THE FASTER GAME
Burnett senior sat in his office leaning forward in his chair and
drumming nervously on the desk. Every now and then he glanced at his
watch, then uncertainly toward the hat-rack, and then with an effort
turned to the letters in front of him. But in the end he always found
himself again drumming nervously on his desk.
It was eleven o’clock and the Stock Exchange had been open for an hour.
Already he had twice rung up the office of Toole & Co. and received the
report that the market was strong and the trading brisk. Apparently it
was going as yesterday Toole had predicted it would. Already several
issues in which he was interested had advanced from a quarter to a
half. Figuring roughly it made a difference of four hundred dollars to
him in that first hour. This was not much compared to the profit he
had taken last week on steel of five thousand, but one never knew what
the next ten minutes might bring forth. That was what made the game
interesting. There was no waiting for monthly statements or semi-annual
balances. There was no sitting around for the maturing of carefully
thought-out plans. It was possible to do a year’s business in a week;
sometimes in a day; sometimes in an hour. Even if a man invested only
in a small way, as he was doing, it added zest to life.
Until a few weeks ago he had never been inside a broker’s office.
Forsythe had then introduced him to his friend Benton, and it was
through the latter that he had bought steel and through him had sold
it again—clearing up in a month the amount he had loaned Dicky. He
liked the idea. It left Dicky free to lose the money as soon as he
wished. A day or so later Benton had taken him down to the Street one
noon hour and introduced him to Toole. A very agreeable man Toole
was. He was a big fellow, physically, with pleasant manners. They had
lunched together not long after this—rather heartily. Toole had offices
overlooking the street—pleasant offices. Burnett had sat around there
for an hour watching the board and listening to the odds and ends
of gossip that circulated through the little gathering. He had gone
several times since then. In a good many ways he found it a relief from
the routine of his own office. There was an atmosphere of tension there
which was stimulating.
If, at the beginning, he had felt the slightest bit uncomfortable, like
a man visiting for the first time a race-track, he had partly quieted
his conscience by the thought that after all he was playing with his
own hard-earned money, and that win or lose he was entitled at his
age to a little amusement. With his own business running as smoothly
as it now did under Forsythe, there was every day less and less need
of him in the office. If Dicky were about it might be different. Then
he would have had as his ambition the training of the boy. There were
certain plans for extension—the foreign field, for instance, was almost
untouched—which with Dicky’s help might have acted as a fresh spur to
effort. But if the lad had no taste for such schemes, why, that was the
end of the matter. Projects of that sort were for Youth—Youth with the
long years ahead. He himself, lately, craved a faster game. And in a
sense that desire went back to Dicky too.
The day the boy had told him of his princess, Burnett had begun an
inventory of his estate. The result had left him thinking. As long as
he looked at it only from his own point of view, it was satisfactory
enough. He had his business which on the basis of its earning power
represented a value of two hundred thousand; he had his house worth
in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand; and he had a surplus in
various sound securities worth around seventy-five thousand. Besides
this he kept an account of forty or fifty thousand in cash. Considering
the fact that he had started with nothing, this was a good deal to have
accomplished in thirty years. If at twenty-one he could have looked
forward to any such reward he would have felt fully satisfied.
And yet, as Dicky talked, four hundred thousand seemed little enough.
It was, of course, all a matter of comparison, and Burnett knew that
most of the boy’s friends belonged to families who reckoned their
fortunes in millions. And he was proud that Dicky had been able to make
such friends. He was proud, too, that although his own fortune was so
much less, it had always been sufficient to allow the boy within reason
to hold his own among the others. In college he had always had the
best. Since then there had been enough so that he could still follow
his fancy. If at this point Burnett winced a trifle, it was when he was
alone. He must remember that it was only natural that circumstances
should make a big difference in the point of view. In fact that was
just what was happening to himself.
