On Nassau Street twenty sandwich-men were parading, ten on each side of
the street, in the block where the Ketcham National Bank stood. Each
sandwich bore this legend:
[Illustration: ASK THE PRESIDENT OF THE KETCHAM NATIONAL BANK WHY? HE
WON'T LET ME MARRY HIS DAUGHTER. ASK HIM!]
Besides 12,466 men and 289 women, 13 reporters read the sandwiches.
The men looked pleased; they were seeing a show on D. H. tickets. The
women sighed enviously and opened their latest Robert W. Chambers in the
street as they walked on. The thirteen reporters walked into the bank,
went straight into the president's office, and while he was still
smiling his welcome asked him why he would not let H. R. marry Grace.
Mr. Goodchild nearly sat in the electric chair. The vice-president
fortunately was able to grasp in time the hand that held the big
paper-weight.
"Remember the bank!" solemnly counseled the vice-president.
"To hell with the bank!" said Mr. George G. Goodchild for the first and
only time in his Republican life.
"Unless you talk to us fully and politely," said the _Globe_ man, "we
propose to interview your directors and ask each and every one of them
to tell us the name of your successor. If you raise your hand again I'll
not only break in your face, but I'll sue you and thus secure vacation
money and a raise in salary. The jury is with me. Come! Tell us why you
won't let Mr. Rutgers marry Grace."
Here in his own office the president of a big Wall Street bank was
threatened with obliterated features and the extraction of cash. The
cause of it, H. R., was worse than a combination of socialism and
smallpox; he was even worse than a President of the United States in an
artificial bull market.
Mr. Goodchild walked up and down the room exactly thirteen times--one
for each reporter--and then turned to the vice-president.
"Send for the police!" he commanded.
"Remember the newspapers," agonizedly whispered the vice-president.
The _Globe_ man overheard him. "Present!" he said, and saluted. Then he
took out a lead-pencil, seized a pad from the president's own desk, and
said, kindly, "I'll take down all your reasons in shorthand, Mr.
Goodchild!"
"Take yourself to hell!" shrieked the president.
"_Apres vous, mon cher Alphonse_," retorted the _Globe_ man, with
exquisite courtesy. "Boys, you heard him. Verbatim!"
All the reporters wrote four words.
The _Globe_ man hastily left the president's room and went up to the
bank's gray-coated private policeman who was trying to distinguish
between the few who wished to deposit money and the many who desired to
ask the sandwich question or at least hoped to hear the answer. The
sacred precincts of the Ketcham National Bank had taken on the aspect of
a circus arena. H. R.'s erstwhile fellow-clerks looked the only way they
dared--terrified! They would have given a great deal to have been able
to act as human beings.
"The reporters are in the president's room!" ran the whisper among the
clerks. From there it reached the curious mob within the bank. From
there it spread to the congested proletariate without the doors. Said
proletariate began to grow. Baseball bulletin-boards were not displayed,
but the public was going to get something for nothing. Hence, free
country.
The _Globe_ man heard one of the bank's messengers call the policeman
"Jim." Being a contemporary historian, he addressed the policeman
amicably.
"Jim, Mr. Goodchild says to bring in Senator Lowry and party."
With that he beckoned to the _Globe_'s militant photographers and five
colleagues and preceded them into the president's private office.
"Quick work, Tommy," warned the reporter.
"Flash?" laconically inquired "Senator Lowry." He was such a famous
portraitist that his sitters never gave him time to talk. Hence his
habit of speaking while he could. He prepared his flash-powder.
"Yep!" and the reporter nodded.
The others also unlimbered their cameras. The _Globe_ man threw open the
door.
The president was angrily haranguing the reporters.
"Mr. Goodchild," said the _Globe_ man, "look pleasant!"
Mr. Goodchild turned quickly and opened his mouth.
_Bang!_ went, the flash-powder.
"Hel--" shrieked Mr. Goodchild.
"--p!" said the pious young _Journal_ man, with an air of completing the
presidential speech. A good editor is worth his weight in pearls.
The photographers' corps retreated in good order and record time.
