The residence of Henry A. Mollenhauer was, at that time, in a section
of the city which was almost as new as that in which Butler was living.
It was on South Broad Street, near a handsome library building which
had been recently erected. It was a spacious house of the type usually
affected by men of new wealth in those days—a structure four stories in
height of yellow brick and white stone built after no school which one
could readily identify, but not unattractive in its architectural
composition. A broad flight of steps leading to a wide veranda gave
into a decidedly ornate door, which was set on either side by narrow
windows and ornamented to the right and left with pale-blue jardinieres
of considerable charm of outline. The interior, divided into twenty
rooms, was paneled and parqueted in the most expensive manner for homes
of that day. There was a great reception-hall, a large parlor or
drawing-room, a dining-room at least thirty feet square paneled in oak;
and on the second floor were a music-room devoted to the talents of
Mollenhauer’s three ambitious daughters, a library and private office
for himself, a boudoir and bath for his wife, and a conservatory.
Mollenhauer was, and felt himself to be, a very important man. His
financial and political judgment was exceedingly keen. Although he was
a German, or rather an American of German parentage, he was a man of a
rather impressive American presence. He was tall and heavy and shrewd
and cold. His large chest and wide shoulders supported a head of
distinguished proportions, both round and long when seen from different
angles. The frontal bone descended in a protruding curve over the nose,
and projected solemnly over the eyes, which burned with a shrewd,
inquiring gaze. And the nose and mouth and chin below, as well as his
smooth, hard cheeks, confirmed the impression that he knew very well
what he wished in this world, and was very able without regard to let
or hindrance to get it. It was a big face, impressive, well modeled. He
was an excellent friend of Edward Malia Butler’s, as such friendships
go, and his regard for Mark Simpson was as sincere as that of one tiger
for another. He respected ability; he was willing to play fair when
fair was the game. When it was not, the reach of his cunning was not
easily measured.
When Edward Butler and his son arrived on this Sunday evening, this
distinguished representative of one-third of the city’s interests was
not expecting them. He was in his library reading and listening to one
of his daughters playing the piano. His wife and his other two
daughters had gone to church. He was of a domestic turn of mind. Still,
Sunday evening being an excellent one for conference purposes generally
in the world of politics, he was not without the thought that some one
or other of his distinguished confreres might call, and when the
combination footman and butler announced the presence of Butler and his
son, he was well pleased.
“So there you are,” he remarked to Butler, genially, extending his
hand. “I’m certainly glad to see you. And Owen! How are you, Owen? What
will you gentlemen have to drink, and what will you smoke? I know
you’ll have something. John”—to the servitor—-“see if you can find
something for these gentlemen. I have just been listening to Caroline
play; but I think you’ve frightened her off for the time being.”
He moved a chair into position for Butler, and indicated to Owen
another on the other side of the table. In a moment his servant had
returned with a silver tray of elaborate design, carrying whiskies and
wines of various dates and cigars in profusion. Owen was the new type
of young financier who neither smoked nor drank. His father temperately
did both.
“It’s a comfortable place you have here,” said Butler, without any
indication of the important mission that had brought him. “I don’t
wonder you stay at home Sunday evenings. What’s new in the city?”
“Nothing much, so far as I can see,” replied Mollenhauer, pacifically.
“Things seem to be running smooth enough. You don’t know anything that
we ought to worry about, do you?”
“Well, yes,” said Butler, draining off the remainder of a brandy and
soda that had been prepared for him. “One thing. You haven’t seen an
avenin’ paper, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Mollenhauer, straightening up. “Is there one out?
What’s the trouble anyhow?”
“Nothing—except Chicago’s burning, and it looks as though we’d have a
little money-storm here in the morning.”
“You don’t say! I didn’t hear that. There’s a paper out, is there?
Well, well—is it much of a fire?”
“The city is burning down, so they say,” put in Owen, who was watching
the face of the distinguished politician with considerable interest.
“Well, that is news. I must send out and get a paper. John!” he called.
His man-servant appeared. “See if you can get me a paper somewhere.”
The servant disappeared. “What makes you think that would have anything
to do with us?” observed Mollenhauer, returning to Butler.
“Well, there’s one thing that goes with that that I didn’t know till a
little while ago and that is that our man Stener is apt to be short in
his accounts, unless things come out better than some people seem to
think,” suggested Butler, calmly. “That might not look so well before
election, would it?” His shrewd gray Irish eyes looked into
Mollenhauer’s, who returned his gaze.
“Where did you get that?” queried Mr. Mollenhauer icily. “He hasn’t
deliberately taken much money, has he? How much has he taken—do you
know?”
“Quite a bit,” replied Butler, quietly. “Nearly five hundred thousand,
so I understand. Only I wouldn’t say that it has been taken as yet.
It’s in danger of being lost.”
“Five hundred thousand!” exclaimed Mollenhauer in amazement, and yet
preserving his usual calm. “You don’t tell me! How long has this been
going on? What has he been doing with the money?”
“He’s loaned a good deal—about five hundred thousand dollars to this
young Cowperwood in Third Street, that’s been handlin’ city loan.
They’ve been investin’ it for themselves in one thing and
another—mostly in buyin’ up street-railways.” (At the mention of
street-railways Mollenhauer’s impassive countenance underwent a barely
perceptible change.) “This fire, accordin’ to Cowperwood, is certain to
produce a panic in the mornin’, and unless he gets considerable help he
doesn’t see how he’s to hold out. If he doesn’t hold out, there’ll be
five hundred thousand dollars missin’ from the city treasury which
can’t be put back. Stener’s out of town and Cowperwood’s come to me to
see what can be done about it. As a matter of fact, he’s done a little
business for me in times past, and he thought maybe I could help him
now—that is, that I might get you and the Senator to see the big
bankers with me and help support the market in the mornin’. If we don’t
he’s goin’ to fail, and he thought the scandal would hurt us in the
election. He doesn’t appear to me to be workin’ any game—just anxious
to save himself and do the square thing by me—by us, if he can.” Butler
paused.
