Cappy Ricks called up J. O. Heyfuss and in a few terse sentences told
that individual where to head in.
“Now, then--” he began, facing round on Redell once more.
Again Redell's index finger tapped Cappy's knee. Dramatically he
pronounced a single word:
“Wheat!”
“Wheat?”
“Wheat!”
“What kind of wheat?” In his amazement Cappy was rather helpless.
“Number One white Australian wheat.”
“You jibbering jackdaw! Wheat? Don't you know blamed well that wheat is
one of the commodities Australia never exports to these United States?
Why? Because we don't need her doggoned wheat! We grow all the wheat we
need and a lot more we don't need; we export that, and it's just as fine
wheat as you'll find anywhere. Moreover, any time our crop is a failure,
our next-door neighbor, Canada, is Johnny-on-the-spot, ready to make
prompt delivery. So what in thunder are you talking about?”
For answer J. Augustus Redell drew from his pocket that morning's paper
and pointed to the headline of a front-page story. Cappy adjusted his
spectacles and read: Bakers Announce Six-Cent Loaf!
“Hum-m-m!” said Cappy.
“You bet! And it's a smaller loaf, by the way. Doesn't that argue that
there is something doing in wheat, when the price of bread goes to six
cents for a half portion?”
“Well, there might be something in that, Gus. Crack along and tell me
some more.”
“Until the identity of the real culprits is fixed, Cappy, we must blame
the war in Europe for the six-cent loaf; likewise for the fifteen-dollar
shoe that formerly cost our wives six or seven; for the eleven pounds of
sugar for a dollar, when twenty to twenty-two pounds was the standard in
the good old days. Europe is too busy fighting to pay much attention to
farming; the wheat farmers of Canada are somewhere in France instead of
being at home 'tending to business; and it has been up to Uncle Sam
and the Argentine Republic to feed the world, you might say. Naturally
speculators have seized upon this condition to shoot the price of wheat
to the skies, and in desperation the millers have been casting about to
buy cheaper wheat. Investigation discloses the fact that Australia has
an enormous quantity of wheat on hand; some of it is the surplus of the
1915 crop. Of course she has exported all she could to England; but, at
that, she has been handicapped.”
“How?”
“Because when a ship sails from Liverpool with goods for Australia, it
is a rare case when that same ship promptly loads with Australian
goods and puts back to Liverpool. She takes a cargo of coal, say, from
Newcastle up to Manila; a general cargo from Manila to Seattle or San
Francisco; thence to a West Coast port with a general cargo; thence to
New York with nitrate; thence to Europe with foodstuffs or munitions.
Australia hasn't had the tonnage to export her wheat and it's been
piling up on her. Now they've simply got to sell something to get some
ready money.”
“This is perfectly re-markable!”
Redell took a document from his pocket and gravely handed it to
Cappy, who examined it and discovered the same to be a charter party,
consummated the day before between the West Coast Trading Company,
owners of the barkentine _Mazeppa_, and Messrs. Ford & Carter, a well
known export and import firm whose principal business was done in grain.
Cappy read the charter party carefully and even verified the signatures,
with which he was familiar. The vessel was to carry a cargo of wheat
from Melbourne to San Francisco at a freight rate that fairly shrieked
the word “Dividend.”
“Re-markable!” Cappy declared. “Preposterous!”
“Seeing is believing. Call up Ford & Carter, and they'll jump over
themselves to give you a cargo of wheat for your _Mindoro_.”
“Im-possible!”
“Well, I'm telling you. Why, it stands to reason, Cappy! Canada and the
United States are so much nearer Europe than is Australia that it has
been cheaper to use our wheat, and the result is we've been cleaned out;
and the newspapers are filled with dismal stories of the sufferings of
the poor due to the increased price of bread.”
“Come to think of it, Gus, there _has_ been a lot of that stuff in the
papers lately. But, of course, when a fellow's stomach is full and he
isn't in danger of being attached for debt, he never thinks of the less
fortunate brother. Yes, Gus, I dare say the demand for our wheat now
exceeds the visible supply.”
