THE DEACON’S VENGEANCE.
Charlie Townley had no rest on New Year’s day. His sleep had been
troubled, that night after Tamms’s dinner; and he was kept awake, by
the danger that he saw, ignorant of the greater one unseen that he had
escaped. The day was a holiday; “the Street” was as deserted, almost,
as on Sunday; though the policeman on his rounds and the children,
playing at snow-balling in the centre of the empty street, could see,
above the half-drawn window-shades, troubled faces of men inside and
clerks bending industriously over the great ledgers.
Townley was there all day, closeted with Mr. Tamms. He scarcely gave
himself time for a bit of bread, at noon, when the chimes of Trinity
at the head of the street were ringing again joyously. Thus he kept
his holy-day, counting his money in his counting-house, making up
the balance of their year’s labors, as is our modern way of keeping
holy-days. And as the day wore on, it became evident, even to him, that
the money, or rather those slips of paper printed or engraved which
might bring in money, were distressingly scanty; while on the other
hand, the footing of notes payable grew most portentously. He might,
indeed, have thanked his holy-day for one thing--that many of their
loans fell due upon the morrow, in consequence of it.
Charlie had never quite thoroughly known the business. Mr. Tamms and
Mr. Townley both had their private iron boxes in the vault; and he had
no means of knowing what might be in these. And Mr. Townley Senior had
another iron box marked “Trusts.” On the other hand there was also
no means of his knowing how much they had borrowed on their private
accounts.
Tamms had been very silent through the day; and his calmness gave
Charlie some encouragement. Nevertheless, the total of liabilities was
appalling: counting their own loans, and loans of the railroad, and of
Starbuck Oil, it was over thirteen millions of dollars. True, to meet
this, they had two-thirds the entire stock of Allegheny Central--all,
in fact, that was not held by private investors or in permanent trusts,
for they had not dared to sell a thousand shares since the past
summer--and all the bonds and nearly half the stock of Starbuck Oil.
But every share of both was pledged for their large debts; to sell even
so little as a thousand shares would break the price and bring a call
for further “margin.” And they had no further margin to put up. Charlie
was appalled. “Couldn’t we get Remington’s brokers to sell some for
us?” he hazarded, at last.
“What’s the use? We’d have to buy it ourselves,” answered Tamms. “It’s
been the old deacon, right through--damn him,” he added. Charlie had
never heard him swear before; and it struck him, all at once, that
Tamms was growing careless with his mask.
“Never mind,” said Tamms, as if he had read his thoughts, “let’s go to
dinner--then we’ll feel more like tackling the assets. You’ll have to
go in and buy the whole market in the morning, anyhow.”
This bold speech restored a little of Townley’s courage; and they went
and had a somewhat grim banquet, with plenty of champagne, however, at
the Astor House. Then they went back to Wall Street in the evening; and
worked together until midnight. And Mr. Tamms showed Townley a list of
securities that almost gave him strength to face the morrow. “These,”
said he, showing the paper, “are my own; and these other,” showing a
still longer list, “are Mr. Townley’s.”
“Had I better see him?”
“What’s the use of bothering the old man? He won’t be down to-morrow.”
Now Charlie had never heard Tamms call Mr. Townley “the old man” before.
“How much shall I buy?”
“Buy Allegheny and Starbuck Oil until you’re black in the face. I can
get two millions on this stuff easy. And those young fellows who were
at my dinner will be buying too, I guess. I’ll catch old Remington,
by God, and this time I’ll bleed him white.” And Tamms’s bleared eyes
glared, and his beard bristled, and his straight red mustache shut down
over his thin lips like a wire trap. He was not a pleasant sight, as
he said these words. “If you get frightened, send around for me,” he
concluded, more quietly; and they locked the offices and separated on
the corner of the street.
That night Charlie did not sleep at all. He lay broad awake, thinking
now of the business, now of Mamie Livingstone, his lady-love. He
angrily wished that he had put his courtship to its climax sooner. A
pretty mood he was now to woo in--at the ball to-morrow night! Sleep
was impossible; and he got up and smoked cigars and paced the room
impatiently.
In the morning, however, his hopes were higher. After all, they might
probably weather this squall, if only for a few weeks; and on that
evening, by all that was holy, he would win the hand of pretty little
Mamie--and her millions. Then Tamms might split his wicked head for all
he cared. Mr. Tamms had not got to the office when Charlie arrived; but
he went off to the board, and began his bidding boldly.
