SHADOWS OF GREAT EVILS.
Robert Brent was in London for the first time since he started upon his
almost hopeless quest of fortune’s favor in the summer of 1893. He had
been the only passenger on the _Mystery_, whose epoch-making voyage a
few days before was still the marvel of the Old and the New Worlds. This
return to the old-fashioned, homely comforts of solid London he had
anticipated with peculiar satisfaction. He felt more at home in
Piccadilly than in Broadway. For six months he had told himself it was
worth a trip across the Atlantic to be able to ride in a rubber-tired
cab upon an asphalt pavement.
The New York business man cannot understand why it is that a Londoner
flies away to the river, the sea-shore, or the country on the slightest
pretext “to rest.” To say nothing of the extreme deliberation--to use an
inoffensive term--in all his business methods, the citizen of the
British metropolis has little in the common feature of municipal life to
distract him. No gong ever clangs in a London street. Not even on a
fire-engine is that abomination tolerated. Broadway has become a
municipal boiler-shop, to be fled from with bursting ear-drums. In
Piccadilly, the wheels are silent and the horses seem to step lightly on
the almost elastic pavement. Toleration of noise in all its forms is,
indeed, the great surviving element of barbarism in the American people.
Its relentless suppression is the only obvious superiority of European
civilization above that of the New World.
But London did not seem the same to Brent after his two years’ absence.
He avoided at first his old resorts, and did not seek out the associates
from whom he had been completely cut off since he bade them good-by in
early September, 1893. The old life did not tempt him as he had expected
it would. London was the same, yet different. “It must be because
everybody is out of town for the holidays,” he told himself, in trying
to account for his intangible impression of change.
After a few days, Brent strolled into one or two of his favorite clubs.
They were almost deserted. Only a few fossilized members, whom nothing
short of an earthquake could shake out of their favorite smoking-room
seats, were to be seen. Some of them recognized Brent, and nodded to
him. Nobody ever does anything more in a typical London club. Americans,
some of them, have an idea that one of the objects of a club is to
furnish members with the society of their fellows. Not so in London. Sit
for an hour and watch the members of an English club stroll into the
smoking-room one by one after dinner to enjoy their coffee, cigars, and
liquor. A dozen men, perhaps, will be sitting each quite by himself at a
tiny table. A newcomer enters. Half the men in the room nod to him, and
he returns the salutation with as much cordiality as he thinks
necessary. The other half don’t look up from their papers. But does he
join one of his friends or acquaintances for a chat over the coffee? No
mere good fellowship would justify such a liberty. He seeks the most
secluded corner that remains unoccupied, draws a table barricade in
front of him, and signals for a waiter. And if two men are inconsiderate
enough to come in together with an unfinished conversation carried on
above a whisper, all the other men in the room frown at the disturbers.
The Englishman seeks his club for solitude, not for society.
Brent was quite used to this feature of London club life, and now he
rather rejoiced in it. There was just sufficient companionship in the
simple presence of a few silent mortals to relieve a sense of isolation
which had been oppressing him for weeks. It would not be true to say
that wealth had in a few short months made of Brent a morose and
disappointed man. The great problem which confronted him had proved a
heavier burden than he anticipated. The anxieties of the past year had
been more irksome than the pleasurable though arduous excitement of the
previous months of adventure. But Brent was too young, too sanguine, and
too resourceful to be cast down by the vast responsibilities which
weighed more heavily upon him each day.
The day after he had arranged for taking the British government loan of
£20,000,000, he set about figuring up roughly his financial operations
since the night he had taken John Wharton partly into his confidence
nine months before. Nearly $500,000,000, about fifteen per cent of his
golden store, had been used or distributed--“got rid of,” he put it, in
summing up the situation to himself.
“No, it isn’t rid of,” he corrected himself, “unless I burn up four
hundred millions in securities. That is the worst of it,” he mused,
rather gloomily. “I’m not rid of any, to speak of, except what I have
actually given away.” And the young man put down a little resentfully
the sense of estrangement and isolation which his unique problem and
insular situation forced upon him. He persisted in his determination to
guard jealously the secret of his wealth. He fancied he was still secure
from real danger of discovery. Once or twice he had experienced some of
the anxieties of a hunted criminal. The ardor with which the newspapers
had pursued his secret added to his dread of the notoriety which would
come with discovery.