Mollenhauer, sly and secretive himself, was apparently not at all moved
by this unexpected development. At the same time, never having thought
of Stener as having any particular executive or financial ability, he
was a little stirred and curious. So his treasurer was using money
without his knowing it, and now stood in danger of being prosecuted!
Cowperwood he knew of only indirectly, as one who had been engaged to
handle city loan. He had profited by his manipulation of city loan.
Evidently the banker had made a fool of Stener, and had used the money
for street-railway shares! He and Stener must have quite some private
holdings then. That did interest Mollenhauer greatly.
“Five hundred thousand dollars!” he repeated, when Butler had finished.
“That is quite a little money. If merely supporting the market would
save Cowperwood we might do that, although if it’s a severe panic I do
not see how anything we can do will be of very much assistance to him.
If he’s in a very tight place and a severe slump is coming, it will
take a great deal more than our merely supporting the market to save
him. I’ve been through that before. You don’t know what his liabilities
are?”
“I do not,” said Butler.
“He didn’t ask for money, you say?”
“He wants me to l’ave a hundred thousand he has of mine until he sees
whether he can get through or not.”
“Stener is really out of town, I suppose?” Mollenhauer was innately
suspicious.
“So Cowperwood says. We can send and find out.”
Mollenhauer was thinking of the various aspects of the case. Supporting
the market would be all very well if that would save Cowperwood, and
the Republican party and his treasurer. At the same time Stener could
then be compelled to restore the five hundred thousand dollars to the
city treasury, and release his holdings to some one—preferably to
him—Mollenhauer. But here was Butler also to be considered in this
matter. What might he not want? He consulted with Butler and learned
that Cowperwood had agreed to return the five hundred thousand in case
he could get it together. The various street-car holdings were not
asked after. But what assurance had any one that Cowperwood could be so
saved? And could, or would get the money together? And if he were saved
would he give the money back to Stener? If he required actual money,
who would loan it to him in a time like this—in case a sharp panic was
imminent? What security could he give? On the other hand, under
pressure from the right parties he might be made to surrender all his
street-railway holdings for a song—his and Stener’s. If he
(Mollenhauer) could get them he would not particularly care whether the
election was lost this fall or not, although he felt satisfied, as had
Owen, that it would not be lost. It could be bought, as usual. The
defalcation—if Cowperwood’s failure made Stener’s loan into one—could
be concealed long enough, Mollenhauer thought, to win. Personally as it
came to him now he would prefer to frighten Stener into refusing
Cowperwood additional aid, and then raid the latter’s street-railway
stock in combination with everybody else’s, for that matter—Simpson’s
and Butler’s included. One of the big sources of future wealth in
Philadelphia lay in these lines. For the present, however, he had to
pretend an interest in saving the party at the polls.
“I can’t speak for the Senator, that’s sure,” pursued Mollenhauer,
reflectively. “I don’t know what he may think. As for myself, I am
perfectly willing to do what I can to keep up the price of stocks, if
that will do any good. I would do so naturally in order to protect my
loans. The thing that we ought to be thinking about, in my judgment, is
how to prevent exposure, in case Mr. Cowperwood does fail, until after
election. We have no assurance, of course, that however much we support
the market we will be able to sustain it.”
“We have not,” replied Butler, solemnly.
Owen thought he could see Cowperwood’s approaching doom quite plainly.
At that moment the door-bell rang. A maid, in the absence of the
footman, brought in the name of Senator Simpson.
“Just the man,” said Mollenhauer. “Show him up. You can see what he
thinks.”
“Perhaps I had better leave you alone now,” suggested Owen to his
father. “Perhaps I can find Miss Caroline, and she will sing for me.
I’ll wait for you, father,” he added.
Mollenhauer cast him an ingratiating smile, and as he stepped out
Senator Simpson walked in.
A more interesting type of his kind than Senator Mark Simpson never
flourished in the State of Pennsylvania, which has been productive of
interesting types. Contrasted with either of the two men who now
greeted him warmly and shook his hand, he was physically unimpressive.
He was small—five feet nine inches, to Mollenhauer’s six feet and
Butler’s five feet eleven inches and a half, and then his face was
smooth, with a receding jaw. In the other two this feature was
prominent. Nor were his eyes as frank as those of Butler, nor as
defiant as those of Mollenhauer; but for subtlety they were unmatched
by either—deep, strange, receding, cavernous eyes which contemplated
you as might those of a cat looking out of a dark hole, and suggesting
all the artfulness that has ever distinguished the feline family. He
had a strange mop of black hair sweeping down over a fine, low, white
forehead, and a skin as pale and bluish as poor health might make it;
but there was, nevertheless, resident here a strange, resistant,
capable force that ruled men—the subtlety with which he knew how to
feed cupidity with hope and gain and the ruthlessness with which he
repaid those who said him nay. He was a still man, as such a man might
well have been—feeble and fish-like in his handshake, wan and slightly
lackadaisical in his smile, but speaking always with eyes that answered
for every defect.
“Av’nin’, Mark, I’m glad to see you,” was Butler’s greeting.
“How are you, Edward?” came the quiet reply.
“Well, Senator, you’re not looking any the worse for wear. Can I pour
you something?”
“Nothing to-night, Henry,” replied Simpson. “I haven’t long to stay. I
just stopped by on my way home. My wife’s over here at the Cavanaghs’,
and I have to stop by to fetch her.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you dropped in, Senator, just when you did,”
began Mollenhauer, seating himself after his guest. “Butler here has
been telling me of a little political problem that has arisen since I
last saw you. I suppose you’ve heard that Chicago is burning?”
“Yes; Cavanagh was just telling me. It looks to be quite serious. I
think the market will drop heavily in the morning.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised myself,” put in Mollenhauer, laconically.
“Here’s the paper now,” said Butler, as John, the servant, came in from
the street bearing the paper in his hand. Mollenhauer took it and
spread it out before them. It was among the earliest of the “extras”
that were issued in this country, and contained a rather impressive
spread of type announcing that the conflagration in the lake city was
growing hourly worse since its inception the day before.
