WHICH SHOWS THE EASIEST WAY TO MAKE A
BUCKET-SHOP PAY
Within three days, Wix, who was a curious blend of laziness and
energy, had fitted up an office in a sample-room leading off the lobby
of the Grand Hotel. Over the name on the door he puzzled somewhat, and
it was only his hatred for every component syllable of "Jonathan
Reuben Wix" that caused the sign finally to appear as "La Salle Grain
and Stock Brokerage Company." The walls were freshly papered in deep
red, a thick, red carpet was put upon the floor, a resplendent
cashier's wicket and desk were installed, fine leather-padded chairs
faced a neatly ruled blackboard; and the speculative element of
Filmore walked right into its first real bucket-shop and made itself
at home. It was a positive pleasure to lose money there, and it was a
joy to have young Wix take it. He did it so jovially.
Punctually every evening Wix handed to Gilman his half of the profits
on the trades closed that day, and each week the profits became
larger. Gilman was thrown into a constant state of delight; Wix bought
him a horse and buggy. Gilman saw fortune just ahead of him; Wix saw
possible disaster. It pained him to note that Filmore was optimistic.
There were many more bulls than bears, which was not the ideal
condition. There should have been a bear to offset every bull, in
which case the La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company would have
run no risk whatever.
Of course, the inevitable happened. All the wheat and stock gamblers
of Filmore got in on a strong bull market and stayed in. When the
market finally turned back and the "longs" were frightened out, the
crash came, and every dollar was lost of the original three thousand.
Wix, having anticipated the possibility of such an event, was
disappointed but "game." Gilman, having more at stake and being at
best a cheerful winner only, was frantic.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?" he moaned, over and over.
"Dig up more money," Wix cheerfully advised him.
"I can't!" cried Gilman. "I've gone now even deeper than I dared." He
was silent for a long time. Great beads of perspiration came on his
brow. His hair was wet. "Wix," he finally burst out, "I've got to tell
you something; something that no living creature knows but me."
"No, you don't!" Wix sharply stopped him. "If you have any secrets,
keep them to yourself. I am stone deaf."
Gilman's eyes widened with a look of positive terror. For the first
time in his life he had met that glare in the eyes of a supposed
friend which denied friendship, sentiment or emotion of any sort;
which told only of cold self-interest. Two or three times he essayed
to speak, but he could not. He only stood with his sides heaving, like
a spent dog.
"There is no use whining about this thing," Wix went on sharply.
"We've got to raise money, and that's all there is to it. How about
your profits that I've been handing you? I've spent mine."
There was no answer.
"You said something about owing four hundred dollars before we began,"
Wix went on. "I suppose you repaid that--that loan."
Gilman dumbly nodded.
"I've paid you over a thousand dollars rake-off. I suppose you saved
the rest of it?"
Again Gilman nodded his head.
"Well, bring me that six hundred or whatever it is."
Gilman mechanically produced it, all in one-hundred-dollar bills
folded very flat.
That morning Wix faced the business anew with six hundred dollars, and
felt keenly his limited capital. His severe losses had been a good
advertisement, and every man who had won a dollar was prepared to put
it back. Wix, with a steady hand at the helm, stood through this
crisis most admirably, refusing trades from buyers until he had
sellers enough to offset them, and refusing excess trades from sellers
until he had buyers to balance. Within two weeks he had a comfortable
little sum, but now the daily division of spoils brought no balm to
Gilman. He was suddenly old, and upon his face were appearing lines
that would last him throughout his life. Upon the florid countenance
of Wix there was not even the shadow of a crease.
"Good money, boy," said he to Gilman, upon the day he handed over the
completion of five hundred dollars. "This business is like a poker
game. If the players stick at it long enough the kitty will have all
the money."
"I don't want it all," replied Gilman wearily. "Wix, if I ever get
back the twenty-five hundred dollars that it will take to make me
square, I swear before my Maker," and he held up his trembling, white
hand, "never to touch another investment outside the bank as long as I
live."