Let it not be imagined that this trait in Brent’s character was a
singular and un-American whim. There is not an Astor, a Vanderbilt, or a
Rockefeller who would not gladly sacrifice a great fortune from his
possessions to escape from the isolation in which wealth has imprisoned
him. The privilege of meeting one’s fellow-men upon a basis of sincerity
is a boon quite unappreciated until wealth has taken it away. A man of
many millions must do one of two things. Either he must build a wall
about himself which he will permit no stranger and few of his so-called
friends to pass, or he must arm himself with unrelenting suspicion and
incredulity, until his waning faith in human nature almost disappears.
If the true story of “How it Feels to be a Millionaire” should ever be
written, it will contain chapters that will excite more commiseration
than envy. The “poor millionaire” is not likely to become an object of
popular pity and sympathy, but he is often not a bad fellow after all.
An American cursed with the fame of many millions gained by his
ancestors, said recently that from early youth his position had
suggested to him that of an antique statue at the mercy of
relic-hunters. His experience constantly deepened his impression, that
nine out of ten of the people with whom he was brought in contact were
armed each with hammer and chisel, ready to chip off a piece if they
could get a chance. It was not so much from love of his wealth that he
resisted most demands made upon him. It was because a man to whom money
is a drug resented being wheedled and hoodwinked and swindled with just
the same feelings that a poorer man might spend ten times the sum
involved to recover an overcharge from a railroad company.
But if Brent had escaped thus far the commoner penalties of wealth, the
exemption was more than overbalanced by his peculiar responsibilities.
His misgivings about the effects of an enormous addition to the world’s
supply of monetary metal were growing stronger daily. He began weeks
before to realize the practical wisdom of the financial maxim that the
essential value of gold as a monetary standard is its stability--its
steady and almost unfluctuating supply. Before he left America signs
were multiplying of a radical disturbance at the foundations of the
financial system. High and advancing prices with cheap money was a
combination so paradoxical and rare, that all calculations were upset by
it. Already the tendency was to accumulate and hoard visible property,
rather than the golden or other monetary tokens of it. Who wanted his
possessions turned into gold or other form of cash, when the purchasing
power of money was declining daily? The prices of food, of manufactures,
of land, of everything except labor, were rising at an unprecedented
rate. There was a scramble for things of intrinsic value--a property
panic, it might be called.
Wheat, for instance, was climbing toward famine prices. Why should an
owner of grain sell, unless to invest in some commodity enhancing in
value at a still more rapid rate? Stocks and bonds or money itself would
yield only the most trifling returns on the capital represented. The
prudent investor was forced to cling to those forms of property the
demands for which were unceasing and inevitable. And the effect of this
sudden limitation of the channels of investment? Obvious enough, and
ominous too, to the dullest comprehension. When everybody wants to buy
and nobody is willing to sell, prices quoted have small relation to the
intrinsic value of the commodity in question. There was almost a corner
in the markets of America. It was no artificial squeeze, manipulated by
scheming traders. It was the inexorable working of one of the great laws
of demand and supply, which no man or set of men could completely
control. It presaged something worse.
Already the mutterings of a rapidly gathering storm were heard
throughout the land. Wage-earners, and all men with fixed incomes, were
at the mercy of a far worse demon than “hard times.” Reduce the pay of
every laborer and salary-earner in the United States forty per cent
within six short months, and what would be the effect? The very
foundations of constitutional government would hardly bear the strain.
And yet that was just what had happened. The artisan who earned $20 a
week in September was able to buy no more with his money than the
laborer’s $12 a week had purchased the previous March. To restore to the
artisan the same equivalent in purchasing power that he had received in
March, would require raising his wages to $33 a week. In other words,
$20 would buy in March precisely the same quantities of food and
clothing and fuel which it needed $33 to procure in September.