“Well, that is certainly dreadful,” said Simpson. “I’m very sorry for
Chicago. I have many friends there. I shall hope to hear that it is not
so bad as it seems.”
The man had a rather grandiloquent manner which he never abandoned
under any circumstances.
“The matter that Butler was telling me about,” continued Mollenhauer,
“has something to do with this in a way. You know the habit our city
treasurers have of loaning out their money at two per cent.?”
“Yes?” said Simpson, inquiringly.
“Well, Mr. Stener, it seems, has been loaning out a good deal of the
city’s money to this young Cowperwood, in Third Street, who has been
handling city loans.”
“You don’t say!” said Simpson, putting on an air of surprise. “Not
much, I hope?” The Senator, like Butler and Mollenhauer, was profiting
greatly by cheap loans from the same source to various designated city
depositories.
“Well, it seems that Stener has loaned him as much as five hundred
thousand dollars, and if by any chance Cowperwood shouldn’t be able to
weather this storm, Stener is apt to be short that amount, and that
wouldn’t look so good as a voting proposition to the people in
November, do you think? Cowperwood owes Mr. Butler here one hundred
thousand dollars, and because of that he came to see him to-night. He
wanted Butler to see if something couldn’t be done through us to tide
him over. If not”—he waved one hand suggestively—“well, he might fail.”
Simpson fingered his strange, wide mouth with his delicate hand. “What
have they been doing with the five hundred thousand dollars?” he asked.
“Oh, the boys must make a little somethin’ on the side,” said Butler,
cheerfully. “I think they’ve been buyin’ up street-railways, for one
thing.” He stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. Both
Mollenhauer and Simpson smiled wan smiles.
“Quite so,” said Mollenhauer. Senator Simpson merely looked the deep
things that he thought.
He, too, was thinking how useless it was for any one to approach a
group of politicians with a proposition like this, particularly in a
crisis such as bid fair to occur. He reflected that if he and Butler
and Mollenhauer could get together and promise Cowperwood protection in
return for the surrender of his street-railway holdings it would be a
very different matter. It would be very easy in this case to carry the
city treasury loan along in silence and even issue more money to
support it; but it was not sure, in the first place, that Cowperwood
could be made to surrender his stocks, and in the second place that
either Butler or Mollenhauer would enter into any such deal with him,
Simpson. Butler had evidently come here to say a good word for
Cowperwood. Mollenhauer and himself were silent rivals. Although they
worked together politically it was toward essentially different
financial ends. They were allied in no one particular financial
proposition, any more than Mollenhauer and Butler were. And besides, in
all probability Cowperwood was no fool. He was not equally guilty with
Stener; the latter had loaned him money. The Senator reflected on
whether he should broach some such subtle solution of the situation as
had occurred to him to his colleagues, but he decided not. Really
Mollenhauer was too treacherous a man to work with on a thing of this
kind. It was a splendid chance but dangerous. He had better go it
alone. For the present they should demand of Stener that he get
Cowperwood to return the five hundred thousand dollars if he could. If
not, Stener could be sacrificed for the benefit of the party, if need
be. Cowperwood’s stocks, with this tip as to his condition, would,
Simpson reflected, offer a good opportunity for a little stock-exchange
work on the part of his own brokers. They could spread rumors as to
Cowperwood’s condition and then offer to take his shares off his
hands—for a song, of course. It was an evil moment that led Cowperwood
to Butler.
“Well, now,” said the Senator, after a prolonged silence, “I might
sympathize with Mr. Cowperwood in his situation, and I certainly don’t
blame him for buying up street-railways if he can; but I really don’t
see what can be done for him very well in this crisis. I don’t know
about you, gentlemen, but I am rather certain that I am not in a
position to pick other people’s chestnuts out of the fire if I wanted
to, just now. It all depends on whether we feel that the danger to the
party is sufficient to warrant our going down into our pockets and
assisting him.”
At the mention of real money to be loaned Mollenhauer pulled a long
face. “I can’t see that I will be able to do very much for Mr.
Cowperwood,” he sighed.
“Begad,” said Buler, with a keen sense of humor, “it looks to me as if
I’d better be gettin’ in my one hundred thousand dollars. That’s the
first business of the early mornin’.” Neither Simpson nor Mollenhauer
condescended on this occasion to smile even the wan smile they had
smiled before. They merely looked wise and solemn.
“But this matter of the city treasury, now,” said Senator Simpson,
after the atmosphere had been allowed to settle a little, “is something
to which we shall have to devote a little thought. If Mr. Cowperwood
should fail, and the treasury lose that much money, it would embarrass
us no little. What lines are they,” he added, as an afterthought, “that
this man has been particularly interested in?”
“I really don’t know,” replied Butler, who did not care to say what
Owen had told him on the drive over.
“I don’t see,” said Mollenhauer, “unless we can make Stener get the
money back before this man Cowperwood fails, how we can save ourselves
from considerable annoyance later; but if we did anything which would
look as though we were going to compel restitution, he would probably
shut up shop anyhow. So there’s no remedy in that direction. And it
wouldn’t be very kind to our friend Edward here to do it until we hear
how he comes out on his affair.” He was referring to Butler’s loan.
“Certainly not,” said Senator Simpson, with true political sagacity and
feeling.
“I’ll have that one hundred thousand dollars in the mornin’,” said
Butler, “and never fear.”
“I think,” said Simpson, “if anything comes of this matter that we will
have to do our best to hush it up until after the election. The
newspapers can just as well keep silent on that score as not. There’s
one thing I would suggest”—and he was now thinking of the
street-railway properties which Cowperwood had so judiciously
collected—“and that is that the city treasurer be cautioned against
advancing any more money in a situation of this kind. He might readily
be compromised into advancing much more. I suppose a word from you,
Henry, would prevent that.”
“Yes; I can do that,” said Mollenhauer, solemnly.
