In my childhood at home, my father was often away for a week or longer,
working or looking for work. My mother had a notion that a boy should
be punished only by his father; so, whenever she caught me in what she
regarded as a serious transgression, she used to say: “You will get a
good whipping for this, when your father comes home.” At first I used to
wait passively, suffering the torments of ten thrashings before the “good
whipping” came to pass. But soon my mind began to employ the interval more
profitably. I would scheme to escape execution of sentence; and, though my
mother was a determined woman, many's the time I contrived to change her
mind. I am not recommending to parents the system of delay in execution
of sentence; but I must say that in my case it was responsible for an
invaluable discipline. For example, the Textile tangle.
I knew I was in all human probability doomed to go down before the Stock
Exchange had been open an hour the next morning. All Textile stocks must
start many points higher than they had been at the close, must go steadily
and swiftly up. Entangled as my reserve resources were in the Coal deal, I
should have no chance to cover my shorts on any terms less than the loss
of all I had. At most, I could hope only to save myself from criminal
bankruptcy.
And now my early training in coolly and calmly studying how to avert
execution of sentence came into play. There is a kind of cornered-rat,
hit-or-miss, last-ditch fight that any creature will make in such
circumstances as mine then were, and the inspirations of despair sometimes
happen to be lucky. But I prefer the reasoned-out plan.
There was no signal of distress in my voice as I telephoned Corey,
president of the Interstate Trust Company, to stay at his office until I
came; there was no signal of distress in my manner as I sallied forth and
went down to the Power Trust Building; nor did I show or suggest that I had
heard the “shot-at-sunrise” sentence, as I strode into Roebuck's presence
and greeted him. I was assuming, by way of precaution, that some rumor
about me either had reached him or would soon reach him. I knew he had
an eye in every secret of finance and industry, and, while I believed my
secret was wholly my own, I had too much at stake with him to bank on that,
when I could, as I thought, so easily reassure him.
“I've come to suggest, Mr. Roebuck,” said I, “that you let my
house--Blacklock and Company--announce the Coal reorganization plan. It
would give me a great lift, and Melville and his bank don't need prestige.
My daily letters to the public on investments have, as you know, got me
a big following that would help me make the flotation an even bigger
success than it's bound to be, no matter who announces it and invites
subscriptions.”
As I thus proposed that I be in a jiffy caught up from the extremely
humble level of reputed bucket-shop dealer into the highest heaven of high
finance, that I be made the official spokesman of the financial gods, his
expression was so ludicrous that I almost lost my gravity. I suspect, for
a moment he thought I had gone mad. His manner, when he recovered himself
sufficiently to speak, was certainly not unlike what it would have been
had he found himself alone before a dangerous lunatic who was armed with a
bomb.
“You know how anxious I am to help you, to further your interests,
Matthew,” said he wheedlingly. “I know no man who has a brighter future.
But--not so fast, not so fast, young man. Of course, you will appear as
one of the reorganizing committee--but we could not afford to have the
announcement come through any less strong and old established house than
the National Industrial Bank.”
“At least, you can make me joint announcer with them,” I urged.
“Perhaps--yes--possibly--we'll see,” said he soothingly. “There is plenty
of time.”
“Plenty of time,” I assented, as if quite content. “I only wanted to put
the matter before you.” And I rose to go.
“Have you heard the news of Textile Common?” he asked.
“Yes,” said I carelessly. Then, all in an instant, a plan took shape in my
mind. “I own a good deal of the stock, and I must say, I don't like this
raise.”
“Why?” he inquired.
“Because I'm sure it's a stock-jobbing scheme,” replied I boldly. “I know
the dividend wasn't earned. I don't like that sort of thing, Mr. Roebuck.
Not because it's unlawful--the laws are so clumsy that a practical man
often must disregard them. But because it is tampering with the reputation
and the stability of a great enterprise for the sake of a few millions of
dishonest profit. I'm surprised at Langdon.”
“I hope you're wrong, Matthew,” was Roebuck's only comment. He questioned
me no further, and I went away, confident that, when the crash came in the
morning, if come it must, there would be no more astonished man in Wall
Street than Henry J. Roebuck. How he must have laughed; or, rather, would
have laughed, if his sort of human hyena expressed its emotions in the
human way.
From him, straight to my lawyers, Whitehouse and Fisher, in the Mills
Building.
“I want you to send for the newspaper reporters at once,” said I to Fisher,
“and tell them that in my behalf you are going to apply for an injunction
against the Textile Trust, forbidding them to take any further steps toward
that increase of dividend. Tell them I, as a large stock-holder, and
representing a group of large stock-holders, purpose to stop the paying of
unearned dividends.”
Fisher knew how closely connected my house and the Textile Trust had been;
but he showed, and probably felt no astonishment. He was too experienced in
the ways of finance and financiers. It was a matter of indifference to him
whether I was trying to assassinate my friend and ally, or was feinting at
Langdon, to lure the public within reach so that we might, together, fall
upon it and make a battue. Your lawyer is your true mercenary. Under his
code honor consists in making the best possible fight in exchange for the
biggest possible fee. He is frankly for sale to the highest bidder. At
least so it is with those that lead the profession nowadays, give it what
is called “character” and “tone.”
Not without some regret did I thus arrange to attack my friend in his
absence. “Still,” I reasoned, “his blunder in trusting some leaky person
with his secret is the cause of my peril--and I'll not have to justify
myself to him for trying to save myself.” What effect my injunction would
have I could not foresee. Certainly it could not save me from the loss of
my fortune; but, possibly, it might check the upward course of the stock
long enough to enable me to snatch myself from ruin, and to cling to firm
ground until the Coal deal drew me up to safety.
My next call was at the Interstate Trust Company. I found Corey waiting for
me in a most uneasy state of mind.
“Is there any truth in this story about you?” was the question he plumped
at me.
“What story?” said I, and a hard fight I had to keep my confusion and alarm
from the surface. For, apparently, my secret was out.
“That you're on the wrong side of the Textile.”
So it was out! “Some truth,” I admitted, since denial would have been
useless here. “And I've come to you for the money to tide me over.”
He grew white, a sickly white, and into his eyes came a horrible, drowning
look.
“I owe a lot to you, Matt,” he pleaded. “But I've done you a great many
favors, haven't I?”
“That you have Bob,” I cordially agreed. “But this isn't a favor. It's
business.”
“You mustn't ask it, Blacklock,” he cried. “I've loaned you more money now
than the law allows. And I can't let you have any more.”
“Some one has been lying to you, and you've been believing him,” said I.
“When I say my request isn't a favor, but business, I mean it.”
“I can't let you have any more,” he repeated. “I can't!” And down came his
fist in a weak-violent gesture.