If this scaling down of wages had been done by employers, organized
labor would have known how to deal with the situation. But the amount
paid in wages was the same--more in some cases--in dollars and cents as
it had been at the beginning of the year. It was impossible, therefore,
to retaliate at once with strikes and other arbitrary measures. The
power to be combated was greater and beyond the employers. Moreover, it
was something even less tangible than the soul of a corporation. There
was no getting at it. Employers themselves, except the producers of
goods in regular demand, suffered from it quite as much as did the
workers. The railroad companies could not advance fares and rates,
because the purchasing power of money had suddenly diminished nearly one
half. The increased prices they were called upon to pay for coal, rails,
and rolling stock left them no surplus with which to satisfy the demands
of employees for more wages. Miners and mill operatives were pressing
their claims with better success. Coal and standard cotton and woolen
goods were held at high prices, although the demand from actual
consumers did not increase. The latter fact did not for the moment
trouble the middlemen or dealers. Nothing was to be gained by turning
their goods into money on a rising market. They held on for still larger
profits.
The farmers were the ones who regarded the situation with the greatest
satisfaction. The crops already beginning to come to market were large,
but the prices of all staple products were marvelously high. Wheat,
corn, and cotton seemed to be the favorite investments for idle money,
while a real estate boom drew attention away from stocks and bonds in
still another direction. Agriculture could afford to enjoy a wonderful
prosperity at the expense of town vocations. The boot had been on the
other leg long enough. Somehow, no matter how, the tiller of the soil
had been suddenly restored to his pristine supremacy in the economic
world. It was enough for him to rejoice over the fact without trying to
explain it.
Explanations there were and plenty of them, spread before all classes in
the literature of the day. The most plausible, and the one most readily
accepted at farmhouse hearthstones, was a complete vindication of the
so-called “greenback craze” of a few years before. For the first time
since the resumption of specie payments ten years after the Civil War,
there was a superabundance of money in circulation. The effect upon the
farmer was an unmixed blessing apparently. Once more agriculture paid a
handsome profit. What matter to the farmer if the prices of all kinds of
commodities were high? His farm supplied most of his bodily wants. He
could burn wood instead of buying coal, and he didn’t mind paying rather
more for clothing if the profit on his oats and corn doubled. Besides,
he could pay his debts, and cancel his mortgage before long. It was only
the fortunate farmer who had no debts or mortgage who was puzzled what
to do with his enhanced profits. Savings banks, stocks, bonds would
yield him only a pittance on his money. He could not buy more land,
because the price had already gone too high. He wished he had not sold
his crops for he saw they would have brought still higher figures if he
had held on.
Most of the features of the situation were familiar to Brent before he
left America, and his apprehensions had been thoroughly aroused. The
newspapers and his private advisers at about the beginning of October
informed him that affairs at home were assuming a critical and dangerous
phase in many places. He received one afternoon by cable a long message
in cipher from Wharton, who was still his sole confidant. When he had
translated it, this was what confronted him:
“Commercial demoralization becoming so widespread in all centers that
grave evils imminent. Foodstuffs have reached famine prices. Bread riots
feared Chicago and other places. Situation aggravated by our continued
support of stocks at present prices. Tendency to sell securities and
reinvest in visible property increasing daily. Think you should make
radical change of policy in face threatened evils. Much regret your
absence. Cannot you return for at least brief visit? Emergency may
compel prompt action any moment to divert disastrous consequences.
Please cable full instructions and sail if possible.--WHARTON.”
Brent was seriously alarmed and discouraged by this dispatch. Before
deciding upon a complete course of action, he cabled Wharton the
following reply:
“Endeavor divert course of speculation by allowing stocks decline
gradually few points without exciting panic. Offer British naval bonds
freely below par if necessary in order attract money from grain market.
Try reduce price wheat by short sales or otherwise. Devise means for
supplying food at fair prices in all distressed districts. Do this
without ostentation, and employ existing agencies for distribution if
possible. Use fullest discretion and spare no expense to avert serious
disaster and violence. Keep me fully advised. If situation becomes more
critical will return immediately.”