“My judgement would be,” said Butler, in a rather obscure manner,
thinking of Cowperwood’s mistake in appealing to these noble protectors
of the public, “that it’s best to let sleepin’ dogs run be thimselves.”
Thus ended Frank Cowperwood’s dreams of what Butler and his political
associates might do for him in his hour of distress.
The energies of Cowperwood after leaving Butler were devoted to the
task of seeing others who might be of some assistance to him. He had
left word with Mrs. Stener that if any message came from her husband he
was to be notified at once. He hunted up Walter Leigh, of Drexel & Co.,
Avery Stone of Jay Cooke & Co., and President Davison of the Girard
National Bank. He wanted to see what they thought of the situation and
to negotiate a loan with President Davison covering all his real and
personal property.
“I can’t tell you, Frank,” Walter Leigh insisted, “I don’t know how
things will be running by to-morrow noon. I’m glad to know how you
stand. I’m glad you’re doing what you’re doing—getting all your affairs
in shape. It will help a lot. I’ll favor you all I possibly can. But if
the chief decides on a certain group of loans to be called, they’ll
have to be called, that’s all. I’ll do my best to make things look
better. If the whole of Chicago is wiped out, the insurance
companies—some of them, anyhow—are sure to go, and then look out. I
suppose you’ll call in all your loans?”
“Not any more than I have to.”
“Well, that’s just the way it is here—or will be.”
The two men shook hands. They liked each other. Leigh was of the city’s
fashionable coterie, a society man to the manner born, but with a
wealth of common sense and a great deal of worldly experience.
“I’ll tell you, Frank,” he observed at parting, “I’ve always thought
you were carrying too much street-railway. It’s great stuff if you can
get away with it, but it’s just in a pinch like this that you’re apt to
get hurt. You’ve been making money pretty fast out of that and city
loans.”
He looked directly into his long-time friend’s eyes, and they smiled.
It was the same with Avery Stone, President Davison, and others. They
had all already heard rumors of disaster when he arrived. They were not
sure what the morrow would bring forth. It looked very unpromising.
Cowperwood decided to stop and see Butler again for he felt certain his
interview with Mollenhauer and Simpson was now over. Butler, who had
been meditating what he should say to Cowperwood, was not unfriendly in
his manner. “So you’re back,” he said, when Cowperwood appeared.
“Yes, Mr. Butler.”
“Well, I’m not sure that I’ve been able to do anything for you. I’m
afraid not,” Butler said, cautiously. “It’s a hard job you set me.
Mollenhauer seems to think that he’ll support the market, on his own
account. I think he will. Simpson has interests which he has to
protect. I’m going to buy for myself, of course.”
He paused to reflect.
“I couldn’t get them to call a conference with any of the big moneyed
men as yet,” he added, warily. “They’d rather wait and see what happens
in the mornin’. Still, I wouldn’t be down-hearted if I were you. If
things turn out very bad they may change their minds. I had to tell
them about Stener. It’s pretty bad, but they’re hopin’ you’ll come
through and straighten that out. I hope so. About my own loan—well,
I’ll see how things are in the mornin’. If I raisonably can I’ll lave
it with you. You’d better see me again about it. I wouldn’t try to get
any more money out of Stener if I were you. It’s pretty bad as it is.”
Cowperwood saw at once that he was to get no aid from the politicians.
The one thing that disturbed him was this reference to Stener. Had they
already communicated with him—warned him? If so, his own coming to
Butler had been a bad move; and yet from the point of view of his
possible failure on the morrow it had been advisable. At least now the
politicians knew where he stood. If he got in a very tight corner he
would come to Butler again—the politicians could assist him or not, as
they chose. If they did not help him and he failed, and the election
were lost, it was their own fault. Anyhow, if he could see Stener first
the latter would not be such a fool as to stand in his own light in a
crisis like this.
“Things look rather dark to-night, Mr. Butler,” he said, smartly, “but
I still think I’ll come through. I hope so, anyhow. I’m sorry to have
put you to so much trouble. I wish, of course, that you gentlemen could
see your way clear to assist me, but if you can’t, you can’t. I have a
number of things that I can do. I hope that you will leave your loan as
long as you can.”
He went briskly out, and Butler meditated. “A clever young chap that,”
he said. “It’s too bad. But he may come out all right at that.”
Cowperwood hurried to his own home only to find his father awake and
brooding. To him he talked with that strong vein of sympathy and
understanding which is usually characteristic of those drawn by ties of
flesh and blood. He liked his father. He sympathized with his
painstaking effort to get up in the world. He could not forget that as
a boy he had had the loving sympathy and interest of his father. The
loan which he had from the Third National, on somewhat weak Union
Street Railway shares he could probably replace if stocks did not drop
too tremendously. He must replace this at all costs. But his father’s
investments in street-railways, which had risen with his own ventures,
and which now involved an additional two hundred thousand—how could he
protect those? The shares were hypothecated and the money was used for
other things. Additional collateral would have to be furnished the
several banks carrying them. It was nothing except loans, loans, loans,
and the need of protecting them. If he could only get an additional
deposit of two or three hundred thousand dollars from Stener. But that,
in the face of possible financial difficulties, was rank criminality.
All depended on the morrow.
Monday, the ninth, dawned gray and cheerless. He was up with the first
ray of light, shaved and dressed, and went over, under the gray-green
pergola, to his father’s house. He was up, also, and stirring about,
for he had not been able to sleep. His gray eyebrows and gray hair
looked rather shaggy and disheveled, and his side-whiskers anything but
decorative. The old gentleman’s eyes were tired, and his face was gray.
Cowperwood could see that he was worrying. He looked up from a small,
ornate escritoire of buhl, which Ellsworth had found somewhere, and
where he was quietly tabulating a list of his resources and
liabilities. Cowperwood winced. He hated to see his father worried, but
he could not help it. He had hoped sincerely, when they built their
houses together, that the days of worry for his father had gone
forever.
“Counting up?” he asked, familiarly, with a smile. He wanted to hearten
the old gentleman as much as possible.