Burnett had looked up these Fairburnes, and what he learned made
his own little fortune sink to insignificance. And it helped him to
understand what Dicky meant when he said, “I don’t know what you can
get her that she hasn’t already.” Burnett had four hundred thousand to
hand over to his son, and Fairburne could match every fifty thousand
with a million for his daughter.
Even Toole, so he understood, could match him two for one and had made
this on the Street within ten years. And Toole told him of others.
At odd times and quite incidentally the talk had run to fortunes made
quickly. It was always an interesting topic and Toole had a fund of
such stories.
“Why, I had an office boy,” he said one day, as he offered Burnett a
cigar, “a little chap by the name of Windsor. The rascal saved some
five hundred dollars from his wages and began to trade on margins. He
got a tip somehow on R and M, bought, and began to pyramid. He cleaned
up ten thousand on that deal and jumped into a curb oil stock. The
stuff advanced from five to forty in two months, and he came out of
that with a profit of seventy thousand. He quit me then, but I’m told
that to-day he is worth three million.”
Three million in five years! And he, Burnett, had sweat blood to roll
up a paltry four hundred thousand in thirty years! It was merely a
matter of comparison.
Yet Burnett did not lose his head altogether. That thirty years of
business experience counted for something. Once back in his office
again he was able to smile at many of those stories. But as a result of
them he worked out this scheme: he would take that fifty thousand and
fool with it—merely fool with it. If he lost, well and good. At least
he would have had some entertainment. He would pay for that and quit.
Certainly that amount would not break him.
On the other hand, if he won! Here was where he let his imagination
loose. Windsor, a mere office boy, had made three million out of five
hundred. It was elementary arithmetic to figure what the youngster
might have done had he started with one hundred times that capital.
Discounting the story fifty per cent and admitting that such a case
was one in a thousand, a man was still left an ample margin for
day-dreaming.
Supposing that when it came time for Dicky to marry the girl, Fairburne
should send for him and somewhat scornfully demand what prospects
he had to justify such a course. There was not much doubt but that
Fairburne would take the precaution to look up the Burnett rating in
Dun and Bradstreet, just as Burnett had looked up the Fairburne rating.
He would find him in the quarter-million class. Dicky probably would
be considerably disconcerted and doubtless indignant as well. He might
even consider the question beside the point, though he himself had
admitted that she deserved a fortune. At any rate, the boy would have
to come back for information, because he did not know any more about
the family finances than a stranger. He had never asked. He had never
shown the slightest interest.
So some day he would stroll into the office and repeat the question. He
might quote Fairburne in some such statement as—
“What is a paltry quarter-million for a Fairburne?”
Then Burnett senior would smile. He would reach to one of the
cubby-holes in his desk and take out his account-book with Toole & Co.
He would hand it to Dicky. It might show one million, or two million,
or three million. It depended a good deal on his mood how much he made
it. At any rate, it was always enough to satisfy Fairburne.
“Go back and tell Fairburne that Dun and Bradstreet don’t always know
everything,” he might say.
And Dicky would get up and slap him on the shoulder, with his face
alight. Possibly he might in some good-natured way rebuke him.
“You deserved to lose for taking any such fool chance. But it’s one on
Fairburne.”
But the boy’s face would be alight. That was all the reward he wanted.
Burnett senior stopped drumming on his desk and pressed a button,
summoning Forsythe. The latter responded instantly. He was as alert as
electricity. He came in with a pencil behind his ear and his hand full
of papers.
“I’m going out for a little while, Forsythe,” explained Burnett,
without looking at the man.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything you want to see me about?”
“No, Mr. Burnett.”
“I don’t know when I’ll get back, but if you want me, telephone Toole &
Co. I may drop in there a little while.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Forsythe.
“And if my son comes in—just say I’ll be back soon. You—er—you needn’t
say where I am.”
“No, sir,” he answered. “But I’ll call you up if he seems too curious.”
“Right, Forsythe.”
Burnett waited until Forsythe left before he put on his hat and coat.
Then when he did go out, he appeared more or less apprehensive until he
was clear of the building.