When he put himself face to face with the difficulties which he hoped
his message to Wharton would mitigate somewhat, Brent speedily found
himself in a bad temper. He put on his hat, set his teeth deep in an
unlighted cigar, and presently was strolling aimlessly along the Thames
Embankment. He found neither counsel nor encouragement in the face of
old Father Thames. The grey river, like the grey city on its banks, was
calmly indifferent to the petty concerns of any single generation of
human weal and woe. The young man was unreasonably irritated by the
absence of sympathy and inspiration in the inanimate things around him.
The hopelessness of his problem angered him.
“Building the _Mystery_ is the only sensible thing I have done since I
landed the stuff in New York,” he told himself bitterly, while he leaned
over the stone abutment near Cleopatra’s Needle, and watched with
heedless eyes the gathering veil of dusk upon the river. “I was right at
the outset--I cannot keep such a quantity of gold; I cannot spend it; I
cannot give it away. What am I to do? I have turned only an eighth of it
into money, and the financial system of America threatens to come
tumbling about my ears. If I should invite a committee of bankers to
visit my New York strong-room, and allow them to make known what they
saw there, I verily believe anarchy would reign throughout Christendom
within a month. I never dreamed that the monetary system of the world
was so fragile a structure. Why, a golden ball, only about ten yards in
diameter, would crush it in ruins. I solemnly believe that if my vault
contained so many tons of dynamite instead of gold, and it threatened
the destruction of the whole city of New York, it would be a far less
dangerous menace to humanity than it actually is.”
The crushing sense of responsibility with which his thoughts suddenly
overwhelmed the young man threw into his face a grey look of age, which
might have been the reflection of the gathering shadows. His attitude
had unconsciously become one of such dejection that a policeman passing
by looked at him sharply. A ragged urchin with the inevitable box of
matches, which is always the excuse for London mendicancy, accosted
Brent at the same moment.
“Wax lights, sir, penny a box?”
No response.
“Have a light, sir. The cigar’s no good to you, sir, without a light,”
and the boy lit a match and held it up before the tip of the cigar still
in Brent’s mouth. Brent woke up. He turned rather angrily at first, but
the half-impudent, half-winning smile on the dirty but bright face
looking up at him, while its owner stood on tiptoe with the burning
match, checked the sharp rebuff on the end of his tongue. His mood
changed. He allowed the boy to light his cigar. Then he took from his
pocket at least half a dozen golden sovereigns, put them into the lad’s
hand without looking at them, and turned away.
The boy gasped. For an instant he hesitated, then he started to run. He
had not gone more than a dozen steps when he stopped suddenly. He stood
still for a moment and then came slowly back.
“See here, mister,” he explained, with reluctant honesty, holding out
the bright yellow coins toward Brent, “them isn’t ha’pence; them’s
gold.”
“I know it, youngster. You’re welcome to them. Here’s another for your
honesty,” dropping one more sovereign into the grimy hand.
The variety of emotion that revealed itself through the dirt on the
small boy’s face was so rapid that Brent almost burst out laughing. But
the climax surprised him. It was genuine pity in the bright brown eyes,
when after a long silence the little lad came a bit closer, glanced
significantly at the darkening river, and said:
“I say, mister, a toff like you ain’t got no call to be here. You might
fall in, you know, or some blokes might come along and chuck you in for
your ticker. If you’re going to stay I’m going to stop along, too. I can
swim, and the police-boats are right here at the Temple wharf.” And
after a moment, he added, “Come up to Charing Cross and I’ll give you
back the coin--all except the last one; I ain’t got no use for so much,
not in a year.”
Brent listened to this speech in amazement.
“Good God! The boy thinks I am going to drown myself. He can’t account
for indifference to gold on any other hypothesis,” he said to himself.