“I was just running over my affairs again to see where I stood in
case—” He looked quizzically at his son, and Frank smiled again.
“I wouldn’t worry, father. I told you how I fixed it so that Butler and
that crowd will support the market. I have Rivers and Targool and Harry
Eltinge on ’change helping me sell out, and they are the best men
there. They’ll handle the situation carefully. I couldn’t trust Ed or
Joe in this case, for the moment they began to sell everybody would
know what was going on with me. This way my men will seem like bears
hammering the market, but not hammering too hard. I ought to be able to
unload enough at ten points off to raise five hundred thousand. The
market may not go lower than that. You can’t tell. It isn’t going to
sink indefinitely. If I just knew what the big insurance companies were
going to do! The morning paper hasn’t come yet, has it?”
He was going to pull a bell, but remembered that the servants would
scarcely be up as yet. He went to the front door himself. There were
the Press and the Public Ledger lying damp from the presses. He picked
them up and glanced at the front pages. His countenance fell. On one,
the Press, was spread a great black map of Chicago, a most
funereal-looking thing, the black portion indicating the burned
section. He had never seen a map of Chicago before in just this clear,
definite way. That white portion was Lake Michigan, and there was the
Chicago River dividing the city into three almost equal portions—the
north side, the west side, the south side. He saw at once that the city
was curiously arranged, somewhat like Philadelphia, and that the
business section was probably an area of two or three miles square, set
at the juncture of the three sides, and lying south of the main stem of
the river, where it flowed into the lake after the southwest and
northwest branches had united to form it. This was a significant
central area; but, according to this map, it was all burned out.
“Chicago in Ashes” ran a great side-heading set in heavily leaded black
type. It went on to detail the sufferings of the homeless, the number
of the dead, the number of those whose fortunes had been destroyed.
Then it descanted upon the probable effect in the East. Insurance
companies and manufacturers might not be able to meet the great strain
of all this.
“Damn!” said Cowperwood gloomily. “I wish I were out of this
stock-jobbing business. I wish I had never gotten into it.” He returned
to his drawing-room and scanned both accounts most carefully.
Then, though it was still early, he and his father drove to his office.
There were already messages awaiting him, a dozen or more, to cancel or
sell. While he was standing there a messenger-boy brought him three
more. One was from Stener and said that he would be back by twelve
o’clock, the very earliest he could make it. Cowperwood was relieved
and yet distressed. He would need large sums of money to meet various
loans before three. Every hour was precious. He must arrange to meet
Stener at the station and talk to him before any one else should see
him. Clearly this was going to be a hard, dreary, strenuous day.
Third Street, by the time he reached there, was stirring with other
bankers and brokers called forth by the exigencies of the occasion.
There was a suspicious hurrying of feet—that intensity which makes all
the difference in the world between a hundred people placid and a
hundred people disturbed. At the exchange, the atmosphere was feverish.
At the sound of the gong, the staccato uproar began. Its metallic
vibrations were still in the air when the two hundred men who composed
this local organization at its utmost stress of calculation, threw
themselves upon each other in a gibbering struggle to dispose of or
seize bargains of the hour. The interests were so varied that it was
impossible to say at which pole it was best to sell or buy.
Targool and Rivers had been delegated to stay at the center of things,
Joseph and Edward to hover around on the outside and to pick up such
opportunities of selling as might offer a reasonable return on the
stock. The “bears” were determined to jam things down, and it all
depended on how well the agents of Mollenhauer, Simpson, Butler, and
others supported things in the street-railway world whether those
stocks retained any strength or not. The last thing Butler had said the
night before was that they would do the best they could. They would buy
up to a certain point. Whether they would support the market
indefinitely he would not say. He could not vouch for Mollenhauer and
Simpson. Nor did he know the condition of their affairs.
While the excitement was at its highest Cowperwood came in. As he stood
in the door looking to catch the eye of Rivers, the ’change gong
sounded, and trading stopped. All the brokers and traders faced about
to the little balcony, where the secretary of the ’change made his
announcements; and there he stood, the door open behind him, a small,
dark, clerkly man of thirty-eight or forty, whose spare figure and pale
face bespoke the methodic mind that knows no venturous thought. In his
right hand he held a slip of white paper.
“The American Fire Insurance Company of Boston announces its inability
to meet its obligations.” The gong sounded again.
Immediately the storm broke anew, more voluble than before, because, if
after one hour of investigation on this Monday morning one insurance
company had gone down, what would four or five hours or a day or two
bring forth? It meant that men who had been burned out in Chicago would
not be able to resume business. It meant that all loans connected with
this concern had been, or would be called now. And the cries of
frightened “bulls” offering thousand and five thousand lot holdings in
Northern Pacific, Illinois Central, Reading, Lake Shore, Wabash; in all
the local streetcar lines; and in Cowperwood’s city loans at constantly
falling prices was sufficient to take the heart out of all concerned.
He hurried to Arthur Rivers’s side in the lull; but there was little he
could say.
“It looks as though the Mollenhauer and Simpson crowds aren’t doing
much for the market,” he observed, gravely.
“They’ve had advices from New York,” explained Rivers solemnly. “It
can’t be supported very well. There are three insurance companies over
there on the verge of quitting, I understand. I expect to see them
posted any minute.”
They stepped apart from the pandemonium, to discuss ways and means.
Under his agreement with Stener, Cowperwood could buy up to one hundred
thousand dollars of city loan, above the customary wash sales, or
market manipulation, by which they were making money. This was in case
the market had to be genuinely supported. He decided to buy sixty
thousand dollars worth now, and use this to sustain his loans
elsewhere. Stener would pay him for this instantly, giving him more
ready cash. It might help him in one way and another; and, anyhow, it
might tend to strengthen the other securities long enough at least to
allow him to realize a little something now at better than ruinous
rates. If only he had the means “to go short” on this market! If only
doing so did not really mean ruin to his present position. It was
characteristic of the man that even in this crisis he should be seeing
how the very thing that of necessity, because of his present
obligations, might ruin him, might also, under slightly different
conditions, yield him a great harvest. He could not take advantage of
it, however. He could not be on both sides of this market. It was
either “bear” or “bull,” and of necessity he was “bull.” It was strange
but true. His subtlety could not avail him here. He was about to turn
and hurry to see a certain banker who might loan him something on his
house, when the gong struck again. Once more trading ceased. Arthur
Rivers, from his position at the State securities post, where city loan
was sold, and where he had started to buy for Cowperwood, looked
significantly at him. Newton Targool hurried to Cowperwood’s side.