“Is it any wonder, then, that this condition of affairs should come to
the attention of the Australian exporters? Just because Australian
wheat has never been shipped into the United States is no reason why
it shouldn't be shipped--particularly when the price of flour goes up
daily. Why, we pay two and a half dollars for the fifty-pound sack
of flour that formerly cost us a dollar and a quarter! Eggs are up to
seventy cents a dozen--by jingo, Cappy, what's going to become of us?”
“God knows!” Cappy answered dismally.
Redell had him hypnotized. Already Cappy could see the gates of the
poorhouse opening to receive them all. Redell's voice brought him back
to a realization of his peril.
“You'll find, Cappy Ricks, that for months to come every sailing vessel
that carries lumber to Australia from the Pacific Coast will come back
with a cargo of wheat while these war prices are maintained.”
“Great Jumping Jehoshaphat! How'd you get next to all this, Gus?”
“The early bird gets the worm, and success comes to the man who creates
his own opportunities. I thought it all up out of my own head, Cappy,
and then tried it out on Ford & Carter. It knocked 'em cold for a
minute; but that was only because the proposition was so unusual. When
I explained the situation to them, however, and gave them time to digest
it, both offered to take me out to luncheon. You can see for yourself
they've chartered our Mazeppa at a fancy freight rate.”
Cappy licked his lips.
“The _Mindoro_ is sound, tight and seaworthy,” he murmured. “She could
carry wheat.”
“Come on in, Cappy. The water's fine!”
“I'll do it! Gus, you're a mighty good fellow, if I do say it that
shouldn't. I have five windjammers en route to Australia this minute,
and, by the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet, if I can get wheat charters for
all of them on the return trip I'll accept, if it costs me money. Gus,
something has got to be done about this high cost of living or we'll all
go to hell together. There comes a time in a man's life when he must put
aside the sordid question of 'How much is there in it for me?' and ask
himself: 'How much can I put in it for the other fellow?' Gus, it's our
Christian duty to furnish tonnage to import this wheat. We should, as
patriotic citizens, make it our business to boom Australian wheat in
the United States and give these doggoned pirates that gamble in the
foodstuffs of the country a run for their money. Food prices should be
regulated by this Government. The Chicago Pit should be abolished by
legislative enactment--”
“Well, they won't do it this year, Cappy,” Redell interrupted dryly.
“Still, it occurred to me that I saw an opening where two high-minded
philanthropists--to wit, Alden P. Ricks and J. Augustus Redell--might
strike a blow for freedom and at the same time give these wheat
speculators a kick where it will do them the most good. When one cannot
annihilate his enemy the next best thing is to take some money away
from him; and you and I, Cappy Ricks, can take a young fortune away from
these fellows, while at the same time depressing the price of wheat and
doing our fellow countrymen a favor. Are you prepared to volunteer under
my banner? If so, hold up your right hand.”
Cappy held up his right hand.
“Out with it, Gus,” he ordered; “out with it! This is most interesting.”
“Ah! You're interested now, are you? Well, bearing in mind the fact that
your specialty is lumber and ships, I will give you an opportunity to
withdraw before it is too late. Besides, it occurs to me that I have
already done enough for you today.”
“Don't be greedy, Gus. Remember there is an exception to every rule.
Besides, I'm getting old and--er--ahem!--hell's bells, boy, I've got
to have my fling every once in a while. Come now, Gus! Out with it! I
believe your proposition embodied the coupling of both our names in the
betting, did it not?”
“It did, Cappy. Still, come to think of it, I really ought not to come
in here and tempt you into speculating--”
“How much money do you want?” Cappy shrilled impatiently. “Cut out this
infernal drivel and get down to business. Unfold your proposition; and
if it looks to me like a winner I'll take a flyer with you if it's the
last act of my sinful life.”
“On your own head be it, Cappy. Here goes! However, before laying my
plan before you, perfect frankness compels me to state that my visit to
you was not born of an overweening desire to do you a kindness or make
money for you. Philanthropy is not my long suit--in business hours; and
my interest in you today is purely a selfish one.”
“Go on; go on, boy! Am I a child in arms?”
“I have made a ball, Cappy,” Redell continued, “and I want you to
fire it. I have a splendid prescription to make a clean-up in December
wheat--”
“Give me your prescription.”