"For the third and last time will you tell us why you won't let your
daughter marry Mr. Rutgers!" asked the _Globe_.
"No."
"Then will you tell us why you won't let Mr. Rutgers marry your
daughter?"
Mr. Goodchild was conservative to the last. Too many people who needed
money had talked to him in the borrower's tone of voice. He could not
grasp the new era. He said, "You infernal blackmailer--"
"Sir," cut in the _Globe_ man, with dignity, "you are positively
insulting! Be nice to the other reporters. I thank you for the
interview!" He bowed and left the office, followed by all the others
except the _Evening Post_ man, who, unfortunately, had never been able
to rid himself of the desire to get the facts. It was partly his editor,
but mostly the absence of a sense of humor.
"I think, Mr. Goodchild, that you'd better give me an official
statement. I'll give the Associated Press man a copy, and that will go
to all the papers."
"But I don't want to say anything," protested Mr. Goodchild, who always
read the _Post_'s money page.
"The other reporters will say it for you. I think you'd better."
"He's right, Mr. Goodchild," said the vice-president.
"But what the dickens can I say?" queried Mr. Goodchild, helplessly, not
daring to look out of the window for fear of seeing the sandwiches.
"If I were you," earnestly advised the _Post_ man, "I'd tell the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"Say why you won't let your daughter--"
"It's preposterous!"
"Say it; but also say why it is preposterous."
Two directors of the bank came in. They were high in high finance. In
fact, they _were_ High Finance. They therefore knew only the newspapers
of an older generation, as they had proven by their testimony before a
Congressional Committee. The older director looked at Mr. Goodchild and
began:
"Goodchild, will you tell me why--"
"You, too?" interrupted Mr. Goodchild, reproachfully but respectfully.
"First the reporters and now--"
The directors gasped.
"You didn't--actually--talk--for--_publication_?"
They stared at him incredulously.
"No. But I'm thinking of giving out a carefully prepared statement--"
The higher of the high financiers, with the masterfulness that made him
richer every panic, assumed supreme command. He turned to the _Post_ man
and said: "I'm surprised to see you here. Your paper used to be decent.
Mr. Goodchild has nothing to say."
"But--" protested the anguished father of Grace Goodchild.
"You haven't!" declared $100,000,000.
"I have nothing to say!" meekly echoed one-tenth of one hundred.
The _Post_ man walked out with a distinctly editorial stride. He began
to envy the yellows and their vulgar editors, as all _Post_ men must at
times.
Mr. Goodchild's efforts to suppress the publication of his family
affairs were in vain. He unfortunately sought to argue over the
telephone with the owners.
The owners spoke to the editors.
"It's _News_!" the editors pointed out.
"It's _News_," the owners regretfully explained to the bank president.
"But it's a crime against decency," said Mr. Goodchild.
"You are right. It's a damned shame. But it's _News_!" said the owners,
and hung up.
Mr. Goodchild summoned his lawyer. The lawyer looked grave. He
recognized the uselessness of trying to stop the newspapers, and
realized that there would be no fat fees, even if he were otherwise
successful. He tried to frighten H. R., but was referred to Max
Onthemaker, Esquire.
Max Onthemaker, Esquire, was in heaven. He finally had butted into
polite society! From the Bowery to Wall Street! At last he was opposed
by the very best. A lawyer is known by his opponents!
Mr. Lindsay protested with quite unprofessional heat. It was an outrage.
"_Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur_," Mr. Onthemaker solemnly
reminded the leader of the corporation bar. "Also, dear Mr. Lindsay, I
am ready to accept service of any paper you may see fit to honor us
with. My client means to fight to the bitter end."
"Yes, in the newspapers!" bitterly said the eminent Mr. Lindsay through
his clenched teeth.
"And with sandwiches! When we ask for bread you give us a stone. But we
give you a sandwich. There's no ground for criminal action in view of
the public's frame of mind toward the money power. But if you will sue
us for one million dollars damages I'll name my forthcoming baby after
you."
Mr. Lindsay hung up with violence, mistaking the telephone-holder for
Mr. Onthemaker's cranium.