“You’re up against it,” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t try to sell against
this market. It’s no use. They’re cutting the ground from under you.
The bottom’s out. Things are bound to turn in a few days. Can’t you
hold out? Here’s more trouble.”
He raised his eyes to the announcer’s balcony.
“The Eastern and Western Fire Insurance Company of New York announces
that it cannot meet its obligations.”
A low sound something like “Haw!” broke forth. The announcer’s gavel
struck for order.
“The Erie Fire Insurance Company of Rochester announces that it cannot
meet its obligations.”
Again that “H-a-a-a-w!”
Once more the gavel.
“The American Trust Company of New York has suspended payment.”
“H-a-a-a-w!”
The storm was on.
“What do you think?” asked Targool. “You can’t brave this storm. Can’t
you quit selling and hold out for a few days? Why not sell short?”
“They ought to close this thing up,” Cowperwood said, shortly. “It
would be a splendid way out. Then nothing could be done.”
He hurried to consult with those who, finding themselves in a similar
predicament with himself, might use their influence to bring it about.
It was a sharp trick to play on those who, now finding the market
favorable to their designs in its falling condition, were harvesting a
fortune. But what was that to him? Business was business. There was no
use selling at ruinous figures, and he gave his lieutenants orders to
stop. Unless the bankers favored him heavily, or the stock exchange was
closed, or Stener could be induced to deposit an additional three
hundred thousand with him at once, he was ruined. He hurried down the
street to various bankers and brokers suggesting that they do
this—close the exchange. At a few minutes before twelve o’clock he
drove rapidly to the station to meet Stener; but to his great
disappointment the latter did not arrive. It looked as though he had
missed his train. Cowperwood sensed something, some trick; and decided
to go to the city hall and also to Stener’s house. Perhaps he had
returned and was trying to avoid him.
Not finding him at his office, he drove direct to his house. Here he
was not surprised to meet Stener just coming out, looking very pale and
distraught. At the sight of Cowperwood he actually blanched.
“Why, hello, Frank,” he exclaimed, sheepishly, “where do you come
from?”
“What’s up, George?” asked Cowperwood. “I thought you were coming into
Broad Street.”
“So I was,” returned Stener, foolishly, “but I thought I would get off
at West Philadelphia and change my clothes. I’ve a lot of things to
’tend to yet this afternoon. I was coming in to see you.” After
Cowperwood’s urgent telegram this was silly, but the young banker let
it pass.
“Jump in, George,” he said. “I have something very important to talk to
you about. I told you in my telegram about the likelihood of a panic.
It’s on. There isn’t a moment to lose. Stocks are way down, and most of
my loans are being called. I want to know if you won’t let me have
three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a few days at four or five
per cent. I’ll pay it all back to you. I need it very badly. If I don’t
get it I’m likely to fail. You know what that means, George. It will
tie up every dollar I have. Those street-car holdings of yours will be
tied up with me. I won’t be able to let you realize on them, and that
will put those loans of mine from the treasury in bad shape. You won’t
be able to put the money back, and you know what that means. We’re in
this thing together. I want to see you through safely, but I can’t do
it without your help. I had to go to Butler last night to see about a
loan of his, and I’m doing my best to get money from other sources. But
I can’t see my way through on this, I’m afraid, unless you’re willing
to help me.” Cowperwood paused. He wanted to put the whole case clearly
and succinctly to him before he had a chance to refuse—to make him
realize it as his own predicament.
As a matter of fact, what Cowperwood had keenly suspected was literally
true. Stener had been reached. The moment Butler and Simpson had left
him the night before, Mollenhauer had sent for his very able secretary,
Abner Sengstack, and despatched him to learn the truth about Stener’s
whereabouts. Sengstack had then sent a long wire to Strobik, who was
with Stener, urging him to caution the latter against Cowperwood. The
state of the treasury was known. Stener and Strobik were to be met by
Sengstack at Wilmington (this to forefend against the possibility of
Cowperwood’s reaching Stener first)—and the whole state of affairs made
perfectly plain. No more money was to be used under penalty of
prosecution. If Stener wanted to see any one he must see Mollenhauer.
Sengstack, having received a telegram from Strobik informing him of
their proposed arrival at noon the next day, had proceeded to
Wilmington to meet them. The result was that Stener did not come direct
into the business heart of the city, but instead got off at West
Philadelphia, proposing to go first to his house to change his clothes
and then to see Mollenhauer before meeting Cowperwood. He was very
badly frightened and wanted time to think.
“I can’t do it, Frank,” he pleaded, piteously. “I’m in pretty bad in
this matter. Mollenhauer’s secretary met the train out at Wilmington
just now to warn me against this situation, and Strobik is against it.
They know how much money I’ve got outstanding. You or somebody has told
them. I can’t go against Mollenhauer. I owe everything I’ve got to him,
in a way. He got me this place.”