"Your liver must be the color of a sick salmon," retorted Wix, but
nevertheless he was himself disillusioned. The bucket-shop business
was not what he had imagined it to be. It was not "easy money!" It had
fluctuations, must be constantly watched, was susceptible to
bankruptcy--and meant work! The ideal enterprise was one which,
starting from nothing, involved no possible loss; which yielded a
large block of cold cash within a short time, and which was then
ended. Daw's idea was the most ideal that had come under his
observation. That was really an admirable scheme of Daw's, except for
one very serious drawback. It was dangerous. Now, if as clever a plan,
and one without any menace from the law, could only be hinged upon
some more legitimate business--say a bucket-shop concern....
There is no analyzing a creation, an invention. It is not
deliberately worked out, step by step. It is a flash of genius. At
this moment young Wix created. The principle he evolved was, in fact,
to stand him in good stead in a score of "safe" operations, but, just
now, it was a gaudy new thing, and its beauty almost blinded him. The
same idea had been used by many men before him, but Wix did not know
this, and he created it anew.
"Sam," he said to the cigar-store man next morning, "I want you to
invest in The La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company."
"Not any," declared Sam. "You have two hundred of my money now."
"Not the entire roll," denied Wix. "I only got twelve and one-half per
cent."
"If you'd take twelve and a half per cent. eight times you'd have it
all," retorted Sam. "That's why I quit. I stood to lose two hundred
dollars on a seven-point drop, or win a hundred and seventy-five on an
eight-point raise. When I finally figured out that I had the tweezers
into my hair going and coming, I didn't wish any more."
"But suppose I'd offer you a chance to stand on the other side of the
counter and take part of the change?"
"I'd let you stand right here and talk a while. What's the matter?"
"Haven't capital enough," explained Wix. "I think I refused to take a
trade of yours one time, just because I had to play safe. I had to be
in position to pay off all my losses or quit business."
"How much are you increasing?" asked Glidden, interested.
"A twenty-five-thousand-dollar stock company: two hundred and fifty
shares at a hundred dollars each."
"I might take a share or two," said Sam.
"You'll take twenty," declared Wix, quite sure of himself. "I want
four incorporators besides myself, and I want you to be one of them."
"Is that getting me the stock any cheaper?"
"Fifty per cent.; two thousand dollars' worth for a thousand. After we
five incorporators are in we'll raise the price to par and not sell a
share for a cent less."
"How much do you get out of this?" Sam asked, with a leer of
understanding.
"Ten per cent. for selling the stock, and have the new company buy
over the present one for ten thousand dollars' worth of shares."
[Illustration: "Sam," he said, "I want you to invest"]
"I thought so," said Glidden with a grin. "Fixtures, established
business and good will, I suppose."
Wix chuckled.
"You put it in the loveliest words," he admitted.
"You're a bright young man," said Glidden admiringly. "You'd better
pay for those fixtures and put in the whole business at five hundred."
"What do you suppose I'm enlarging the thing for, except to increase
my income?" Wix demanded. "With ten thousand dollars' worth of stock
I'd get only two-fifths of the profit, when I've been getting it all
heretofore. As a matter of fact, I'm doing pretty well not to try to
capture the majority."
They both laughed upon this, and Glidden capitulated. Within
forty-eight hours Wix had his four directors, all ex-traders who would
rather make money than gamble, and each willing to put in a thousand
dollars. As soon as they were incorporated they paid Wix his hundred
shares for the old business, and that developing financier started out
to sell the balance of the stock, on commission.
It was an easy task, for his fellow-directors did all the advertising
for him. Practically all he had to do was to deliver the certificates
and collect. It was while he was engaged in this pleasant occupation
that he went to Gilman with a blank certificate for twenty-five
shares.
"I think you said, Gilman, that if you could get your remaining
twenty-five hundred dollars out of the La Salle you'd be satisfied,
didn't you?"
"Satisfied!" gasped Gilman. "Just show me how it can be done!"
"Here's twenty-five hundred dollars' worth of stock in the new company
I've incorporated from the old one, and it's selling--at par--like
beer at a German picnic."
"That would ruin me," Gilman protested in a panic. "You must sell it
for me or I'm gone. Why, Wix, this new state bank inspection law has
just gone into effect, and there may be an inspector at the bank any
day."
"I see," said Wix slowly, looking him straight in the eye, "and they
may object to Smalley's having loaned you that money on insufficient
security. Well, I'll see what I can do."
