Gilmartin was still laughing professionally at the prospective buyer’s
funny story when the telephone on his desk buzzed. He said: “Excuse me
for a minute, old man,” to the customer—Hopkins, the Connecticut
manufacturer.
“Hello; who is this?” he spoke into the transmitter. “Oh, how are
you?—Yes—I was out—Is that so?—Too bad—Too bad—Yes; just my luck to be
out. I might have known it!—Do you think so?—Well, then, sell the 200
Occidental common—You know best—What about Trolley?—Hold on?—All right;
just as you say—I hope so—I don’t like to lose, and—Ha! Ha!—I guess
so—Good-by.”
“It’s from my brokers,” explained Gilmartin, hanging up the receiver.
“I’d have saved five hundred dollars if I had been here at half-past
ten. They called me up to advise me to sell out, and the price is off
over three points. I could have got out at a profit, this morning; but,
no sir; not I. I had to be away, trying to buy some camphor.”
Hopkins was impressed. Gilmartin perceived it and went on, with an air
of comical wrath which he thought was preferable to indifference: “It
isn’t the money I mind so much as the tough luck of it. I didn’t make my
trade in camphor after all and I lost in stocks, when if I’d only waited
five minutes more in the office I’d have got the message from my brokers
and saved my five hundred. Expensive, my time is, eh?” with a woful
shake of the head.
“But you’re ahead of the game, aren’t you?” asked the customer,
interestedly.
“Well, I guess yes. Just about twelve thousand.”
That was more than Gilmartin had made; but having exaggerated, he
immediately felt very kindly disposed toward the Connecticut man.
“Whew!” whistled Hopkins, admiringly. Gilmartin experienced a great
tenderness toward him. The lie was made stingless by the customer’s
credulity. This brought a smile of subtle relief to Gilmartin’s lips. He
was a pleasant-faced, pleasant-voiced man of three-and-thirty. He
exhaled health, contentment, neatness, and an easy conscience. Honesty
and good-nature shone in his eyes. People liked to shake hands with him.
It made his friends talk of his lucky star; and they envied him.
“I bought this yesterday for my wife; took it out of a little deal in
Trolley,” he told Hopkins, taking a small jewel-box from one of the
desk’s drawers. It contained a diamond ring, somewhat showy but
obviously quite expensive. Hopkins’ semi-envious admiration made
Gilmartin add, genially: “What do you say to lunch? I feel I am entitled
to a glass of ‘fizz’ to forget my bad luck of this morning.” Then, in an
exaggeratedly apologetic tone: “Nobody likes to lose five hundred
dollars on an empty stomach!”
“She’ll be delighted, of course,” said Hopkins, thinking of Mrs.
Gilmartin. Mrs. Hopkins loved jewelry.
“She’s the nicest little woman that ever lived. Whatever is mine, is
hers; and what’s hers is her own. Ha! Ha! But,” becoming nicely serious,
“all that I’ll make out of the stock market I’m going to put away for
her, in her name. She can take better care of it than I; and, besides,
she’s entitled to it, anyhow, for being so nice to me.”
That is how he told what a good husband he was. He felt so pleased over
it, that he went on, sincerely regretful: “She’s visiting friends in
Pennsylvania or I’d ask you to dine with us.” And they went to a
fashionable restaurant together.
Day after day Gilmartin thought persistently that Maiden Lane was too
far from Wall Street. There came a week in which he could have made four
very handsome “turns” had he but been in the brokers’ office. He was out
on business for his firm and when he returned the opportunity had gone,
leaving behind it vivid visions of what might have been; also the
conviction that time, tide and the ticker wait for no man. Instead of
buying and selling quinine and balsams and essential oils for Maxwell &
Kip, drug brokers and importers, he decided to make the buying and
selling of stocks and bonds his exclusive business. The hours were easy;
the profits would be great. He would make enough to live on. He would
not let the Street take away what it had given. That was the great
secret: to know when to quit! He would be content with a moderate
amount, wisely invested in gilt-edged bonds. And then he would bid the
Street good-by forever.
Force of long business custom and the indefinable fear of new ventures
for a time fought successfully his increasing ticker-fever. But one day
his brokers wished to speak to him, to urge him to sell out his entire
holdings, having been advised of an epoch-making resolution by Congress.
They had received the news in advance from a Washington customer. Other
brokers had important connections in the Capital and therefore there was
no time to lose. They dared not assume the responsibility of selling him
out without his permission. Five minutes—five eternities!—passed before
they could talk by telephone with him; and when he gave his order to
sell, the market had broken five or six points. The news was “out.” The
news-agencies’ slips were in the brokers’ offices and half of Wall
Street knew. Instead of being among the first ten sellers Gilmartin was
among the second hundred.