Directly luncheon was over and Cappy Ricks had returned to his office,
J. Augustus Redell moved into action. He called on Messrs. Ford &
Carter, talked the situation over with them, and showed them where they,
having the necessary tonnage in hand with which to guarantee delivery,
could bring a couple of million bushels of fine Number One white
Australian wheat to the Pacific Coast, cut the price a cent, and
doubtless unload every kernel of it at a fair profit. There was
every probability that wheat would go to two dollars. For his part in
producing this profit Mr. Redell desired a commission of five per cent
on all sales of wheat imported in the bottoms he had under option and
which he stood ready to turn over to Ford & Carter without profit,
since the owners of the vessels would pay him the customary broker's
commission on the freight money earned on the voyage. Ford & Carter
said they would think the matter over; so Mr. Redell tactfully withdrew,
stating that he would call up the following day for an answer.
He knew Ford & Carter would promptly dispatch a long cablegram to their
agent in Australia, instructing him to get a forty-eight-hour option on
the wheat, with a guaranty of delivery to the vessels as they arrived
from time to time. Meantime, Ford & Carter would quote every milling
company in the West, subject to prior acceptance and their ability
to deliver Number One Australian wheat at a price that would be of
interest. If the milling companies accepted this rather nebulous
quotation and telegraphed orders, and Ford & Carter's Australian agent
could purchase at a satisfactory price the wheat to fill these orders,
then Ford & Carter would make formal acceptance and purchase the wheat.
If, on the other hand, their agent in Australia failed to get the wheat,
then Ford & Carter had an “out” with the milling companies who desired
to buy the wheat from them, and the entire matter would be off, with
Ford & Carter merely out a couple of hundred dollars in telegraph bills.
That was the bet they had to make to put their fortune to the touch; and
right cheerfully did they make it.
J. Augustus Redell gave them all the time he could. His forty-eight-hour
options on the vessels then en route to Australia had cost him nothing;
that was a courtesy which one shipowner always extends to another, free
of charge, unless the vessel happens to be on demurrage at the time the
option is given. When his options were within two hours of expiring he
called on Ford & Carter.
“We'll take 'em all,” Carter almost shouted at him. “They'll be arriving
with sufficient time elapsing between arrivals to guarantee us immunity
from any undue delay or embarrassment in loading them. We've bought the
wheat and sold it; now give us the tonnage to freight it, Redell, and
we'll all be happy, and a little richer than we were the day before
yesterday.”
Redell took up the telephone and called each shipowner, in turn, to
inform him that he would exercise his option on the latter's ship, and
for the owner to prepare charter parties and send them up to his office
for signature.
“I will have no difficulty in getting the owners to agree to an
assignment of these charters to you,” he advised Carter. “You and Ford
are brothers in good standing, I take it. However, if they insist on
doing business through me, in order that they may hold me responsible,
I'll simply recharter to you at the same rate.”
“Lovely!” cried Messrs. Ford & Carter in unison.
Ten minutes later J. Augustus Redell burst into Cappy Ricks' sanctum and
wakened the old gentleman from his afternoon siesta.
“The trap is set,” he announced. “Come on, Cappy! We're going up to the
broker's office now and give the order to sell our December wheat. I
can't go alone, you know. There wouldn't be an odor of sanctity about
the transaction if I did.”
“We'll have Gregg & Company attend to it for us,” Cappy announced. “You
remember Harry Gregg, don't you? Used to be in the steamship business
years ago. Gosh, that boy knows me! He'll take a stiff finger bet from
Alden P. Ricks.”
Together they motored uptown to the office of Gregg & Co., where Cappy's
card gained him instant admittance to the broker's private office.
Redell remained in the anteroom on pretense of speaking to an
acquaintance, and the instant Cappy disappeared into Gregg's office
Redell stepped out into the hall, where he waited until Cappy had booked
his order and came hunting for him.
“Well, I've sold my two hundred and fifty thousand bushels at a
dollar-ninety,” Cappy announced.
