THE BLACK-EYED YOUNG MAN DISCOURSES OF EASY
MONEY
It was to Jonathan Reuben that the waiters in the dining-car paid
profound attention, although Gilman had the money. There was something
about young Wix's breadth of chest and pinkness of countenance and
clearness of smiling eye which marked him as one with whom good food
agreed, whom good liquor cheered, and whom good service thawed to the
point of gratitude and gratuities: whereas Clifford Gilman, take him
any place, was only background, and not much of that.
"Say, General Jackson," observed Wix pleasantly to the waiter, "put a
quart of bubbles in the freezer while we study over this form sheet.
Then bring us a dry Martini, _not_ out of a bottle."
"I reckon you're going to have about what you want, boss," said the
negro with a grin, and darted away.
He talked with the steward, who first frowned, then smiled, as he
looked back and saw the particular guest. A moment later he was
mixing, and Clifford Gilman gazed upon his friend with most worshipful
eyes. Here, indeed, was a comrade of whom to be proud, and by whom to
pattern!
They had swallowed their oysters and had finished their soup, with a
quart of champagne in a frosty silver bucket beside them and the
entree on the way, when the "captain" was compelled to seat a third
passenger at their table. It was the black-eyed young man of the
walnut shells.
At first, as with his quick sweep he recognized in Mr. Gilman one of
his victims, he hesitated, but a glance at the jovial Mr. Wix
reassured him.
"We're just going to open a bottle of joy," invited Wix. "Shall I send
for another glass?"
"Surest thing, you know," replied the other. "I'm some partial to
headache water."
"This is on the victim," observed Wix with a laugh, as the cork was
pulled. "You see he has coin left, even after attending your little
party."
"Pity I didn't know he was so well padded," grinned the black-eyed
one, whereat all three laughed, Gilman more loudly than any of them.
Gilman ceased laughing, however, to struggle with his increasing
tendency toward cross-eyes.
Wix turned to him with something of contempt.
"He don't mind the loss of twenty or so," he dryly observed. "He's in
a business where he sees nothing but money all day long. He's a highly
trusted bank clerk."
Instead of glancing with interest at Mr. Gilman, the black-eyed young
man sharply scrutinized Mr. Wix. Then he smiled.
"And what line are you in?" he finally asked of Wix.
"I've been in everything," confessed that joyous young gentleman with
a chuckle, "and stayed in nothing. Just now, I'm studying law."
"Doing nothing on the side?"
"Not a thing."
"He can't save any money to go into anything else," laughed Gilman,
momentarily awakened into a surprising semblance of life. "Every time
he gets fifty dollars he goes out of town to buy a fancy meal."
"You were born for easy money," the black-eyed one advised Wix. "It's
that sort of a lip that drives us all into the shearing business."
Wix shook his head.
"Not me," said he. "The law books prove that easy money costs too
much."
The black-eyed one shrugged his shoulders.
"In certain lines it does," he admitted. "I'm going to get out of my
line right away, for that very reason. Besides," he added with a sigh,
"these educated town constables are putting the business on the
bump-the-bumps. They've got so they want from half to two-thirds, and
put a bookkeeper on the job."
Mr. Gilman presently created a diversion by emitting a faint whoop,
and immediately afterward went to sleep in the bread-platter. Wix sent
for the porter of their sleeping-car, and between the two they put Mr.
Gilman to bed. Before Wix returned to the shell expert he carefully
extracted the money from his friend Clifford's pocket.
"He won't need it, anyhow," he lightly explained, "and we will. I'll
tell him about it in the morning."
"I guess you can do that and make him like it all right," agreed the
other. "He's a born sucker. He can get to the fat money, can't he?"
Wix shook his head.
"No," he declared; "parents poor, and I don't think he has enough
ginger in him ever to make a pile of his own."
The other was thoughtful and smiling for a time.
"He'll get hold of it some way or other, mark what I tell you, and you
might just as well have it as anybody. Somebody's going to cop it. I
think you said you lived in Filmore? Suppose I drop through there with
a quick-turn proposition that would need two or three thousand, and
would show that much profit in a couple of months? If you help me pull
it through I'll give you a slice out of it."
Wix was deeply thoughtful, but he made no reply.
"You don't live this way all the time, and you'd like to," urged the
other. "There's no reason you shouldn't. Why, man, the bulk of this
country is composed of suckers that are able to lay hands on from one
to ten thousand apiece. They'll spend ten years to get it and can be
separated from it in ten minutes. You're one of the born separators.
