CURIOUS SPECULATIONS IN STOCK.
When there is a grand upward movement in stocks, and all is excitement
among the dealers, from the big operator worth millions, down to the
little curb-stone broker whose fortune is yet to be made, early and
reliable information in regard to what is going on in the lower-levels
is valuable and is always in demand.
On the Comstock there is a class of men, for whom there is no
distinctive name, whose business it is to find out all that can in any
way be learned in regard to the condition of the mines, and report the
same to the dealers in stocks by whom they are employed. These mining
reporters, they might be called—as a class, are shrewd and eternally
vigilant. They must always keep their employers, who are generally in
San Francisco, well informed in regard to the condition of the Comstock
mines at all times when a “strike” is anticipated or reported in any
particular mine; it is expected of them, by hook or by crook, to
ascertain exactly in what part of the mine it was made or is about to be
made. If made at all, they are to find out the value of the strike,
probable extent of the body of ore found, its richness, direction, and
many other things not easily ascertained.
When a strike is reported made in a mine and all its gates and doors are
closed, the strictest secresy enjoined on all the workmen, and
admittance refused to all “outsiders,” then is the time for the mining
reporter to display his genius or give up his trade. By bribing workmen
or by getting a man of his own into the mine to work, or in some other
way he must find out what he wants to know.
On one occasion a rich strike was reported in a leading mine. Every
avenue to the lower-levels was closed against the outside world. The
superintendent was exceedingly close-mouthed and mysterious; the miners
were reticent and unbribable—nothing could be learned in regard to the
strike, though strike there was, as all felt convinced. The gatherers of
mining news scouted about the surface works, watching everything and
making mental notes of all that occurred which appeared to be indicative
of a rich body of ore below. Nothing, however, of the slightest value
could be bored, pumped, or gouged out of anybody or anything, and
finally all the newsgatherers but one drew off and gave it up as a bad
job. One man still lingered, day after day, all eyes and ears. The
superintendent came and went, and he was none the wiser for having seen
him.
At last a bright idea struck him. The superintendent came to the mine,
and, as usual, went down into the lower-levels. Our man remained
loitering about the works until he came out—lingered until he had seen
him take off and throw aside his muddy boots, his clay-besmeared
overalls and shirt, and till he had finally taken himself off. Watching
his chance, the hungry reporter of mining news darted into the
dressing-room, and with his jack-knife scraped from the boots, overalls,
felt hat, shirt, and everything, all the mud, clay, and earth sticking
to them. Of this and the loose particles of ore found in the pockets of
the shirt, he made a large ball, which was composed of a general average
of the bottom, top and sides of the drift run into the new deposit; he
had a little of everything the superintendent had touched, and this ball
he had carefully assayed. By the result obtained he became satisfied
that a strike of extraordinary richness had been made. He immediately
telegraphed to his employers in San Francisco to buy all of the stock
they could get. They bought largely, and made an immense profit, as the
stock soon went up from a few dollars to high in the hundreds.
At the time of the big excitement in 1875, a fine, motherly-looking old
lady came up to Virginia City from Reno to see about the “big bonanza.”
She had in her pocket twenty shares of California stock which she had
bought when it was selling at $30. At the time she made her trip to
Virginia the stock was selling for over $600 per share. Her son
accompanied her on her trip of inspection. Leaving the cars at the
depôt, mother and son walked down the railroad-track to a point where
could be obtained a good view of the Consolidated Virginia
hoisting-works, the big mill of that company and of the Ophir works.
Some men of whom they inquired told them that the ground they saw
between the Ophir and the Consolidated Virginia, was that of the
California Company, and was principally bonanza.
On hearing this, the good old lady wiped her spectacles, placed them
astride of her venerable nose, threw back her head, and long and
carefully surveyed the lay of the land between the two sets of
hoisting-works. This done, she took off and folded up her glasses, put
them into their case, and carefully deposited them in her capacious
pocket. She then brought forth her reticule, opened it, took out her
stock, found it all right, replaced it, and drew the string as tight as
her trembling fingers would allow of her doing. She then said to her
son: “George, give me your arm. Let us go home—it will go to $1,000.”
Nat Codrington was one of the unlucky speculators. He was always
complaining about William Sharon, the great mining millionaire. Whenever
things went wrong with Nat, “Uncle Billy”—as Nat affectionately called
Mr. Sharon—was at the bottom of the business. When Nat bought stock it
was sure to go down at once, then he would say: “That’s Uncle Billy,
he’s turning the crank again!” As soon as Nat sold short on a stock, up
it would go, and he would say: “Well, Uncle Billy’s at it again—grindin’
of ’em the other way this time!”
