A BATTLE
“Your coffee must be stone cold by this time, dear,” Alice Bagsbury
observed in a tone of mild remonstrance; “shan’t I pour you another
cup?”
“What’s that?” John asked absently, from behind his morning paper. “Oh,
yes, if you please.” He took up the cup, but instead of handing it to
her, he drank off the dismal beverage, and replacing the cup in its
saucer turned back to his paper, apparently under the impression that
he had followed her suggestion.
“Do you know,” said Dick, “I think it’s dangerous to be as
absent-minded as that. If that had been kerosene, you’d have drunk it
just the same--all of it.”
John dropped the paper beside his chair, stared at his plate a moment,
and then turned to Dick.
“Did either of you say anything to me just now? I think I’ll have some
more coffee. What are you laughing about?”
“I said I thought there must be something very entertaining about the
front page of that paper,” said Dick.
“Entertaining isn’t just the word,” he answered slowly. “It’s what I
call confoundedly enterprising. They’ve told a great deal more than
they’ve any right to know, and the worst of it is they’ve told the
truth.”
“I don’t know why you should object to their telling the truth,” said
Alice.
“Is it about something you’re concerned in?” Dick asked.
John nodded. “I loaned a man a large sum of money day before yesterday,
and the fact of his wanting it and the kind of security he put up would
show to any one who knew about it that he was in a certain deal. He
didn’t want that to get out, so I was very careful to conceal the loan.
And here this paper seems to know all about it: not only about the
deal, which they might have guessed from other things, but about the
loan. It leaves me in an awkward position, you see.”
“What sort of deal is it?” Dick asked.
“Lard,” said John. “Here, you can read all about it,” and he handed her
the paper.
Dick glanced at the staring letters of the scare head. “To corner
lard,” she read. “I should think that would be pretty hard to do,” she
said reflectively.
Then as John looked at her, manifestly surprised at the sageness of the
remark and nodded assent to it, she added, “It’s so squashy, you know.”
John laughed. “You took me in that time. Pickering will have to fight
though, sure enough. They’re likely to make it warm for him to-day.”
“On the Board of Trade?” cried Dick. “Will it be like the day you took
Alice and me?”
“It was unusually quiet that day,” said John.
“Quiet!” exclaimed Alice. “It made my head ache for two days.”
“Will it really be worse than that?” Dick asked. “Oh, I wish--”
John glanced at his watch and hurriedly left the table. He appeared a
moment later at the dining-room door and said,--
“If you and Alice care to come to the bank to-day at twelve o’clock,
we can lunch together and then look in there for a few minutes.”
They exclaimed simultaneously, but with different import.
“All right,” said John, “either or both. Be there sharp at twelve if
you want to catch me.”
When John said that the publication of the fact of the lard deal and
of his loan to Pickering put him in an awkward position, he stated
only the least of his perplexities. He did not doubt that he should be
able to clear himself with the soap manufacturer, not only of wilful
betrayal, but of negligence. What troubled him was to find any sort of
explanation of how the secret could have got out. All the morning the
question hung in his mind insistently demanding an answer. The only
answer he could give was one which his reason rejected as absurd, but
it was reiterated as obstinately as the question itself, the name of
Melville Sponley.
The story had been given to the paper by one who knew the facts. It
was no ingenious surmise of one who followed the markets. It did not
tell everything,--not the precise amount of the loan, nor the bank that
made it,--yet there could be no doubt that the man who had told so
much knew the rest, and that he had held it back for reasons of his
own. John knew it was impossible that Sponley could have found out in
the mere instant when Pickering’s warehouse receipts had been exposed
to his view two days before; but he could not rid himself of the
conviction that it was Sponley who had ferreted out and betrayed his
secret.
On the Board of Trade they had nicknamed Sponley the “Black Bear.”
That had reference, of course, to the side of the market on which
he operated oftenest and most successfully, but it had this morning
for John an added significance. How clumsy he was to the eye, and
yet how terribly quick! John had seen this fat, heavy-eyed monster
go into the corn pit and simply, by main strength, sell the market
down--down--down. They were afraid of him on the Board of Trade: that
tells the story.
John Bagsbury was generally believed to be imperturbable. This morning
his thoughts were running in a circle; his secret was out; Melville
Sponley could not have betrayed it; no one else could have done so.
Round and round again, with no way out, and yet no one could have
guessed it; he worked swiftly, precisely, patiently, just as always.
But there were two other troubled heads in the bank whose thoughts were
under no such iron control. Curiously enough, each in his own way owed
his perplexities also to the Black Bear.