You were cut out for nothing but easy money."
Easy money! The phrase sank into the very soul of Jonathan Reuben Wix.
Every professional, commercial and manufacturing man who knew him had
predicted for him a brilliant future; but they had given him false
credit for his father's patience to plod for years. Heredity had only
given him, upon his father's side, selfishness and ingenuity; upon his
mother's side, selfishness and a passion for luxurious comfort, and
now, at twenty-six, he was still a young man without any prospect
whatsoever.
Easy money! He was still dreaming of it; looking lazily for chance to
throw it his way, and reading law, commercial law principally, in a
desultory fashion, though absorbing more than he knew, when one day,
about six months afterward, the black-haired young man landed in
Filmore. He was growing a sparse, jet-black mustache now, and wore a
solemn, black frock-coat which fitted his slender frame like a glove.
He walked first into the Filmore Bank, and by his mere appearance
there nearly scared Clifford Gilman into fits.
"I guess you don't remember me," said the stranger with a smile. "My
name is Horace G. Daw, and I had the pleasure of doing a little
business with you at the Putnam County Fair."
"Yes, I--I--remember," admitted Gilman, thankful that there were no
depositors in, and looking apprehensively out of the door. "What can I
do for you?"
"I have a little business opportunity that I think would about suit
you," said Mr. Daw, reaching toward his inside coat pocket.
"Not here; not here!" Gilman nervously interrupted him. "Somebody
might come in at any minute, even Mr. Smalley himself. He's started
for the train, but he might come back."
"When, then, can I see you?" demanded Daw, seeing that Gilman was
afraid of him. He had intended to meet the young man upon terms of
jovial cordiality, but this was better.
"Any time you say, out of hours," said Gilman.
"Then suppose you come down to the Grand Hotel at from seven-thirty to
eight o'clock."
"All right," gulped Gilman. "I'll be there."
Under the circumstances Mr. Daw changed his plans immediately. He had
meant to hunt up Mr. Wix also, but now he most emphatically did not
wish to do so, and kept very closely to his hotel. Mr. Gilman, on the
contrary, did wish to find Mr. Wix, and hunted frantically for him;
but Wix, that day, obeying a sudden craving for squab, had gone fifty
miles to dine!
Alone, then, Gilman went in fear and trembling to the Grand Hotel, and
was very glad indeed to be sheltered from sight in Mr. Daw's room.
What would Mr. Gilman have to drink? Nothing, thank you. No, no wine.
A highball? No, not a highball. Some beer? Not any beer, thank you.
Nevertheless, Mr. Daw ordered a pitcher of draft beer with two
glasses, and Mr. Gilman found himself sipping eagerly at it almost
before he knew it: for after an enforced abstinence of months, that
beer tasted like honey. Also, it was warming to the heart and
exhilarating to the brain, and it enabled him to listen better to the
wonderful opportunity Mr. Daw had to offer him.
It seemed that Mr. Daw had obtained exclusive inside information about
the Red Mud Gold Mine. Three genuine miners--presumably top-booted,
broad-hatted and red neck-kerchiefed--had incorporated that company,
and, keeping sixty per cent. of the stock for themselves, had placed
forty per cent. of it in the East for sale. As paying ore had not been
found in it, after weary months of prospecting, one of the three
partners brought his twenty per cent. of the stock East, and Mr. Daw
had bought it for a song. A song, mind you, a mere nothing. Mr. Daw,
moreover, knew where the other forty per cent. had been sold, and it,
too, could be bought for a song. But now here came the point. After
the departure of the disgruntled third partner the others had found
gold! The two fortunate miners were, however, carefully concealing
their good luck, because they were making most strenuous endeavors to
raise enough money to buy in the outstanding stock before the holders
realized its value.
Mr. Gilman, pouring another amber glassful for himself, nodded his
head in vast appreciation. Smart men, those miners.
Mr. Daw had been fortunate enough to glean these facts from a returned
miner whom he had befriended in early years, and fortunate enough,
too, to secure samples of the ore, all of which had happened within
the past week. Here was one of the samples. _Look at those flecks!_
Those were gold, virgin _gold_!
Mr. Gilman feasted his eyes on those flecks, their precious color
richly enhanced when seen through four glasses of golden beer. That
was actually gold, in the raw state. He strove to comprehend it.