Putting a friendly hand on the ragged shoulder, he replied, with
reassuring heartiness:
“Well, my lad, I’ll go with you to Charing Cross, if you like. But don’t
be alarmed. I haven’t robbed a bank, or escaped from a lunatic asylum,
or been jilted by a sweetheart. My only trouble is that I’ve got more of
those things”--pointing to the clutched hand in which the boy still
held his coins--“than I know what to do with. By the way, I don’t think
I need a swim as much as you do.”
The boy looked at him mystified and unbelieving.
“Nobody’s got that, sir,” he said, answering the point in Brent’s
remarks quite beyond his comprehension. “Even the Lord Mayor hasn’t got
more coin than he can do with.”
“The boy is quite right,” said Brent to himself. “No other man in all
Christendom is cursed as I am. What real aid or sympathy could I get
even if I sought it?” This to silence the suggestion which had risen in
his mind that he should sacrifice even the privacy of life which he had
guarded so jealously, in order to gain the wisest counsel for the
solution of his momentous problem.
They walked up to the Strand, these two, and the odd companionship
attracted some attention in the crowded thoroughfare. Brent noticed that
the lad looked with considerable interest into the window of a cheap
restaurant, and it prompted the question,
“Are you often hungry, youngster?”
“Oh, yes, ’most always, but I had a pretty good feed this morning,” was
the matter-of-fact reply.
“Let’s see how much you can eat now,” said Brent with some interest,
turning back to the restaurant.
“Just what I was a-goin’ to do, sir, as soon as you had no more use for
me,” responded the boy with enthusiasm, and quickly added--“but I’ll pay
for it, and stand treat for you, too, please, sir.”
Brent laughed, but said nothing, and the boy, assuming an air of supreme
importance, led the way to an unoccupied table far down the narrow room.
“Sit here, sir,” said he, pulling out a chair for his guest and holding
out his hand for Brent’s silk tile, which he put upon a peg by dint of
climbing upon another chair to do it. “Bring a meenoo,” he commanded
grandiloquently of a grinning waiter who came up. He handed the greasy
slip of paper to Brent and observed confidentially:
“Don’t mind the expense, sir, we’ll have a big feed,” and the small
host’s eyes sparkled in anticipation.
Brent tried hard to preserve his gravity, as he explained that he wasn’t
very hungry, because he had eaten heartily in the afternoon. The boy
seized the bill of fare and examined it critically. The most expensive
dishes it boasted cost ninepence, and the variety was extremely limited.
“Haven’t you got any jugged hare, or any roast beef an’ Yorkshire
pudding?” inquired the ragged gourmand with some scorn.
“No, we don’t have joints and hot dishes ready in the evening, but we
can cook you a good steak or cutlets,” said the waiter.
“Well, bring us some cutlets and steak and potatoes--and bacon--and
sausages--and fried onions--and bread and butter--and--and tea, large
cups--and some bath-buns--and cheese,” running his eye rapidly down the
list. “That’s all now--oh, I say,” in sudden inspiration, “how much is a
bottle of fizz?”
“Fizz?”
“Yes, the bubbly stuff that toffs drink.”
“Oh, champagne, do you mean? We haven’t any, but I can send out for a
bottle.”
Brent thought it time to interfere. He didn’t want any fizz, really, he
explained in answer to the incredulous look in the boy’s bright eyes.
“Beer, then?”
No, he didn’t want even beer, and the meal that had been ordered was
quite fit for a king without any additions. The boy dismissed the
waiter, but continued studying the bill of fare for some moments in some
anxiety.
“Do you think that will be enough, sir?” he asked presently. “They’ve
got some fried liver and some cold boiled ham, that I know would be
good.”
Brent assured his anxious entertainer that he would be quite unable to
touch liver or ham after such a repast as had been ordered. The waiter
returned to ask what he should serve first.
“Bring it all at once,” was the boy’s prompt instruction, “and hurry it
up, too.”
It came presently, “all at once,” and it quite filled the table.
“Just help yourself, sir. Ain’t this great? Golly, what a feed!” and the
boy sat forward on the edge of his chair, his eyes dancing with
excitement, and urged his guest to sample all the dishes at once. Brent
took a cutlet and began eating. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and
he could not help catching the spirit which had made the ragged urchin a
picture of unalloyed delight that would warm the coldest heart. It was a
long time since he had seen a hungry boy eat, and Brent watched him with
admiration and envy. To the boy, it was the occasion of the supremest
happiness the year had brought. So it was to Brent.