“Well, sir, my prescription lacks one small ingredient to make it a
standard household remedy. You can supply that ingredient--to wit, cash
of the present standard of weight and fineness. Every spare dollar that
Live Wire Luiz and I can get our hands on is working overtime in the
legitimate business of the West Coast Trading Company; every loose asset
with a hockable value has been hocked, and we dare not strain our credit
with our banker by borrowing money with which to speculate. If I apply
for a sizable loan, without putting up collateral, he'll ask me what I
want to do with the money--and if I answer truthfully he'll throw
Luiz and me and our account out of his bank. And I never was a very
successful liar. Therefore, in consideration of the valuable information
I can furnish, I suggest that you carry me for a quarter of a million
bushels of December wheat.”
“How much will that cost me?” Cappy queried warily.
“We'll operate on margin. I think a margin of ten cents a bushel will do
the trick; of course, if wheat should go up a point you'll be asked to
come through with more money. However, I have a sneaking notion that
a well-known heavyweight like you can place his order with any of the
local brokers without having to put up a single cent; at the most they
might ask you for five thousand or ten thousand dollars. But they know
you're good for any engagement you may make; they'd be tickled to death
to have your promissory note. I suggest that you get in touch with a
sound brokerage house in this city--one that is a member of the New York
Exchange and the Chicago Board of Trade--and sell, for my account, two
hundred and fifty thousand bushels of December wheat at the market.”
“What'll I do for myself?”
“Go as far as you like. You know your own limitations. I'm desirous
of selling a quarter of a million bushels at the market; and, as I am
furnishing the plans and specifications for this raid, I suggest that
you sell at least a quarter of a million yourself.”
“Funny business!” Cappy murmured. “Selling a quarter of a million
bushels of wheat you do not own and never will! Hum-m-m! Ahem!
Harumph-h-h! Then what?”
He bent his head and gazed very severely at Mr. Redell over the rims
of his spectacles. For reply Mr. Redell took from his pocket thirteen
sheaves of paper and handed them to Cappy, who investigated and
discovered them to be thirteen forty-eight-hour options on thirteen
sailing vessels bound to Australian ports with lumber, and not as yet
provided with a return cargo to the United States.
“By to-morrow morning I shall have exercised those options and closed
for thirteen cargoes of wheat,” Redell explained. “You have five vessels
bound to Australia also. Give me an option on them for their return
cargo and that will make eighteen.”
“Yes, yes. Then what?”
“I will charter all of the eighteen to Ford grain of it, in order to
protect themselves against a falling market.”
“Naturally. And the market is--”
“December wheat closed in the Chicago Pit yesterday at $1.89 1/2, and
the market has been very stiff for quite a while. The bulls are right on
the job.”
“Will not the advent of all this Australian wheat depress the market?”
Cappy shrilled excitedly.
“Not unless the bears happen to find it out, Cappy,” Redell retorted
gently. “It is our job to bring the matter to their attention, for it
so happens that Alden P. Ricks and J. Augustus Redell are the only two
people in the United States who happen to know about it. Ford bulls
will get panicky; the bears will take heart of hope, and with Number One
white Australian wheat they'll beat the brains out of the market and in
all probability kick it down to $1.85, at which figure we promptly buy
as much wheat as we have previously sold. Thus we cover our shorts,
and the difference between $1.89 1/2 and $1.85, less brokerage and
interest--if any--will be, roughly speaking, four cents. Four cents on a
quarter of a million bushels is ten thousand dollars--not a great deal,
truly, in these days of swollen fortunes, but, nevertheless, a nice
piece of velvet--eh, Cappy, you sporty boy?”
“It isn't so much the money we make,” Cappy replied sagely. “It's the
fun we have making it, my boy; the joy of putting over a winner. The
instant a man begins to love money for money's sake he's a knave and
a fool. Kill him! But--er--ahem--as you say, my dear young friend, ten
thousand each is not to be--er--sneezed at.”
“Then you're coming in on the deal?”
“I should tell a man!”
After the fashion of the West they shook hands on it and went to
luncheon at the Commercial Club.