But that last night had come the news of the great Allegheny Central
strike, no longer to be suppressed by the telegraph or the company,
born of that riotous meeting which our friend Derwent had so vainly
tried to check and James Starbuck had fomented, coming from the races
and his sister’s pretty pony-carriage that emulated Mrs. Gower’s own.
The stock had dropped a fraction actually before his own first bid was
heard; and he knew that the message had flashed all over the country,
“opening weak.” There was a very maelstrom about the Allegheny Central
sign--he found it easy to keep in the centre of the whirl, however,
and bought it manfully. But soon he found the reason of this; he was
the only broker that was buying. Some of the young men that had been at
Tamms’s dinner he saw, upon the outskirts of the crowd, and tried to
wink at them encouragingly; but evidently the news of the strike, or
some other warning, had frightened them, for they held aloof. He could
hardly pretend to keep account of the stock that he was buying, though
he jotted as rapidly as he could on his bit of paper. A telegram was
thrust into his hand; he read it hurriedly; it was from Tamms--“Keep
it up--strikers reported starving.”--“Confound ’em, they can’t starve
before to-morrow, though,” thought he; but he went on taking all stock
they offered; and it seemed as if all the world was offering stock.
It was a terrible hour. He looked furtively at the clock, the while he
kept on bidding. Some minutes of the “call” still remained. A messenger
forced his way through the crowd, with a note from the office. It was
from their banking-clerk: “Money ten per cent. Fechheimer has called
for margin.” Curse the rate of money; what cared he what it cost if
they had only got it? Why in heaven didn’t Lauer tell him that? And he
wiped the sweat from his brow and went on bidding.
And now there was a sudden eddy in the crowd, and it opened inward and
he saw Deacon Remington himself. Townley’s face fell, despite him; he
was not yet old enough to be quite a perfect gambler; and there was a
sort of awe-struck hush, as the ranks of the Greeks might have hushed
before Troy when Achilles took the field.
“Five thousand at seventy-five,” said old Remington, turning a wad of
tobacco in his cheek.
“Take it,” said Charlie, coolly. Now seventy-five was nearly two whole
points below the last quoted sale; which had been a little lot of two
hundred shares sold by--alas, shall we say it? Of such, however, is
the friendship of Wall Street--his old friend Arthur Holyoke. Charlie
was reckless now, and had nailed his colors to the mast; a pretty sure
sign, by the way, that a man is beaten.
But the artful Tamms had still one more trick in his bag. In the
momentary hush that followed this first discharge of heavy guns,
Charlie got another telegram. It was dated Brooklyn, like the first.
“Allegheny Central--special stockholders meeting for dividend--books
close to-morrow.” Tamms would have compressed the gospel of eternal
life into ten words.
Then a clever idea struck young Townley. If they had no money, neither
had Remington and his crowd any stock. “Post this telegram,” he said to
his clerk who had brought it. And then:
“I want ten thousand more of Allegheny Central--_cash_.”
Now “cash” meant that the stock must be delivered that day, as the
books closed on the morrow.
There was another pause. He could hear the younger brokers among his
adversaries anxiously inquiring the loaning rate on Allegheny Central.
Now Charlie knew very well there was none to loan.
“I’ll give seventy-six for ten thousand, cash.” And this time there was
a sort of wolf-like howl; but no other response.
“Seventy-seven?--Seventy-eight?--EIGHTY?”
The baffled deacon turned his quid again. “Seventy--at the opening,”
said he at last. But Charlie laughed scornfully.
“I want it now, please, deacon.” And here some of those rich young
men who had been at the dinner, seeing a turn in the tide of battle,
ranged themselves on Townley’s side. The price was run up with
astounding rapidity. “Eighty--one--two--three--five--” the deacon
looked on impotently. Not for one moment did he believe--nor, perhaps,
many others there--that the house of Townley & Tamms could meet this
contract. But the rules of trade forbade inquiring into that, so long
as they had met their obligations.
“NINETY,” said Charlie, in ill-concealed triumph. And the hammer fell,
and the morning board was over; and there was a sort of cheer from
the money-seeking multitude. Throughout the length and breadth of the
greatest trading nation in the world it would be known in a few minutes
that Allegheny had closed at ninety, bid. All danger of further calls
for margin on that day at least was removed; and Charlie went back in
triumph to the office.
