its doings. By not a single quaver was the cheeriness of his snatchy,
racy, merry voice affected. By not the fraction of an inch nor a second
was his gay little trot altered. But when the ends of his mustache stood
out straight, his friends, no matter how slight was their acquaintance
with financial matters, knew they were safe in concluding that the
country was going to the dogs, while, on the other hand, when those same
mustaches finished off in a sprightly little twist, the fact that we
were living under a wise and beneficent dispensation was too clear for
argument.
Early in 1888, as I said before, Mr. Gallivant's mustaches began to
curl. They became elastic. They twisted themselves this way and that in
graceful good-humor. They twined themselves lovingly about his nose and
danced in constant ecstasy. Mr. Gallivant's office in the Equitable
Building saw less and less of him. He left his lodgings in Harlem and
took a suite of large and beautiful apartments in a fashionable hotel.
Every afternoon he drove a pair of superb black horses over the
Boulevard and through the Park. All his friends were happy. They asked
and it was given them. He lavished diamond buttons and scarf-pins among
them as if he were a prince and they were pugilists. He got up a party
and made a palace-car excursion to the Yellowstone Park. He purchased a
stock-farm in California. He hired a steam yacht and cruised in the
Baltic. From the middle of March until the end of September he used the
world as if it were his.
But then, a change came o'er the spirit of his red mustaches. They
ceased to sport about his nose. They were distinctly less playful than
they had been, and by degrees they became positively stiff. In the mean
time, Mr. Gallivant had returned to his law office. He had also gone
back to live in Harlem, and one night last December he shut himself in
his room--a hall bed-chamber on the third floor, rear--sat himself upon
the only chair at hand, stretched his legs in front of him, thrust his
hands in his pockets, and murmured:
"I feel curiously like writing an essay on the 'Vanity of Human Wishes'!
"Let me see, let me see," he continued in a ruminating tone, "what's to
be done?"
[Illustration: "LET ME SEE--WHAT'S TO BE DONE?"]
He ran his hands through his pockets and produced a handful of change.
Inspired by this success he rose and went to the closet and continued
his search through a choice collection of coats, waistcoats, and
trowsers that hung upon its hooks. "Nine dollars and seventy-six cents!"
he said, when he had counted the proceeds of his investigation. "Well,
I've had a great variety of ups and downs in my short but checkered
career, but I never thought the sum total of my cash assets would be
expressed in nine dollars and seventy-six cents! After all, life is but
an insubstantial pageant, so I think I'll take a pony of brandy and go
to bed."
The next day Mr. Gallivant was at his office bright and early. His face
shone with its perennial radiance, but his mustache told a cheerless
tale. Mr. Gallivant had a number of principles. That which led all the
rest was his steadfast refusal to borrow money. He sat down to the
contemplation of ways and means, therefore, without the usual recourse
taken by impecunious gentlemen with a large circle of wealthy
acquaintances to relieve temporary embarrassments. He drew his
check-book from his desk and made a careful calculation. "There's the
judgment and costs in the Gauber case," he said, "the interest of
Robbins's mortgage, the $3000 paid to settle Riker _vs._ Buckmaster,
and the money Hunt paid my client Frabsley. Deduct these from my balance
in bank, and I have left of my own money the munificent sum of $2.17.
There's no way out of it--I must draw on Thwicket!"
It must be owned that in the privacy of his office this conclusion
brought something very like a frown upon Mr. Gallivant's brow. "It'll
ruin me!" he said. "It'll show Thwicket that I'm as dry as Mother
Hubbard's pantry, and when a man loses credit with his broker he might
as well shut up shop. But, gad! there's no other way. I must have that
balance, positively must, can't wait an hour longer. I've got $380 with
Thwicket--$380, all that remains of--well never mind, there's no use
grumbling over what's gone. I had a royal good time while it lasted, so
I'll just think of the good time and not of what it took to get it. But
that $380! H'm, I'll step down and see Thwicket!"