As long as he could, Nat responded to the calls for “mud,” but his pile
of filthy lucre was not like the widow’s cruse of oil, and at last it
became a thing of the past, and Nat ceased to take even his former
feeble interest in “Uncle Billy’s” crank-turning.
The last seen of Nat he was off for California. The iron had entered his
soul and he had reached the seventh level of despair. No more mining—no
more mud-eating stocks for him. “Yes,” said Nat, “I’m off for the
pastoral regions, where the woodbine twineth and the dissolute
grasshopper sitteth on the mullin stalk and assiduously raspeth his
stridulous fiddle.”
Old Joe Staker is one of a class to be found both along the line of the
Comstock and in San Francisco, on those streets where speculators in
stocks most do congregate. Old Joe probably never owned the shadow of a
share in any mine on the Comstock lode, yet he is always in the thick of
every excitement, and claims to have shares in all the big mines.
In 1875, Old Joe was in his element. His is a very sympathetic nature,
and when California was booming up toward $1,000 per share, Old Joe was
rushing about, ever in the midst of the _mélée_—was ever with those who
were drinking and rejoicing.
Later in the season, when there had been a crash along the whole
line—when all stocks, good, bad, and indifferent, “tumbled”—Old Joe was
to be found in the midst of the mourners, drowning his sorrows at every
opportunity. He did not, however, at all times find those who were
losing their thousands each hour by the fall so liberal as had been
those who had been winning at the same rate by the rise, nor were they
so good-natured, and Old Joe frequently found himself elbowed out
altogether.
One day half a dozen groups had given him the shake. He was exceedingly
thirsty—his throat as dry as a lime-burner’s shoe.
[Illustration: FUNNY INCIDENTS.]
While he was disconsolately roving from saloon to saloon in search of a
sympathetic being with whom to shed tears, he encountered a
dilapidated-looking individual just arrived from the great West—a Kansas
sufferer, in short. Old Joe heard something of this man’s story of the
ruin wrought in the West by the grasshopper, and at once froze to him
with his story of losses in stocks. After three drinks together—the
grasshopper man appeared to have a thin stratum of greenbacks left in
his wallet, toward which Old Joe cocked an occasional eye—after about
three drinks it was settled by the pair that grasshoppers and bonanzas
were two of the worst plagues by which the world had ever been
devastated. As more drinks were taken, grasshoppers and porphyry and
bonanzas and beanstalks became fearfully mixed. At a late hour they were
still mingling their tears and toasting each other. “Here’s hoping,”
said the grasshopper man, “that yer cornstalks may always bear three
full (hic!) ears and a nubbin!” “And here,” said Old Joe, “is death and
confusion to all (hic!) brasshoppers and gonanzas!”
Old Joe then encircled the neck of his new-found friend with his left
arm, and said in his most kindly tone: “Now, ef you was perfec’ly des
(hic!) destitute and I was perfec’ly des (hic!) tute, you’d soak
everything you had for (hic!) me, and I’d spout everything I persessed
for you; (hic!) wouldn’t we?”
The opening of the big bonanza at the north end of the Comstock
occasioned a grand rush of prospectors to the northward of Virginia
City, a region which had, strangely enough, never been prospected.
There had been some surface-scratching done in that direction in early
times, and some shafts had been sunk to the depth of fifty to one
hundred feet, but no regular scientific prospecting had been done.
Claims were taken up in all directions, first-class shafts begun,
machinery set up, and buildings of all kinds erected. In a few months
quite a village was built up, to which was given the name of North
Virginia. This place is about two miles north of Virginia City, and in
case of the continuation of the Comstock lode being found in that
neighborhood will be likely to be a place of considerable importance.
Some excellent “prospects” are being found in the shafts that are being
sunk in that direction, and the owners of several mines are confident
that at no distant day they will find a big bonanza on their part of the
lode.
At the time these claims were being located there was almost a revival
of the scenes of early days. Men were out in the night staking off
ground and posting notices, and there was a good deal of claim-jumping,
with some fights, going on. Men were seen bringing pieces of rock into
town as specimens from their mines, and these were passed from hand to
hand and commented on, much as when the miners first began to roam the
hills. Even the colored population, who seldom trouble themselves about
mines, caught the infection and went out prospecting and locating
mines—became experts on ore. One of these coming into town with a big
chunk of rock in his hand met a friend whose eyes began to dilate at
what he thought might be a lump of solid silver. Said the—
First Expert—“Wha—what yer got thar?”