If you can imagine a coward trying to escape from prison, you can
understand Curtin’s state of mind. When on the preceding afternoon he
had shown Sponley the collateral, he had felt keenly humiliated; he had
despised himself, and tenfold more he hated Sponley. But that feeling
was gone now. The Bear had been right in saying that it was just a
question of money. His being trapped, bound fast to Sponley’s will, was
also a question of money. And now Curtin had found a way of escape, or
rather Sponley himself had unwittingly shown it to him, and the way out
was but a question of money, too.
When in John Bagsbury’s office, just after Jack Dorlin had gone out,
Curtin had shown the warehouse receipts to Sponley, the latter had
exhibited what in other men would have been excitement, but with him
was only preoccupation. He had sat down at John Bagsbury’s desk and
looked at the yellow slips for some time. Then he said,--
“Pickering’ll have to pay for what lard he gets to-morrow.”
Then realizing that he had made a slip, he had quickly begun talking
about something else, and Curtin had cunningly feigned that he had not
understood the chance remark. But a few minutes later he was walking
home on air. For had not his jailer thrown him the key to his cell?
Curtin had played with the markets before; that was the reason he now
needed a job as assistant cashier, or as anything that would pay him
a respectable salary. But he had been an outsider, a lamb. He had
believed the newspapers, he had followed the crowd, he had trusted to
luck. He knew now against what certainty of eventual disaster that
sort of a game was played. But now he was an outsider no longer.
Inadvertently Sponley had told him that lard would go up to-morrow.
Sponley knew, because he himself intended to make it go up. And for the
first time in his life Curtin would play with a probability of winning.
When he had won (he could hardly contain himself at the thought of
it), when he had won--well, he would begin by telling Sponley to go to
hell. Ah, Sponley should know after all that he had hired the wrong
sort of man, that it was unsafe to insult a gentleman! Then he would
confess to John Bagsbury the wrong he had done him. No, that would
hardly do; but he could contrive some sort of restitution to John, and
then he would live happily and opulently ever after.
Thus spake the prisoner; the coward had other things to say. He must
use the bank’s money, he had none of his own. Then what if, after all,
lard should go down. He would be an embezzler, would go to prison. At
the thought, his mouth became dry, and curious ripples seemed to run
the length of all his muscles. So all that morning the two men within
him tore Curtin grievously. The way of the timorous, halfhearted
transgressor is hard indeed.
Jack Dorlin’s perplexity was less serious, but very irritating. He owed
it only indirectly to the Bear. His direct concern was with the jackal.
His bit of impromptu detective work the afternoon before had been as
unsuccessful as possible. Had he discovered a little more or a little
less, all would have been well. But as matters stood, he had enough
ground for serious suspicion of Curtin, and not enough to warrant his
speaking about it to John Bagsbury.
He had come to the bank this morning full of his old determination to
mind his own business. It was vain, however, as vain as it had always
been before. Curtin was so persistently erratic that he compelled one’s
attention. Yesterday it had been the collateral box; to-day it was the
telephone. He hung over it all the morning, like a child with a new
toy. He was spending fifteen minutes out of every hour talking into it,
and for the rest of the time he eyed it as though momentarily expecting
to see it perform a miracle. It was such an innocent occupation that
Jack was angry with himself for taking it so seriously. The other
clerks were grinning; well, he would grin too. But it was a very sorry
grin.
At last he fairly got into his work, and that brought oblivion. When
Hillsmead interrupted him, he did not know how long it had been since
last he was conscious of his surroundings.
“That was a confounded pretty girl,” Hillsmead was saying. “Did you see
her?”
Jack glanced up impatiently, but worse than that would not have stopped
Hillsmead.
“I think I’ll have to find out who she was. She’s all right. I wonder
what she wanted with Bagsbury?”
Jack grabbed his hat. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Do you think you know her? Say, old man, I wouldn’t mind if you’d
introduce--She just went out. I think she turned east.”
Jack dashed down the aisle without pausing to think on the marvel he
had wrought in checking Hillsmead in mid career.
At the door he glanced swiftly up and down the street, and by the
merest luck got a glimpse of Dick less than a square away. Her pace was
a mere stroll, a most unusual thing with Dick.
“Hello,” he said, as he overtook her.
“Are you in a hurry?” she asked. It was his manner rather than his pace
that suggested it.
“No, I’m in a thundering temper.”
She smiled. “That’s good. You’re great fun when you’re that way. What’s
the matter?”