“Listen, George. Whatever you do at this time, don’t let this political
loyalty stuff cloud your judgment. You’re in a very serious position
and so am I. If you don’t act for yourself with me now no one is going
to act for you—now or later—no one. And later will be too late. I
proved that last night when I went to Butler to get help for the two of
us. They all know about this business of our street-railway holdings
and they want to shake us out and that’s the big and little of
it—nothing more and nothing less. It’s a case of dog eat dog in this
game and this particular situation and it’s up to us to save ourselves
against everybody or go down together, and that’s just what I’m here to
tell you. Mollenhauer doesn’t care any more for you to-day than he does
for that lamp-post. It isn’t that money you’ve paid out to me that’s
worrying him, but who’s getting something for it and what. Well they
know that you and I are getting street-railways, don’t you see, and
they don’t want us to have them. Once they get those out of our hands
they won’t waste another day on you or me. Can’t you see that? Once
we’ve lost all we’ve invested, you’re down and so am I—and no one is
going to turn a hand for you or me politically or in any other way. I
want you to understand that, George, because it’s true. And before you
say you won’t or you will do anything because Mollenhauer says so, you
want to think over what I have to tell you.”
He was in front of Stener now, looking him directly in the eye and by
the kinetic force of his mental way attempting to make Stener take the
one step that might save him—Cowperwood—however little in the long run
it might do for Stener. And, more interesting still, he did not care.
Stener, as he saw him now, was a pawn in whosoever’s hands he happened
to be at the time, and despite Mr. Mollenhauer and Mr. Simpson and Mr.
Butler he proposed to attempt to keep him in his own hands if possible.
And so he stood there looking at him as might a snake at a bird
determined to galvanize him into selfish self-interest if possible. But
Stener was so frightened that at the moment it looked as though there
was little to be done with him. His face was a grayish-blue: his
eyelids and eye rings puffy and his hands and lips moist. God, what a
hole he was in now!
“Say that’s all right, Frank,” he exclaimed desperately. “I know what
you say is true. But look at me and my position, if I do give you this
money. What can’t they do to me, and won’t. If you only look at it from
my point of view. If only you hadn’t gone to Butler before you saw me.”
“As though I could see you, George, when you were off duck shooting and
when I was wiring everywhere I knew to try to get in touch with you.
How could I? The situation had to be met. Besides, I thought Butler was
more friendly to me than he proved. But there’s no use being angry with
me now, George, for going to Butler as I did, and anyhow you can’t
afford to be now. We’re in this thing together. It’s a case of sink or
swim for just us two—not any one else—just us—don’t you get that?
Butler couldn’t or wouldn’t do what I wanted him to do—get Mollenhauer
and Simpson to support the market. Instead of that they are hammering
it. They have a game of their own. It’s to shake us out—can’t you see
that? Take everything that you and I have gathered. It is up to you and
me, George, to save ourselves, and that’s what I’m here for now. If you
don’t let me have three hundred and fifty thousand dollars—three
hundred thousand, anyhow—you and I are ruined. It will be worse for
you, George, than for me, for I’m not involved in this thing in any
way—not legally, anyhow. But that’s not what I’m thinking of. What I
want to do is to save us both—put us on easy street for the rest of our
lives, whatever they say or do, and it’s in your power, with my help,
to do that for both of us. Can’t you see that? I want to save my
business so then I can help you to save your name and money.” He
paused, hoping this had convinced Stener, but the latter was still
shaking.
“But what can I do, Frank?” he pleaded, weakly. “I can’t go against
Mollenhauer. They can prosecute me if I do that. They can do it,
anyhow. I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough. If they didn’t know, if
you hadn’t told them, it might be different, but this way—” He shook
his head sadly, his gray eyes filled with a pale distress.
“George,” replied Cowperwood, who realized now that only the sternest
arguments would have any effect here, “don’t talk about what I did.
What I did I had to do. You’re in danger of losing your head and your
nerve and making a serious mistake here, and I don’t want to see you
make it. I have five hundred thousand of the city’s money invested for
you—partly for me, and partly for you, but more for you than for
me”—which, by the way, was not true—“and here you are hesitating in an
hour like this as to whether you will protect your interest or not. I
can’t understand it. This is a crisis, George. Stocks are tumbling on
every side—everybody’s stocks. You’re not alone in this—neither am I.
This is a panic, brought on by a fire, and you can’t expect to come out
of a panic alive unless you do something to protect yourself. You say
you owe your place to Mollenhauer and that you’re afraid of what he’ll
do. If you look at your own situation and mine, you’ll see that it
doesn’t make much difference what he does, so long as I don’t fail. If
I fail, where are you? Who’s going to save you from prosecution? Will
Mollenhauer or any one else come forward and put five hundred thousand
dollars in the treasury for you? He will not. If Mollenhauer and the
others have your interests at heart, why aren’t they helping me on
’change today? I’ll tell you why. They want your street-railway
holdings and mine, and they don’t care whether you go to jail afterward
or not. Now if you’re wise you will listen to me. I’ve been loyal to
you, haven’t I? You’ve made money through me—lots of it. If you’re
wise, George, you’ll go to your office and write me your check for
three hundred thousand dollars, anyhow, before you do a single other
thing. Don’t see anybody and don’t do anything till you’ve done that.
You can’t be hung any more for a sheep than you can for a lamb. No one
can prevent you from giving me that check. You’re the city treasurer.
Once I have that I can see my way out of this, and I’ll pay it all back
to you next week or the week after—this panic is sure to end in that
time. With that put back in the treasury we can see them about the five
hundred thousand a little later. In three months, or less, I can fix it
so that you can put that back. As a matter of fact, I can do it in
fifteen days once I am on my feet again. Time is all I want. You won’t
have lost your holdings and nobody will cause you any trouble if you
put the money back. They don’t care to risk a scandal any more than you
do. Now what’ll you do, George? Mollenhauer can’t stop you from doing
this any more than I can make you. Your life is in your own hands. What
will you do?”
Stener stood there ridiculously meditating when, as a matter of fact,
his very financial blood was oozing away. Yet he was afraid to act. He
was afraid of Mollenhauer, afraid of Cowperwood, afraid of life and of
himself. The thought of panic, loss, was not so much a definite thing
connected with his own property, his money, as it was with his social
and political standing in the community. Few people have the sense of
financial individuality strongly developed. They do not know what it
means to be a controller of wealth, to have that which releases the
sources of social action—its medium of exchange. They want money, but
not for money’s sake. They want it for what it will buy in the way of
simple comforts, whereas the financier wants it for what it will
control—for what it will represent in the way of dignity, force, power.