“He’s a smart little rascal, and handsome, too, under the dirt and
rags,” thought the young man.
The little fellow was too busy to talk during the first few minutes of
his feasting. When the edge was off his appetite, Brent drew him out,
and he was soon telling volubly about his life in the streets and
fortune’s frowns and favors. He was a waif, about eleven he supposed, of
shadowy antecedents, and contented with his lot. He had been to school,
could read and write, had no parents, and “didn’t want any.” Chaps that
did have, most of them, had a harder time of it than he. Brent asked him
what he meant to do with the seven pounds that he had given him.
“I don’t quite know yet, sir,” the lad replied slowly. “I’ll give some
of it to the manager at the Boys’ Lodging, so’s I’ll have a warm place
to sleep nights when trade’s bad next winter. Then I think I’ll try
papers. You see, you can do jolly well with papers when you’ve money,
sir. There’s a place in Whitechapel Road where I can get a fine suit,
secondhand, you know, sir, for three bob, instead o’ these,” and he
looked down at his dilapidated apparel disdainfully.
The meal was soon at an end. Brent had taken only a chop, a bit of
bread, and a little tea, but there was nothing left of the wholesale
repast which the small but now rather podgy looking youngster opposite
him had ordered. Brent said nothing when the boy finally called for the
bill, but allowed him to pay it, and smiled when with a grand air the
lad handed the waiter a tip of twopence. On reaching the street Brent
took a card from his pocket, wrote upon it the address of his lodgings,
and giving it to the boy told him to call upon him at two o’ clock the
following day. The boy promised.
“Don’t fail, now,” Brent added, “for I think I have something for you
that you will like better than selling matches.” The boy touched his hat
and was gone.
Brent felt like himself again. His contact with a little genuine human
nature had done him a world of good, and his whim had brought him more
pleasure than he remembered having for many a day.
“There’s good stuff in that boy,” he reflected, smiling to himself over
some of the youngster’s hospitable oddities. “I’ll turn him over to
Forbes to-morrow, and have him sent to school, and see what can be made
of him.”
He sought the solitude of a smoking-room corner at his club, and sat
down in a more sanguine spirit to meditate over the problem which never
was long absent from his mind.
He remained in a brown study, oblivious to his surroundings, for nearly
half an hour. Then he suddenly jumped up, left the club house, called a
cab, and ten minutes later was at the cable office of the Western Union
Telegraph Company in the Royal Exchange.
“I want to hire the use of one of your cables for an hour or two this
evening,” said he to the man in charge.
“Wh-what?”
“I want to have a conversation with a gentleman in New York over one of
your lines, say between ten and twelve o’clock this evening. Will you
arrange it? How long will it take for messages to go back and forth, if
I sit by the operator’s side at this end, and my friend is in your New
York office?”
“I don’t think we can do it, sir. Our superintendent isn’t here, and I
never heard of anybody hiring a cable in that way. If everything was
clear, short messages would go back and forth very quickly. They would
have to be repeated at the cable station in Ireland, again at the other
end of the cable in Nova Scotia, and again at Duxbury, if you used that
line.”
“Of course you can arrange it, if I pay you for it. Let’s see, though;
it is only three o’clock in New York now, perhaps it can be done quicker
at that end. Give me a form,” and Brent wrote a message to Wharton,
asking him to secure the use of a cable at the Western Union office for
two hours, between five and seven o’clock New York time (ten and twelve
London time), and to post himself at the other end of the wire. The
message, the clerk was confident, would be in New York within half an
hour. Brent left, and returned to the office just before ten o’clock.
“It’s all right, sir,” said the clerk obsequiously.
“We received a message from the New York manager half an hour ago,
instructing us to give you every facility for exclusive use of our best
line. Will you come to the operating room?”