“Hillsmead,” he said shortly. “Hillsmead and Curtin.”
“Then that was Mr. Hillsmead!” she cried. “Oh, he’s lovely! You’ve
never done him justice, Jack. He’s so pretty--and glib, and complacent.
I envy you, seeing him every day.”
“Where are we going, anyway?” he asked.
“Growly!” she commented teasingly. “I don’t know exactly. I think I’m
going home.”
He said nothing, so in a moment she added, “You’d do well to copy Mr.
Hillsmead in one thing.”
“That’s rough,” he said. “Rough but righteous. In common courtesy, he
has doubtless outstripped me to-day.”
“It’s not that; it’s curiosity. He told me that Mr. Bagsbury was out,
but that if I would confide my business to him, his valuable services
were at my disposal. And he was so sure that he could do it better than
Mr. Bagsbury that I nearly told him what it was.”
“If I’ll profess Hillsmead’s curiosity, will you tell me?”
“We were to lunch somewhere and then go to the Board of Trade to see
them do things with lard.” She had drawled the words out as slowly as
possible, and now she glanced at him in mock distress. “John’s gone
off, you see, and forgotten all about me.”
He stopped and gazed at her seriously. “I wish to propose,” he said,
“three cheers for John Bagsbury. For future delivery,” he added, noting
her look of alarm. “I’m getting to like him better right along.”
“It’s a strange thing,” Jack remarked a few minutes later, as he looked
at her across the little round table; “it’s a strange thing, but when
I’ve been with you a few minutes my troubles, even the big ones, begin
to look like jokes. I really think they are jokes until I get off by
myself again.”
“Tell me about Mr. Curtin,” said Dick, quickly. “I can guess what Mr.
Hillsmead did to make you wild, but,” the dimple which had cautiously
appeared at one corner of her mouth vanished again, “but how has Mr.
Curtin been bothering you?”
She grew very serious as he told her of the assistant cashier’s
performances of the day before; and when he had finished, she told him
how John was worried over the betrayal of his secret.
“Do you suppose,” she asked anxiously, “that there’s any connection;
that Mr. Curtin had anything to do with it?”
He shook his head. “I give it up. But I know this: we’ve been pretty
foolish not to tell Mr. Bagsbury. We’ve been so afraid of making
ourselves ridiculous that we haven’t thought of anything else.”
“We’re such perfect babes in the wood at all this sort of thing,” said
Dick. “Now I suppose that any person of average business intelligence
would see through it all in two minutes. But I believe we ought to tell
him, anyway. Let’s do it to-night.”
“Both of us?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t do it alone for anything. Come, let’s look at
the lard corner.”
Just as they were entering the big Board of Trade building an old man
walked briskly past them and turned into the office of Ball, Snyder,
and Jones, Brokers. Even at that place, where the money value of mere
seconds is impressive, there were a dozen people who paused to glance
curiously after him. Dick and Jack Dorlin did not know who he was, and
if any one had taken the trouble to tell them that it was William G.
Pickering, they would have thought nothing of it. And yet the fact,
that at just that moment that one man should enter that particular
office, was interesting.
But the attention of these two was absorbed by the distant clamor
of the battle which attacked their ears the moment they entered the
building. It was an angry roar, inarticulate, meaningless, but with its
savage crescendo and its fitful diminuendo it was vaguely exciting.
They hurried up the stairs into the visitors’ gallery and wormed their
way through the crowd to a position from which they could see the
floor. Their first glance was disappointing. It added nothing to the
sensation they had felt at the first sound of the shouting. The only
impression they could get was of a vast clamoring confusion.
“Are they really doing anything but yell?” asked Dick.
All through her life she had believed that real power exerted itself
quietly; that noise was the manifestation of impotence, and it was hard
for her to take this mob seriously.
Before Jack could speak the man who stood at her other hand had
answered her. He was a well-dressed young fellow, who seemed vastly
excited over the battle.
“Anything but yell!” he quoted. “They’re making a price that will rule
in all the markets in the world.”
With a pressure of her hand she signalled Jack not to interfere, and
then asked the stranger,--
“Will you please tell me what is happening down there?”
The explanation came, swift and hot, but to Dick’s chagrin it was in a
foreign language. She caught a familiar word now and then, but the rest
was as meaningless as the tumult on the floor.
“I see,” she said at last. Then to forestall any further explanation
she asked, “Can you tell me who that little man is in the white flannel
coat?”
“Keyes,” he spoke without looking, “of Keyes and Sievert. They’re
buying for Pickering. Keyes is--Ah! there it goes up again!”
