then dropping two, and when
Uncle Terry and Albert were discussing how to checkmate his further
robbing of the lighthouse keeper, he was, with muttered curses, watching
his ill-gotten gains vanish to the tune of many thousand dollars per
diem. He neglected his business, went without his meals, and forgot to
shave. He had mortgaged his real estate for twenty thousand, and that
was nearly gone. Wheat was now down to eighty, and France and Germany
were shaking hands. Frye was caught in a trap of his own setting and
could not sleep nights. His margins were almost exhausted, and his
resources as well. He had put up forty thousand dollars, and if wheat
fell three cents more, it would be all swept away. Then he executed a
second mortgage at high interest and waited. It was the last shot in his
locker, and all that stood between him and ruin; but wheat advanced two
cents and he began to hope. He had absolutely ignored business for two
weeks that had been one long stretch of misery, and now he went to work
again. To collect the little due him and raise all the money he could
was his sole thought. He wrote to Thygeson & Company that he had at last
found the heir they were in search of, and described what proofs he
held, at the same time stating that on receipt of his fee of a thousand
dollars all and sufficient proofs of identity of the claimant would be
forwarded. Then he wrote to Uncle Terry and demanded three hundred more.
September wheat had now fallen to seventy-eight.