“How much margin?” Redell demanded.
“Oh, Gregg didn't sting me very hard. Ten cents a bushel. It seemed like
a good bet to him. He looks for a drop in December wheat.”
“Met a pest out here and couldn't seem to get away from him,” Redell
explained. “Take me in and introduce me to Gregg, and I'll give him an
order to sell a jag of wheat for me.”
Cappy complied and Redell gave the broker his order.
“It will take about twenty-five thousand dollars to margin this trade,
Mr. Redell,” the latter remarked easily as he wrote out the order and
handed a copy to Redell.
“Nonsense!” Cappy struck in. “Mr. Redell is one of our most delightful,
trustworthy and popular young men, and to ask him for twenty-five
thousand dollars today would prejudice his standing with his banker. I
guarantee him, Harry. Treat him as you'd treat me. I guarantee him up to
a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Your guaranty goes with me, Mr. Ricks,” Gregg answered promptly, and
shoved the copy of the order he had just booked over to Cappy, together
with the fountain pen. Cappy wrote: “O. K. Alden P. Ricks.” Redell gave
his check for ten thousand dollars margin and the deal was closed. When
the scheming pair returned to Cappy's office the latter gave Redell his
check for ten thousand to reimburse Redell for margining the trade, in
accordance with Cappy's verbal agreement to provide the sinews of war.
“Now then, Cappy,” Redell announced as he stuffed Cappy's check into his
pocket, “the next move is to return to my office, close those charters
with the owners and turn the ships over to Ford & Carter. That matter
attended to, I shall, with eighteen charter parties in my pocket, drift
casually over to the Merchants' Exchange. There I shall find the market
reporters for both of our sunrise sheets; if they are not there I shall
wait until they arrive. These gifted young men I shall draw to one side;
to them I shall, with great gusto, relate a tale of Number One white
Australian wheat, shortly to descend upon the United States of America
in no less than eighteen vessels, now chartered for that purpose, with
more to follow. In proof of this statement I shall exhibit the charter
parties; and then--”
“Front-page story!” Cappy declared, interrupting.
“Not yet--but soon. To get on the front page a story must be rather
unusual. A perusal of our daily rags will convince the most skeptical
that the sensational, the unusual, the bizarre are what appeal most to
the men who make the newspapers. The unusual thing about our deal lies
in the fact that this is the first time in the history of Australia or
the United States that the former country has exported wheat into the
latter--the first time the latter has ever had to call on an outsider
for help. Then, Cappy, it will be a front-page story--and how those boys
will hop to it! Why, we'll get a column about Australian wheat invading
the land of the free whose rapacity threatens the very food that goes
into the mouths of little children! Little children and their mouths is
good stuff! I'll use that line when slipping the story to the boys. They
might overlook it if I didn't. I'll remind them of the six-cent loaf
of bread, the sufferings of the poor, and how far the importation of
Australian wheat will go to knock the Chicago wheat barons for a goal.”
“Here, here! You're too precipitate,” Cappy cautioned. “Don't tip this
story off to both reporters. That's coarse work. Tell it to one only.
Put him under obligations to you by seeming to give him a scoop. Tell
him you won't say a word to his competitor, and he'll tell his city
editor the story is exclusive; then they'll be certain to play it up
big.”
“Cappy, you're the shadow of a rock in a weary land! Who'll tip off the
other reporter?”
“I will, of course. Leave it to me. A man doesn't go through the mill
of Big Business without knowing the way of that singularly useful
individual, the newspaper man.”
Redell sat down and laughed until the tears ran down his merry
countenance. Cappy thought the outlook sufficiently cheerful to warrant
that laugh, and suspected nothing. He even joined in the laugh.
“And to-morrow morning, when that story appears, the local brokerage
firms will be calling up Ford friend and gave him a paternal hug. He
winked wickedly.
“My dear boy,” he suggested, “suppose you and I go out and pin one on?
Hey? How about you, boy? A pint of '98, in order that we may properly
drink confusion to the wolf of want and damnation to dull care!”