Mr. Gallivant slid into his overcoat, prinked up his scarlet tie, and
walked breezily into Wall Street. He chanced to meet Thwicket on the
street, and they greeted each other effusively.
"Where under the sun have you been for the last month or so?" exclaimed
the broker. "I haven't seen a thing of you."
"Oh, I've been around," answered Mr. Gallivant, with a general wave of
the hand.
Mr. Thwicket's face assumed a reproachful look.
"Oh, no," said Gallivant, responsively, "I haven't been doing business
with anybody else. Fact is, old fellow, I think I've got a bit
flustered. I don't seem able to get the hang of the market. Gad, I've
lost a whole fortune since September--must have lost every dollar of a
hundred thousand. Now I can't go on like that forever, you know. I give
you my word of honor I couldn't stand another such loss. It would put me
in a hole."
"Nonsense!" said Thwicket; "come, walk down to the office and we'll talk
it over. By the way, where are you living now? I dropped in at your
hotel and they said you'd given up your rooms and gone into the country.
Queer time o' year to go to the country?"
"Um--well, dunno 'bout that. Found my rooms stuffy. Like country,
sleighing, skating, ice yachting, don't you know. Fine air, healthy.
Think I'll buy a place up the Hudson. Fact is, negotiating now."
"Really? How's your stock farm?"
"Oh, sold it long 'go. Got tired of it. Can't play with one toy forever,
you know. How's the market?"
"It looks to me a little queer to-day," replied the broker.
"That's it! That's what I say. That's the reason I haven't been in
lately. Found I was getting rattled. More I figured, further away I got
from real conditions."
"It's time to try again."
"H'm; not so sure."
"Luck must change."
"Think so?"
"Oh, I'm certain."
"How's Hollyoke Central selling?"
"It closed yesterday at 86-3/4."
"Good time to buy."
"I doubt that, Mr. Gallivant. It seems to be slowly going the wrong way
for buying. But you might sell to advantage."
"There, now, that shows you. I tell you I'm rattled. You see, the very
first thing I suggest you discourage. Think I'd better hold off."
They had now reached the broker's office, in which Mr. Gallivant was
presently ensconced at ease.
"You are right," said Thwicket, handing out a case of cigars, "in saying
that the market is queer. Something very curious has got hold of it. As
you know, I avoid giving advice to my customers, and I'm not going to
advise you; but if you will notice the state of affairs with regard to
Snapshot Consolidated, you will see something that ought to make you
open your eyes."
"What is it?"
"Didn't you read the market reports in this morning's papers?"
"Haven't looked at a market report for three weeks."
"I guess that explains why you don't understand the situation, then.
Well, Snapshot Consolidated opened at 42. At about noon it began to
mount, and it rose peg by peg till it closed at 57-1/2. Now, what do you
think of that?"
"I think it's a warning for discreet men like me to keep away from
Snapshot. I have no overweening desire to monkey with Mr. Gould,
Thwicket." Mr. Gallivant jingled the remnant of six or seven dollars in
his pocket and softly added, "He has more money than I."
"You're your own best judge, of course. But if that stock opens this
morning above the point at which it closed last night, there's going to
be more fun to-day in Wall Street than we've had for many a year. It
looks to me like a rock-ribbed corner."
Mr. Juniper Gallivant bowed his head as if in deep reflection. As a
matter of fact, he was fermenting with excitement. He looked at his
watch. It was within fifteen minutes of the time for the Exchange to
open. "A corner!" he softly exclaimed to himself. "A corner, ye gods!
and my balance in the Chemical Bank is $2.17. A corner, and I not in
it!"
Mr. Gallivant's fingers began to itch viciously, and the perspiration
broke out copiously under his thick red hair. By a great struggle he
managed to suppress all outward signs of his emotion, while he continued
to commune with his own mind. "It's no use," he thought. "I must give up
all idea of laying in with a corner when I haven't got money enough to
set up a decent champagne supper. No, I must draw that $380, and the
question is, how to do it and keep my credit good. Ha! an idea strikes
me!" He turned quietly to the broker and said aloud: "Give me a pen,
Thwicket!"