Here was the certified report of the assay, on the letter-head of the
chemist who had examined the ore. It ran _a hundred and sixty-three
dollars to the ton_! Marvelous; perfectly marvelous! Mr. Daw himself,
even as he showed the assay, admired it over and over. As for Mr.
Gilman, words could not explain how he was impressed. A genuine assay!
Now, here is what Mr. Daw had done. Immediately upon receiving the
report upon this assay he had scraped together all the money he could,
and had bought up an additional ten per cent. of the stock of that
company, which left him holding thirty per cent. Also, he had secured
an option upon the thirty per cent. still outstanding. That additional
thirty per cent. could be secured, if it were purchased at once, for
three thousand dollars. Now, if Mr. Gilman could invest that much
money, or knew any one who could, by pooling their stock Mr. Gilman
and Mr. Daw would have sixty per cent. of the total incorporated stock
of the company, and would thus hold control. Mr. Gilman certainly knew
what that meant.
Mr. Gilman did, for Mr. Smalley's Filmore Bank had been started as a
stock company, with Mr. Smalley holding control, and by means of that
control Mr. Smalley had been able to vote himself sufficient salary to
be able to buy up the balance of the stock, so that now it was all
his; but Mr. Gilman could not see where it was possible for him to
secure three thousand dollars for an investment of this nature.
An investment? Mr. Daw objected. This was not an investment at all. It
was merely the laying down of three thousand dollars and immediately
picking it up again fourfold. Why, having secured this stock,
all they had to do was to let the secret of the finding of the
hundred-and-sixty-three-dollar-a-ton gold be known, and, having
control to offer, they could immediately sell it, anywhere, for four
times what they had paid for it. The entire transaction need not take
a week: it need not take four days.
Now, here is what Mr. Daw would do--that is, after he had ordered
another pitcher of beer. He had the thirty per cent. of stock with
him. He spread it out before Mr. Gilman. It was most beautifully
printed stock, on the finest of bond paper, with gold-leaf letters, a
crimson border and green embellishments, and was carefully numbered in
metallic blue. It was also duly transferred in the name of Horace G.
Daw. Mr. Daw would do this: In order that Mr. Gilman might be
protected from the start, Mr. Daw would, upon taking Mr. Gilman's
three thousand, make over to Mr. Gilman this very stock. He would then
take Mr. Gilman's three thousand and purchase the other thirty per
cent. of stock in his, Mr. Daw's, own name, and would, in the
meantime, sign a binding agreement with Mr. Gilman that their stock
should be pooled--that neither should sell without the consent of the
other. It was a glorious opportunity! Mr. Daw was sorry he could not
swing it all himself, but, being unable to do so, it immediately
occurred to him that Mr. Gilman was the very man to benefit by the
opportunity.
Mr. Gilman looked upon that glittering sample of ore, that
unimpeachable certified assay, those beautifully printed stock
certificates of the Red Mud Gold Mining Company, and he saw yellow.
Nothing but gold, rich, red mud gold, was in all his safe, sane and
conservative vision. Here, indeed, was no risk, for here were proofs
enough and to spare. Besides, the entire transaction was so plausible
and natural.
"By George, I'll do it!" said Mr. Gilman, having already, in those few
brief moments, planned what he would do with nine thousand dollars of
profits. Mr. Daw was very loath to let Mr. Gilman go home after this
announcement. He tried to get him to stay all night, so that they
could go right down to the bank together in the morning and fix up the
matter; for it must be understood that a glittering opportunity like
this must be closed immediately. Mr. Gilman, as a business man of
experience, could appreciate that. But there were weighty reasons why
Mr. Gilman could not do this, no matter how much he might desire it,
or see its advisability. Very well, then, Mr. Daw would simply draw up
that little agreement to pool their stock, so that the matter could be
considered definitely settled, and Mr. Daw would then wire, yet that
night, to the holders of the remaining stock that he would take it.
With much gravity and even pomp the agreement was drawn up and signed;
then Mr. Gilman, taking the sage advice of Mr. Daw, drank seltzer and
ammonia and ate lemon peel, whereupon he went home, keeping squarely
in the center of the sidewalk to prove to himself that he could walk a
straight line without wavering. Young Mr. Daw, meanwhile, clinging to
that signed agreement as a mariner to his raft, sat upon the edge of
his bed to rejoice and to admire himself; for this was Mr. Daw's first
adventure into the higher and finer degrees of "wise work," and he was
quite naturally elated over his own neatness and despatch.