SPRINGING THE MONEY MINE
IN an instant all seemed mad frenzy on the floor of the Stock Exchange.
Members ran about, waving slips of paper, bawling themselves hoarse,
colliding with each other in efforts to reach desired parts of the
floor.
Junior members of brokerage firms rushed to their private telephones to
call for instructions.
Many thought that the day would go out in widespread panic, for now
much more seemed involved than merely the P. & Y. Railroad.
At the first crack of this new firing on the battle line Broker
Coggswell, a written order in his hand, bounded from his seat in the
gallery, making his way frantically to the floor below.
Justin Bolton turned for an instant to follow the broker with his
eyes. Then down below he looked to see Coggswell hurl himself into the
wild chaos of the ’Change floor.
Broker Coggswell snatched up the entire offering of forty thousand
shares like a flash. That held the market steady at that price for
a moment. There was even talk among the excited operators that P. &
Y. might be good for some rise. Gradually the hubbub lessened. Quiet
followed. Every operator interested waited to see what the next move in
the great game was to be.
Justin Bolton, shaking all over in his excitement at this crisis in the
daring battle he had waged, stood up, leaning forward over the railing.
“Coggswell, your clients must be crazy to go in so heavily on a
dropping stock,” one “bear” operator called to Delavan’s broker.
“I don’t believe it,” smiled the broker.
“But P. & Y. will be at 40 by to-morrow,” insisted the other.
“Bosh, man!” returned Coggswell, serenely.
“You think you have inside information, do you, Coggswell?” demanded
the “bear,” banteringly.
“My principal client believes he has,” laughed Coggswell, good
humoredly.
“Your principal client?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I knew who he is,” admitted the “bear,” moving closer to the
bold broker.
“Why, I might tell you,” came the smiling retort.
It would be news of great value to many operators to-day to know who
was behind the purchase of forty thousand shares of a falling stock. A
crowd surged around Coggswell.
“Tell us who your client is,” dared the same “bear,” while the size of
the gaping crowd increased. A hush had again fallen over everything.
“My principal client——” began Coggswell, then paused, smiling in a
tantalizing way.
“Name him!” insisted the same “bear.”
“Yes, name him! Name him!” came the fevered demand from all sides,
though probably not one expected the broker to comply.
“My principal client, for whom I just made the big purchase,” announced
Broker Coggswell, “is Francis Delavan himself.”
“Francis Delavan?”
The cry was taken up and repeated all over the floor. Scores of men
came running to get as near as possible to the talking broker.
“I made that purchase on behalf of the Delavan-Moddridge interests,”
continued Coggswell, showing a still smiling face.
[Illustration: “Delavan! Yes, It’s Delavan!”]
“Then you must know where Delavan is?” called someone, rather
banteringly.
“I do,” nodded Coggswell.
One of the Bolton brokers sent a messenger scurrying to the gallery to
inform the arch-plotter.
“Where is Delavan?”
It rose as a shout, penetrating every nook and corner of the great
Stock Exchange space.
“Right up there!” called Mr. Coggswell, turning and pointing toward the
gallery.
At that instant Mr. Delavan stood up. As he rose he cast off the linen
duster and peaked cap. In the next moment he removed the disfiguring,
concealing goggles from his eyes, dropping them to the floor.
“Delavan! Yes, it’s Delavan!” rose a mighty shout.
Justin Bolton turned at the same time. He fell back, clutching at a
seat, gasping, his lower jaw dropping, his eyes protruding. It must be
all a wild, disordered trick of the imagination, for wasn’t Francis
Delavan a close prisoner in that schooner out at sea?
But as Justin Bolton, horror-stricken and dazed, continued to glare at
the calm, smiling face of his foe, it was driven home to him that here,
indeed, was Delavan in the flesh.
It came over the scoundrel slowly, but crushingly. Still wildly
staring, foam flecking his lips, Justin Bolton sank back in his seat.
And those below saw. While they could not comprehend it all, they knew
that Justin Bolton, who was known to be the chief factor behind the
“bear” movement in P. & Y. stock, plainly admitted defeat.
At all events, Francis Delavan was neither an absconder nor a
defaulter, since he was here in the flesh and dared show himself. Then
it was that the report of the accountants, as published in the evening
newspapers, was remembered and accepted in good faith. Plainly the
“bear” movement had been based on a cruel hoax of some kind.
When the tumult had begun to subside, a broker’s voice was heard
announcing:
“I bid 67 for three thousand P. & Y.!”
The upward movement started then and there. Yet there were many
cautious ones. Almost at the outset a score of excited operators left
the floor to crowd about Francis Delavan.
The two intensely interested motor boat boys extricated themselves from
that crush, standing well apart from the crowd.
“You fool!” hissed a voice in Tom Halstead’s ear.
The young skipper turned, to find himself gazing into the glaring eyes
of Justin Bolton.
“In some way,” declared the scoundrel, “this is all your work!”
“Partly mine, partly that of my friends,” Tom smilingly admitted.
“You may have beaten me, but I offered you a fortune to work on my
side. What do you get out of this turn of affairs?”
“The satisfaction, at least, Mr. Bolton, of knowing that I’m a decent
human being, true to what little trusts may come my way.”
“Bah! That, as against a fortune!”
Then, suddenly, as though actuated by uncontrollable fury, Bolton
leaped at young Halstead, gripping him furiously by the throat.
“Quit that!” commanded Joe Dawson, sternly. Without waiting the young
engineer swung his fist, striking Bolton a heavy blow full in the face.
The maddened financier let go, staggering back. He reached for one of
his hip pockets.
But two new actors moved swiftly into this scene. They were plain
clothes policemen, provided by the thoughtfulness of Broker Coggswell.
Bolton was seized, and his right hand followed to his hip pocket.
“You don’t need this weapon,” remarked one of the officers, taking
Bolton’s revolver. “Calm down, man, and come with us.”
“But, good heavens, officer, I can’t leave here now,” cried Bolton,
his eyes flashing fire. “I’ve millions of dollars at stake on the floor
below.”
“Then calm down and behave yourself,” advised the other policeman. “If
you had drawn that gun and pointed it, we’d have to take you. Behave
yourself, and we’ll let you stay here and attend to your deals.”
“I’ll—I’ll promise,” agreed Justin Bolton, his words coming in a gasp.
This scene, as quickly as it had taken place, had not altogether
escaped the attention of those about Francis Delavan.
“Gentlemen,” said the “Rocket’s” owner, “if you can see any connection
between my brief disappearance and that scene over yonder, you’re
welcome to draw your own conclusions. But I’ve nothing further to say
on the subject, for the present, at any rate. My absence from the world
wasn’t a matter of my own choice—that’s all. As to P. & Y., I give you
my word of honor that I regard it as a splendid investment, even at
110. If there’s any man here who ever knew me to lie, let him stand
back and keep out of the good things that are going to happen on the
Stock Exchange to-day.”
Broker Coggswell, with the help of three of his men, was now on the
floor, snapping up all P. & Y. stock that offered. The selling price
was above 70.
Then Clark, one of the Bolton brokers, came rushing up in person to
consult his client. The two withdrew by themselves, forming the new
plan of campaign.
While Bolton had been the power behind the plot against P. & Y. stock,
yet there were scores of others who had been led into selling that
railroad stock “short.” They were not going to allow themselves to be
wiped out without a struggle of the fiercest sort.
In fact these “shorts” now rallied about Justin Bolton, and a powerful
money combine was spontaneously formed.
Francis Delavan was yet a long way from having won the day. His
dramatic appearance in the gallery of the Stock Exchange had brought
about at least a strong momentary rise in P. & Y.
Could it be made to last?