Nevertheless, he let Gilman's stock lie while he sold the treasury
shares, and, the market being still so eager that it seemed a shame
not to supply it, _he sold his own_!
There was now time for Gilman, and Wix, with an artistic eye for
dramatic propinquities, presented his proposition to no less a person
than Smalley, grinning, however, as he went in.
"I couldn't think of such a thing, sir," squeaked that gentleman.
"I'll have nothing to do with gambling in any way, shape or form."
"No," agreed Wix, and carefully closed the door of Smalley's private
office. "Well, this isn't gambling, Mr. Smalley. It's only the people
outside who gamble. The La Salle doesn't propose to take any chances;
it only takes commissions," and he showed to Mr. Smalley, very
frankly, a record of his transactions, including the one disastrous
period for the purpose of pointing out the flaw which had brought it
about.
Smalley inspected those figures long and earnestly, while Wix sat back
smiling. He had penetrated through that leathery exterior, had
discovered what no one else would have suspected: that in Smalley
himself there ran a long-leashed gambling instinct.
"But I couldn't possibly have my name connected with a matter of this
sort," was Smalley's last citadel of objection.
"Why should you?" agreed Wix, and then a diabolical thought came to
him, in the guise of an exquisite joke. He had great difficulty in
repressing a chuckle as he suggested it. "Why not put the stock in
Gilman's name?"
"It might be a very bad influence for the young man," protested
Smalley virtuously, but clutching at the suggestion. "He is thoroughly
trustworthy, however, and I suppose I can explain it to him as being a
really conservative investment that should have no publicity. I think
you said, Mr. Wix, that there are only twenty-five shares remaining to
be sold."
"That's all," Wix assured him. "You couldn't secure another share if
you wanted it."
"Very well, then, I think I shall take it."
"I have the certificate in my pocket," said Wix, and he produced the
identical certificate that he had offered Gilman some days before. It
had already been signed by the complacent Sam Glidden as secretary.
"Make this out to Gilman, shall I?" asked Wix, seating himself at
Smalley's desk, and poising his pen above the certificate.
"I believe so," assented Smalley, pursing up his lips.
With a smile all of careless pleasure with the world, Wix wrote the
name of Clifford M. Gilman, and signed the certificate as president.
"Now, your check, Mr. Smalley, for twenty-five hundred, and the new La
Salle Company is completely filled up, ready to start in business on a
brand-new basis."
With his lips still pursed, Smalley made out that check, and Wix shook
hands with him most cordially as he left the room. Outside the door he
chuckled. He was still smiling when he walked up to the cashier's
wicket, where young Gilman sat tense and white-faced. Wix indorsed the
check, and handed it through the wicket.
"Here's your twenty-five hundred, Cliff," said he. "You can turn it
over on the books of the bank as soon as you like."
Gilman strove to voice his great relief, but his lips quivered and his
eyes filled, and he could only turn away speechless. Wix had gone out,
and Gilman was still holding in his nerveless fingers the check that
had saved him, when Smalley appeared at his side.
"Ah," said Smalley; "I see you have the check I gave Mr. Wix. Did he
deposit?"
"No, sir," replied Gilman, in a low voice; "he took currency."
Mr. Smalley visibly winced.
"A bill of exchange might have done him just as well," he protested.
"No non-employing person has need of actual currency in that amount.
I'm afraid young Wix is very extravagant--very. By the way, Mr.
Gilman, I have been forced, for protection and very much against my
will, to take some stock in an enterprise with which I can not have my
name associated for very obvious business reasons; so I have taken the
liberty of having the stock made out in your name," and, before young
Gilman's eyes, he spread his twenty-five-share certificate of The La
Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.
Gilman, pale before, went suddenly ghastly. The blow of mockery had
come too soon upon the heels of his relief.
"I can't have it," he managed to stammer through parched lips. "I must
refuse, sir. I--I can not be connected in any way with that business,
Mr. Smalley. I--I abhor it. Never, as long as I live--"
Suddenly the fish-white face and staring eyes of Gilman were not in
the line of Mr. Smalley's astonished vision, for Gilman had slid to
the floor, between his high stool and his desk. Sam Glidden, coming
into the bank a moment after, found Smalley working feverishly over
the prostrate form of his feebly reviving clerk.