And even yet, though it is three years since--and three years is a
generation on Wall Street--this great battle is remembered; and the
audacity of young Charlie Townley and how he stood up before the great
bear leader is told, as Romans told how Horatio held the bridge; told
by brokers about their firesides, if they have firesides, to their
children, when they have any. And Charlie’s memory was kept bright; and
his deeds of prowess not forgotten. For it was many a long month before
he appeared upon the floor again.
He went back flushed with victory, like a warrior to his camp. Now he
could look forward with due pleasure to the ball that evening. Once
more he had leisure for thoughts of ladies fair and love. And as Paris,
weary of the battle, might have looked forward to his Helen, so he
looked forward to his tender interview with Mamie Livingstone that
night. If Tamms had only got the money for their notes falling due that
day, they might go on with safety for some months at least.
Now that he had time to think, it struck him as curious that both his
telegrams had been dated Brooklyn. He quickened his step; and arriving
at the office, his first inquiries were for his active partner. “Mr.
Tamms has not been in to-day,” said Mr. Lauer.
This was very strange. He telegraphed at once for Tamms at Brooklyn,
telling him of the glorious victory they had won; and took his needed
lunch while waiting for the answer. Then he went and ordered his
flowers to be sent to Mamie. But when he got back, there was no answer
yet.
He began to grow nervous. It was nearly two o’clock; and he must be
going back to the board. Leaving word at the office that he was to be
sent for immediately when Mr. Tamms came back, he took the keys to
their boxes and went to the vaults himself.
He found one certificate only in the box--for one thousand shares of
Starbuck Oil. Well, this was better than nothing. But where was all the
list of bonds and stocks that Tamms had shown him on the night before?
In the elder partner’s private boxes, he supposed. And these he could
not get till Tamms’s return. Could he be ill, by any chance? It was
not like Tamms to be ill at such a time. His mind was greater than his
body, too, and held the laws of nature in control.
In despair, he tried the lock of Tamms’s private box. To his
astonishment it opened at the touch. With an intense relief, he saw it
was full of papers. Far-sighted Tamms had foreseen this, too.
But the relief was short-lived. The papers were nothing but insurance
policies, contracts of no money value, leases of real estate, and a
deed of a pew in Tamms’s church. Could Tamms have taken the other
papers with him to raise the money on himself? In his despair he tried
old Mr. Townley’s box. This also was not locked. But, to his horror,
he found that it was quite empty. Empty? His head swam, and the open
box seemed to yawn before his eyes like some black pit. He even dragged
down Mr. Townley’s box marked Trusts. That was empty too.
Charlie ran back to the office, streaming with a cold sweat of terror.
His last hope--that Tamms would be there--proved equally vain. That
ingenious person had not been heard from since the morning.
At three o’clock, the doors of Townley & Tamms, successors to Charles
Townley & Son, which had not been closed in a business day before since
sixty-eight years, were shut. And a notice, posted on the outer iron
rail of the office, in Mr. Adolph Lauer’s neat writing, informed their
creditors that the old firm were “temporarily unable to meet their
obligations.”
But the “ticker” went on relentlessly through the afternoon; and the
scared clerks, reading it, abandoning all other business, brought
Charlie news, from time to time, of the great panic that was in the
board; how Allegheny Central went to fifty; how even Starbuck Oil
could find no purchasers. And while many a quiet home throughout the
land was as yet undisturbed, little recking that the great railroad on
which they had lived so long was at last insolvent, Charlie Townley
sate doggedly in his barred office, hoping vainly for Mr. Tamms, or
puzzling, equally vainly, how to meet the million that they owed that
day, with his thousand shares of Starbuck Oil.
From time to time, he would lay down the hopeless task to think of the
ball, that evening. Now he could not dare to go. Even he could not
venture to ask a woman’s hand on the day that all the world knew he was
ruined. Ruined--aye, and fraudulently. Where were Mr. Townley’s trusts
that he so long had kept so well? In Tamms’s pocket, perhaps, flying
with these, too, to Canada. There was a swarm of reporters pressing at
the door; vociferating for a member of the firm. The noise at last
attracted his attention; and he went out and told them, with as calm
a face as he could wear, that Mr. Tamms was absent; but on the morrow
when he returned, all would be made good. But Charlie knew well that
Phineas Tamms would never return to the house of Townley & Tamms. He
sent a despatch for Mr. Townley, however, and waited; and worked over
the weary figures, once more, till after midnight.
And this was how he spent the evening, while poor Mamie was watching
for him, vainly, at the ball.