Second Expert—“Look at dat, sah! Dat’s out’en de Day of Jubilee mine.
Boy, I tell yer dat’s gwine to be a mine. Wha—what you say, now, dat’s
gwine to pay at de present prices of deduction, hey?”
First Expert—“Fore de Lord, I doesn’t know! Gwine to pay, think?”
Second Expert—“Gwine to pay? _gwine to pay?_ Now you makes me laugh. Jes
look at dat rock, Edward Arthur—look at dat side of it! See de pure
chloroform dat’s percolated all ober it! Now ax me ef dat rock’s gwine
to pay. Look at de formation and de stratification! Ax me ef dat rock’s
gwine to pay! Why, you see you doesn’t know de fust principles ’bout dem
oldah prefatory periods when dis here yearf was a multitudinous mass,
floatin’ roun’ in a chaotic hemisphere; time o’ de propylites an
jewrasic periods. Your ignorance perfectly affixes me.”
During the stock excitement on the Comstock, in 1872, a shrewd operator
in stocks found himself in possession of an immense number of shares of
Alpha mining-stock—many more shares than he cared to hold. He was a man
who was and still is considered one of the sharpest operators on the
lode. A word or even a hint from him was worth a whole mint of money.
One day this “stock-sharp” said to his wife: “My dear, how much money
have you got?”
“I have $6,000,” said the wife. “Why?”
“Put it all into the Alpha,” said her husband. “Ask no questions, but
buy all the Alpha you can get. Be careful, however, not to mention to a
living soul that I told you to do this.”
[Illustration: THE SECRET.]
The wife faithfully promised that she would “not even breathe the name
of the mine.” As soon as her husband was out of sight, she put on her
hat and shawl and hurried away to the house of her married sister and
gently murmured into her ear the news that Alpha was a “big buy.” That
night the brother-in-law, Mr. Hornbeck, knew that there was a big
speculation in Alpha; his folks and the Doolittles next heard of it,
then the Turners, and Horners, and Huffs, and Howards—all the relations
of the speculator’s wife, and the relations of their relations, were in
possession of the grand secret in about three days, and about the fifth
day all the bosom friends of all these knew that Alpha was going to
“boom sky-high” and all were buying Alpha right and left.
Being in such great demand, the stock did “boom,” sure enough. All the
time it was booming, and the wife’s relations were going for it, our
shrewd manipulator and deep observer of human nature (feminine), was
quietly feeding it out to them at the highest figures—not only to them,
but to hundreds of others, for by this time about half the population of
Virginia City had been confidentially informed that Alpha was the
“greatest buy on the whole lead.”
Just what was to happen in the mine no one knew—no one pretended to
know—but the grand head authority—away back so far along the line of
knowing ones that few in the front ranks knew his name even—could not be
mistaken. The general idea was that a grand development was about to be
made in the mine. Some went so far as to say that a big strike had been
made in one of the drifts on the lower-level of the mine months before,
but that the drift had been boarded up for reasons best known to the
officers of the company. This bit of news, it was said, had come out
through one of the miners who was of the secret shift engaged in the
drift when the rich ore—“almost pure silver,” some now began to assert
with a considerable degree of positiveness—was struck.
All at last being loaded down with the stock, and no new buyers coming
in, Alpha began to tumble. The Horners and the Huffs and the Howards
became frightened and began to sell. The stock then tumbled more rapidly
than ever, and the Hornbecks and Doolittles and Turners became
panic-stricken and threw their stock upon the market, when from $280 per
share it finally went down to $42 and stopped there dead and flat.
One day, soon after this low price had been reached, our stock-sharp
said to his wife: “By the way, my dear, how did you come out with that
Alpha stock of yours? You sold, I presume, while it was up?”
“Why, n-no, dear,” hesitatingly answered his better-half, “I thought
from all I heard that it would go to $500 and so I held on to it and
have got it all yet.”
“Well, well,” said the husband, “did I ever hear the like in my life!
Got all of your stock yet? Tut! tut! then you’ve lost your $6,000! Well,
dear, don’t mind it. Here is a check for $6,000; take it, and don’t you
ever again try speculating in stocks. You don’t understand it, my
dear—indeed you don’t!”
[Illustration]