He glanced at his watch. “They’ve got twenty minutes yet before closing
time. They’ll get it to ten cents. See! there again!”
“How can you tell that it’s gone up?” she asked.
“See those fellows on the edge there, facing this way. They signal
the changes of price with their hands to people who stay near the
telephones. There! see that!”
Dick’s eyes had wandered back to Keyes. He was standing there
composedly, his memorandum card in his hand, jotting down his
purchases. He seemed quite unmoved by the excitement around him. A
clerk who had come running the length of the room, dodging like a
football player, dashed up to this quiet little man in the white
flannel coat and handed him a slip of paper. Keyes read it at a glance,
tucked it in his pocket, and turned back to look at the crowd. Dick
fancied she saw him smiling.
Her eyes left him to fall on a very tall man who was forcing his way
with much haste and little ceremony toward the centre of the pit.
“That’s Jones,” said the young fellow beside her, “of Ball, Snyder, and
Jones. Wonder what’s coming now?”
There was a momentary lull as Jones raised his arm and thrust his
hand forward with all fingers extended. He shouted something that was
unintelligible to Jack and Dick, but which raised a storm in the pit.
Again and again he repeated the gesture, and from all about the pit men
struggled toward him, as though they wished to tear him to pieces.
Another messenger boy was running across the floor, and Dick watched
him seek out Keyes again. Keyes read the second message and turned back
to the pit. His arm shot forward, the hand erect, palm out, and said
something. He did not have to shout. The pit had stopped to gasp. When
the yell broke out again, it was a different sort of yell. It drew the
traders scattered about the floor and in other pits as a magnet draws
iron filings. Dick heard the young fellow at her side choke.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What has happened?”
“Keyes--is--selling.”
He spoke in a daze, his eyes on the men signalling from the edge of the
pit.
“Do you know why he’s selling?” asked Jack. It was the first time he
had spoken.
“They’ve busted Pickering--that’s why--and a lot of small fry with him
that don’t count,--me for one.”
So the three stood there watching one of the sharpest turns that most
irregular market has ever made. In the fifteen minutes before closing
time lard dropped nearly three cents a pound. The one who understood
held his open watch in his hand and monotonously reported the swiftly
dropping price as it was signalled over to the telephones. The other
two listened, bewildered between a pity for him and a conviction that
the fifteen minutes would never end.
Suddenly he slipped his watch into his pocket and turned away.
“That puts me out,” he said.
And then--it seems an hour afterward to Jack and Dick--the great bell
rang, and it was over.
Without speaking, they made their way back to the ground floor and
drifted along with the crowd that was pouring into the street.
Just before they reached the door Jack exclaimed:--
“Look! there’s Curtin. No, don’t look either. Turn this way.”
It was too late to escape him. He made his unsteady way toward them and
stood barring their path.
“I suppose you think I’ve been drinking,” he said thickly.
He was flushed; his eyes rolled about aimlessly. He was shaking like
one palsied.
Jack Dorlin turned to Dick. “Walk right along without me, please,” he
said. “I’ll overtake you in a minute.”
Then he caught Curtin by the arm, and, leading him to the sidewalk,
hailed a cab.
“I’m not drunk,” Curtin protested; “I’ve not been drinking. Oh, my God!
I’m going to prison! I’m going to prison!”
He tried to say something more, but simply choked. Jack thrust him into
the cab and telling the driver Curtin’s address, he pushed his way
through the little crowd that had gathered, and hurried after Dick.
Then they walked on slowly for more than a block without speaking, and
in spite of the crowd on the sidewalk he continued to stay close at her
side.
“Hasn’t it made you blue?” he asked. She nodded sympathetically.
“But I’m not sorry we went,” she said a moment later. “I’m glad John
forgot about me. I shouldn’t like to have seen it with him; but it’s
different with you. I mean--”
She could not say just what she meant, and with heightened color she
added quickly, “But I don’t want to see anything like that again,
ever.”
“I’ve had enough myself. I’m afraid I’m getting disgusted with the
whole business, Dick. I feel that it would be a pleasant change to
settle down and live on a farm somewhere, for a while, anyway. Don’t
you?”
“I was thinking of something like that myself,” she answered
thoughtfully. “We could--” she turned away suddenly and glanced up the
street. “I mustn’t keep you any longer. I’ve dragged you miles out of
your way already. No, I’m going to take the elevated right here.”
She had not meant to do it; but as he was leaving her, she said,--
“You’ll--you’re coming down to dinner to-night, aren’t you?”