He took a blank check from his pocket-book--a check on the Chemical
Bank, wherein $2.17 reposed peacefully to his credit.
"I don't think you have very much money of mine here, Thwicket?" he
continued, as he slowly wrote the date-line in the check.
"Don't think we have. Robert, what is Mr. Gallivant's balance?"
The clerk turned over his ledger and presently replied: "Mr. Gallivant
has a credit of $382.22."
[Illustration: "ROBERT, WHAT IS MR. GALLIVANT'S BALANCE?"]
"I don't think we'll bother with Snapshot Consolidated, Thwicket.
Truth is, I'm afraid of it. My wits haven't been working right here
lately. But I'll just give you a check for $20,000, and you can buy me a
nice little block of Michigan Border--say a hundred shares, just to see
how the cat jumps, you know."
Thwicket took the check, but with a troubled air. "My dear Gallivant,"
he said, "why do a thing like that? I'm very glad to have another order
from you, but I don't want to see a valuable customer like you lose any
more money. Michigan Border was doing very well a month ago, but it is
declining now, and for good reasons. Let's take a flyer in Snapshot!"
"Hand me that check!" said Mr. Gallivant in a most decisive tone and
with a profoundly irritated air. "Hand it back, Thwicket! Hand it right
over, and draw me a check for my balance of $382.22. I'm going to cut
the d--d Gordian knot and get out of this! No use talking, my head's all
bemuddled. 'F I was to go into the Street to-day I'd lose my whole
fortune. Now, don't argue with me, old man, I'm out of sorts, and the
best thing for me to do is to stop right short till I get clear-headed
again. Draw me that check. Let me have every penny I've got on your
books. I'm going up to my place in the country and spend a month
reading Greek plays. If anything 'll calm me, that will."
The broker looked vastly disappointed, but smiled consentingly. He
returned the $20,000 check, which Mr. Gallivant tore to pieces with a
great show of nervousness and irritation, and in another moment,
possessed of his precious $382.22, he departed gloomily.
But a long and cheery smile, that reached nearly to the tips of his
mustache and almost sufficed to give them a faint curl, spread itself
over his face as he turned from Wall Street into Broadway. He caressed
the check with his fingers and softly observed, "H'm, I flatter myself
that was well done. I have the money, and Thwicket has an abiding
confidence in my wealth,--but oh, ye gods! what would I give to be able
to put my fine Italian hand into that Snapshot corner!"
Mr. Gallivant returned to his office and endeavored to fasten his
attention upon the records of a title search prepared by his clerk, but
he found himself ever going over the figures, 57-1/2, 57-1/2, 57-1/2.
"Heavens!" he said presently, "I can't stand this any longer. I must see
the ticker. I must find out how it opened to-day. Gad, I'll go crazy if
I sit here all day mumbling '57-1/2!'"
He started up and had half put on his coat, when the office door was
flung open and Thwicket rushed in breathless.
"Seventy-two," he shouted wildly. "Opened at sixty-five! Leaped right up
to 68, then to 70, then to 72. Now's your chance, old man. Say the word
and say it quick. Never mind about the $20,000. We'll settle up when the
day is over, and every second you lose now will cost you hundreds of
dollars. It's sure to go to 160. Don't keep me waiting--say the word?"
Mr. Gallivant jammed his hands deep into his pockets to prevent their
betraying his excitement, and hemmed and hawed.
"Do you really think it's worth while, Thwicket!"
"Great guns, man! You make me--"
"Now, don't be nervous, Thwicket. When I trust a man to spend my money
for me I want him cool and calm."
"But you're losing valuable time! It's jumping up every minute. The
Exchange has gone wild! Everybody's in a furor. You can make a mint if
you go right in."