Brent followed, and was seated a moment later by the side of a young
operator, who, with his hand on a telegraph key, was listening to the
rapid ticks of the sounder.
“Mr. Wharton is there, sir. Will you write what you have to say to him?”
“Ask him what happened to-day,” replied Brent.
A few nervous dots and dashes, and the question had started on its three
thousand mile journey. There was silence--one, two, three, four minutes.
Then the answer began to come back. The telegrapher wrote it down rather
slowly, and with occasional pauses between the words, for the cable does
not bring a message as rapidly as a land line can carry it. This was
what Brent read over the clerk’s shoulder:
“Followed your suggestion and stocks sagged after irregular market,
closing about two per cent off. Sold wheat freely, but market did not
break though weak. Bought fifty thousand barrels flour, which shall
offer retailers and bakers to-morrow at sharp reduction. Hope to
demoralize corner in bread-stuffs, but fear will require tremendous
expenditure. Stock market will need continued support even at much
lower range of prices. Might relieve stagnation money market by
borrowing heavily on English bonds, and thus divert funds from
bread-stuffs speculation. Could borrow about ninety millions at two to
three per cent, probably on hundred million bonds. Believe this would
give tone to whole market, and cause immediate decline wheat and other
staples. Distress among masses very great and prospects serious, trouble
becoming more grave. Fear only most radical measures will avert
dangerous outbreaks. Strong movement developing favor immediate summons
special session Congress. Hope you can arrange come over within few
days.”
“That’s all,” said the operator, as he signaled a brief “o.k.” to the
cable station.
As soon as Brent had read the last word he seized a writing-pad, and
scribbling only a few words on a sheet, according to the operator’s
suggestion, in order that the wire might not be idle, he replied as
follows:
“Much surprised and distressed that situation so serious. We must remedy
it at any cost. Hope Congress not be summoned. Some folly sure to
result, and things bad enough now. Your suggestion about bond loan
excellent. Please act on it at once, of course avoiding greater
disturbance than necessary in market. Just as well let stocks decline
five or six per cent more, if can be done without exciting panic.
Scarcer and dearer money with lower range prices stock market ought make
it easy secure break in grain. Do you think a full supply food at
reasonable prices in principal cities will avert outbreaks? If so use
every effort to provide it promptly. Would suggest supplying flour at
old rates to such bakers as will agree sell bread at ordinary prices. I
appreciate great difficulties situation, but beg you use best efforts
and fullest discretion dealing with it. I authorize you sacrifice freely
all resources which I have left in your hands, if necessary, in order
cope with any public evils which may arise. I have important plans on
Continent for next few weeks, but in view emergency which you describe
will postpone them, and sail American Line Saturday.”
The last word had gone within a minute after Brent had finished writing.
The interval was seven or eight minutes before this reply began to come
back:
“Think I fully understand. Believe no necessity can arise for assuming
full power you authorize me to use. I appreciate great responsibility.
Would be glad escape it, but will do best in my power. Thankful you are
returning. Shall endeavor postpone any extreme measures till you arrive.
Yes, think can postpone crisis in cities by breaking prices food supply.
Shall give first attention to that feature problem. Then shall use
every effort drain market of surplus money without causing panic stocks.
Of course you wish all funds accumulated to remain idle.”
And Brent answered:
“Certainly, and if turn in tide should draw investment attention to
stocks at lower prices, do not hesitate to sell freely any of our
securities to supply such demand. Would it be good idea consult
secretary treasury about relief measures in order show administration no
necessity summon special session?”
Wharton’s reply was:
“Yes, if agitation becomes stronger, and perhaps in any event. Necessity
for haste so many directions makes it imperative that have assistance
several agents whom I must take partially into confidence. May be
compelled consult both national and local authorities in execution some
plans. Have not decided definite course action, but will do so to-night,
and push vigorous execution along all lines. If suggestions occur to you
before you sail, please cable them.”
Brent scribbled in answer:
“All right. Do your best, old fellow. I leave everything to you with
perfect confidence. Good-night.”
And after a moment, the instrument ticked back an answering “Good-night”
from under the ocean.