Cowperwood wanted money in that way; Stener not. That was why he had
been so ready to let Cowperwood act for him; and now, when he should
have seen more clearly than ever the significance of what Cowperwood
was proposing, he was frightened and his reason obscured by such things
as Mollenhauer’s probable opposition and rage, Cowperwood’s possible
failure, his own inability to face a real crisis. Cowperwood’s innate
financial ability did not reassure Stener in this hour. The banker was
too young, too new. Mollenhauer was older, richer. So was Simpson; so
was Butler. These men, with their wealth, represented the big forces,
the big standards in his world. And besides, did not Cowperwood himself
confess that he was in great danger—that he was in a corner. That was
the worst possible confession to make to Stener—although under the
circumstances it was the only one that could be made—for he had no
courage to face danger.
So it was that now, Stener stood by Cowperwood meditating—pale,
flaccid; unable to see the main line of his interests quickly, unable
to follow it definitely, surely, vigorously—while they drove to his
office. Cowperwood entered it with him for the sake of continuing his
plea.
“Well, George,” he said earnestly, “I wish you’d tell me. Time’s short.
We haven’t a moment to lose. Give me the money, won’t you, and I’ll get
out of this quick. We haven’t a moment, I tell you. Don’t let those
people frighten you off. They’re playing their own little game; you
play yours.”
“I can’t, Frank,” said Stener, finally, very weakly, his sense of his
own financial future, overcome for the time being by the thought of
Mollenhauer’s hard, controlling face. “I’ll have to think. I can’t do
it right now. Strobik just left me before I saw you, and—”
“Good God, George,” exclaimed Cowperwood, scornfully, “don’t talk about
Strobik! What’s he got to do with it? Think of yourself. Think of where
you will be. It’s your future—not Strobik’s—that you have to think of.”
“I know, Frank,” persisted Stener, weakly; “but, really, I don’t see
how I can. Honestly I don’t. You say yourself you’re not sure whether
you can come out of things all right, and three hundred thousand more
is three hundred thousand more. I can’t, Frank. I really can’t. It
wouldn’t be right. Besides, I want to talk to Mollenhauer first,
anyhow.”
“Good God, how you talk!” exploded Cowperwood, angrily, looking at him
with ill-concealed contempt. “Go ahead! See Mollenhauer! Let him tell
you how to cut your own throat for his benefit. It won’t be right to
loan me three hundred thousand dollars more, but it will be right to
let the five hundred thousand dollars you have loaned stand unprotected
and lose it. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s just what you propose to
do—lose it, and everything else besides. I want to tell you what it is,
George—you’ve lost your mind. You’ve let a single message from
Mollenhauer frighten you to death, and because of that you’re going to
risk your fortune, your reputation, your standing—everything. Do you
really realize what this means if I fail? You will be a convict, I tell
you, George. You will go to prison. This fellow Mollenhauer, who is so
quick to tell you what not to do now, will be the last man to turn a
hand for you once you’re down. Why, look at me—I’ve helped you, haven’t
I? Haven’t I handled your affairs satisfactorily for you up to now?
What in Heaven’s name has got into you? What have you to be afraid of?”
Stener was just about to make another weak rejoinder when the door from
the outer office opened, and Albert Stires, Stener’s chief clerk,
entered. Stener was too flustered to really pay any attention to Stires
for the moment; but Cowperwood took matters in his own hands.
“What is it, Albert?” he asked, familiarly.
“Mr. Sengstack from Mr. Mollenhauer to see Mr. Stener.”
At the sound of this dreadful name Stener wilted like a leaf.
Cowperwood saw it. He realized that his last hope of getting the three
hundred thousand dollars was now probably gone. Still he did not
propose to give up as yet.
“Well, George,” he said, after Albert had gone out with instructions
that Stener would see Sengstack in a moment. “I see how it is. This man
has got you mesmerized. You can’t act for yourself now—you’re too
frightened. I’ll let it rest for the present; I’ll come back. But for
Heaven’s sake pull yourself together. Think what it means. I’m telling
you exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t. You’ll be
independently rich if you do. You’ll be a convict if you don’t.”
And deciding he would make one more effort in the street before seeing
Butler again, he walked out briskly, jumped into his light spring
runabout waiting outside—a handsome little yellow-glazed vehicle, with
a yellow leather cushion seat, drawn by a young, high-stepping bay
mare—and sent her scudding from door to door, throwing down the lines
indifferently and bounding up the steps of banks and into office doors.
But all without avail. All were interested, considerate; but things
were very uncertain. The Girard National Bank refused an hour’s grace,
and he had to send a large bundle of his most valuable securities to
cover his stock shrinkage there. Word came from his father at two that
as president of the Third National he would have to call for his one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars due there. The directors were
suspicious of his stocks. He at once wrote a check against fifty
thousand dollars of his deposits in that bank, took twenty-five
thousand of his available office funds, called a loan of fifty thousand
against Tighe & Co., and sold sixty thousand Green & Coates, a line he
had been tentatively dabbling in, for one-third their value—and,
combining the general results, sent them all to the Third National. His
father was immensely relieved from one point of view, but sadly
depressed from another. He hurried out at the noon-hour to see what his
own holdings would bring. He was compromising himself in a way by doing
it, but his parental heart, as well as is own financial interests, were
involved. By mortgaging his house and securing loans on his furniture,
carriages, lots, and stocks, he managed to raise one hundred thousand
in cash, and deposited it in his own bank to Frank’s credit; but it was
a very light anchor to windward in this swirling storm, at that. Frank
had been counting on getting all of his loans extended three or four
days at least. Reviewing his situation at two o’clock of this Monday
afternoon, he said to himself thoughtfully but grimly: “Well, Stener
has to loan me three hundred thousand—that’s all there is to it. And
I’ll have to see Butler now, or he’ll be calling his loan before
three.”
He hurried out, and was off to Butler’s house, driving like mad.