"All right, drive ahead. But use judgment, Thwicket. Remember I don't
want to invest more than $20,000, and you should preserve your
equanim--"
[Illustration: "SEVENTY-TWO," HE SHOUTED WILDLY.]
But Thwicket was gone, and when the door closed behind him Mr.
Gallivant gave a leap from the floor where he stood to the sofa eight
feet away! Then he leaped back. Then he picked up a pair of dumb-bells
and swung them fiercely at the imminent risk of his head and the
furniture of the room. Then finally he drew from his desk a bottle of
brandy and took a long, strong pull.
"Ah," he said, smacking his lips, "now I'll get ready and go to the
street and watch the tumult."
Disposing, as soon as he could, of the correspondence on his desk, he
presently made his way to Thwicket's office. The broker was still at the
Stock Exchange. He grabbed at the tapes and looked for Snapshot. There
was nothing on them but Snapshot. "Snap. Col. 93," "Snap. Col. 96-3/8,"
"Snap. Col."--even as he stood by the ticker and watched the machine
roll out its stream of white paper--"Snap. Col. 108!"
Mr. Gallivant's eyes blurred. He felt queer in his knees. The
perspiration broke out fiercely all over his plump little body. "Why the
mischief doesn't Thwicket come in?" he murmured. "Why don't he sell and
get out of this? Ten, twenty, thirty--great guns! I've made $50,000
already! It can't go on like this much longer. It'll break in half an
hour, 'gad, I know it will--I feel it in my bones! If Thwicket doesn't
sell inside of thirty minutes I'm a goner, and what's worse, he'll be a
goner with me! What's this! 117! By the great horn spoon, I must get
hold of Thwicket! Thwicket! Thwicket! My kingdom for Thwicket!"
Mr. Gallivant dropped the tapes and rushed frantically into the street
and across to the entrance of the Exchange. He dispatched a messenger
across the floor to find his broker, but who could find which in that
tumultuous mob? The Exchange floor was crowded with a crazy body of
yelling men, their faces boiled into crimson, their eyes glowing with a
fierce fire, their hats banged out of shape, their coats in many cases
torn into shreds, jostling, tumbling, jumping, stretching all over each
other in riotous confusion. Fat men were being squeezed into pancakes,
little men were being covered out of sight, tall men were being
clambered upon as if their manifest destiny were to serve as poles, and
every man of them, big, short, thin, fat, lank, and heavy, was
flourishing his arms in the air and howling at the top of his voice!
Mr. Gallivant's messenger returned in a few moments with the report that
Mr. Thwicket could not be found. Quivering with excitement, Mr.
Gallivant started forth in further search. At the door of the Exchange
he met his office-boy, who told him the broker was searching for him
high and low--had been at the office and was now in the Savarin cafe.
Thither Mr. Gallivant rushed as fast as his legs could carry him, only
to learn that Thwicket had just gone out asking every man he met if he
had seen Gallivant. The lawyer was in despair. He glanced at the
ticker--"Snap. Col. 134-1/2!"
"Heavens!" he shrieked, "will nobody seize that crazy Thwicket and hold
him till I come!"
He ran at full speed to the broker's office. Thwicket had left two
minutes before, having learned that Gallivant was at the Savarin. He
turned around again and started once more to dash forth, when he saw the
broker coming along in reckless haste.
In an instant Mr. Gallivant was all repose--all serenity and ease. He
dropped quietly into a chair and picked up the morning paper. In rushed
Thwicket, disheveled, frantic, breathless.
"At last!" he cried. "It's 136. It'll break in another ten minutes!
Hadn't I better get from under?"
"Still excited, Thwicket?" answered Mr. Gallivant reproachfully. "My
dear boy, I'm afraid you've not got a proper hold upon yourself. Yes,
probably you'd better unload. Perhaps now's as good a moment as any. But
be--"
[Illustration: "YOU'VE DONE VERY WELL, THWICKET."]
Thwicket did not wait for the rest. He fled. When he returned half an
hour later his face was radiant, but his collar wilted. "Sold!" he
cried, "at 148, and busted at 152!"
By a quick, spontaneous motion, Mr. Gallivant's mustaches drew
themselves in a loving curl around his nose, but for the rest he was
merely cheery--gently cheery--as he always was.
"You've done very well, Thwicket," he said commendingly. "You've quite
justified my confidence. You're a knowing fellow, and I'll--er--what's
the proceeds?"
"A hundred and thirteen thousand--rather a fair day's work."
"That it is. Send around your check for the hundred, and let the
thirteen stay on account. By-by, I'll see you again in a day or two."
Mr. Gallivant walked out into the street upon his usual ramble. "Strikes
me," he said musingly, "that I ought to do something handsome for
Thwicket now--I really ought. My profit is $113,000. I doubt if his will
reach even $500. That doesn't look quite fair, seeing that he did the
business all on his own money. The deuce of it is, though, that it's
demoralizing to make presents to your brokers. After all, business is
business!"
VIII.
TULITZ.
With the circumstances that brought Tulitz into trouble we have nothing
to do. Indeed, whatever I may have known about them once I have long ago
forgotten. I seem to remember, but very vaguely, that he stabbed
somebody, though, at the same time, I find in my memory an impression
that he forged somebody's name. This I distinctly recall, that the
amount of bail in which he was held was $5000--a circumstance strongly
confirmatory of the notion that his assault was upon life and not upon
property. In this excellent country, where property rights are guarded
with great zeal and care, and the surplus population is large, we charge
more for the liberty of forgers than of murderers. Had Tulitz committed
forgery, his bail bond would scarcely have been less than $10,000.
Since, beyond all question, it was only $5000, I think I must be right
in the idea that he stabbed a man.
It was in default of that sum, $5000, that Tulitz, commonly called the
Baron Tulitz, alias d'Ercevenne, commonly called the Marquis
d'Ercevenne, was committed to the Tombs Prison to await the action of
the Grand Jury. At this time Tulitz--I call him Tulitz without intending
any partiality for that name over the alias of d'Ercevenne, but merely
because Tulitz is a shorter word to write. I doubt if he had any
preference between them himself, except in the way of business. He was
just as likely, other things being equal, to present his card bearing
the words "M. le Marquis d'Ercevenne," as his other card with the words
upon it "Freiherr von Tulitz." It has been remarked frequently that when
he was the Baron his tone and manner were exceedingly French, while when
he was the Marquis he spoke with a distinct German accent. None of his
acquaintances was able to account for this.
But as I was saying, when Tulitz was sent to the Tombs he was in hard
luck. Formerly he had whipped the social trout-stream with great
success. As the Marquis he had composed some pretty odes, had led the
German at Mrs. de Folly's assembly, had driven to Hempstead with the
Coaching Club, and had been seen in Mrs. Castor's box at the opera. As
the Baron Tulitz, he had attended the races, and had been a frequenter
of all the great gaming resorts. The newspapers called him a "plunger,"
and a story went the rounds, in which he was represented to have wrecked
a pool-seller, who thereupon committed suicide. The Baron always denied
this story, which the Marquis often repeated. Indeed the Marquis was
often quoted to the Baron as an authority for it.
But the tide had turned, and now Tulitz was on his back with never a
friend to help him. "Fi' t'ousan' tollaire!" he exclaimed, as the
Justice fixed his bail, blending both his French and his German accent
with strict impartiality, "V'y you not make him den, dwenty, a huntret
t'ousandt!"
A penniless prisoner in the Tombs is not an object of much
consideration, as Tulitz discovered to his profound disgust. For two
days he paced his cell with the restless, incessant tread of a caged
hyena. He disdainfully rejected the beef soup, the hunk of bread and the
black coffee served to him more or less frequently, and for two days and
nights he neither ate nor spoke. The Tombs cells are built of thick
stone, entered through a heavy iron door, that is provided with a small
grating. Tulitz's cell was on the second tier. Around this tier extends
a narrow gallery, along which the guard walks every now and then, to
see that all is as it should be. The guard annoyed Tulitz. Every time he
passed he would peer in and give a sort of grunt. This became painfully
exasperating to the Baron.
[Illustration: "FI' TOUSANT TOLLAIRE! VY YOU NOT MAKE HIM A HUNTRET
TOUSANT?"]
Late in the afternoon of the second day of his imprisonment, Tulitz,
desperate with hunger, rage, and despair, sat down upon the stool in his
cell and glared viciously at the grating. The guard's face was there.
"Ha!" cried Tulitz, in a shrill voice, "keep avay! You tink I von tam
mouse, and you ze cat, hey? You sit outside ze cage viz your claw out
and your tail stiff, ready to pounce on ze mouse. _Mon Dieu!_ How I
hate!"
The guard unlocked the iron door and stepped inside. "Don't make sech a
racket over nawthin'," he said. "De warden says yer gotter do some
eatin'."
"I kill ze warden if he keep not his _mechant chute_!"
"Wotcher goin' ter do? Starve?"
"If I choose starve, how you prevent him, hey? How make you me eat?
_Voila, bete!_" Tulitz drew himself to his full height, turned up his
shirt-sleeves and bared his great, muscular arm.
"Oh, all right," said the guard. "It's all one to me. Starve if yer
wanter. I'm agreeable."
"I vant notting, _rien, rien_!" said Tulitz. "I vant to be leave alone."
"Dat aint much. Mos' people wat comes here is more graspin'. Mos' people
wants ter git out."
"Ha!" said Tulitz.
"De warden said fer me ter come in here an' tell yer' he'd send fer
anybody yer wanter see."
"Zere is nopotty."
"Aincher got no friends?"
"Ven I haf money, I have friend--_beaucoup_, more friend as I know vat
to do viz. I haf no money now."
"Wot's your bail?"
"Fi' tousant tollaire! Bah! Vat is fi' tousant tollaire? Many time I
spend him viz no more care as I light my cigar. A bagatelle! But," and
he added this with a curiously grim expression, "I haf no bagatelle
to-day."
The guard sidled up to Tulitz and whispered in his ear, "What'll yer
gimme if I gitcher a bondsman?"
"Ha!" said Tulitz, "you haf ze man?"
"I knows a man," replied the guard reflectively, "who might do it on my
recommend. Sometimes, w'en a man aint got no frien's, but kin lay aroun'
'im an' scoop tergedder a couple er hundred dollars, I mention him ter
my frien' wid a recommend, an' dat settles it, out he comes."
"Two hundret tollaire!" cried Tulitz, almost piteously. "Ven I efer
t'ink my liperty cost me two huntret tollaire and I haf not got him. Zis
blow kill all zat is to me of my self-respect! _Je suis hors de
moi-meme!_"
"Why, you orter be able to raise dat much tin," said the guard.
Tulitz jumped from his bed to the floor with a cry such as a wild beast
might have given as it sprang from peril into safety. He demanded pencil
and paper, and with them he scribbled a message. "Send for me zat note!"
he said. "Bring me a _filet de b[oe]uf_, a _pate de fois gras_, and a
bottle of Burgundy, and bring him all quick! Corinne! _La belle_
Corinne! _Cherie amie_, vot I haf svear I lofe and cherish! I haf not
remember you, Corinne!"
A throng of people, big and little, young and old, were waiting in the
corridors of the warden's office the next morning, eager for the bell to
strike the signal that would admit them into the prisons. They were
mostly women. Here and there in the crowd was a little boy carrying a
tin can with something in it good to eat, sent, doubtless, by his old
mother to her scamp of a son. The little beggar has his first
experiences of a prison administering to the comforts of his big,
ruffianly brother, probably a great hero in his eyes.