Back at his hotel, though nearly two in the morning, he found the
reporters waiting to interview him. Next morning there were more. And
thus, with blare of paper trumpet, was he received by New York. Once
more, with beating of toms-toms and wild hullaballoo, his picturesque
figure strode across the printed sheet. The King of the Klondike, the
hero of the Arctic, the thirty-million-dollar millionaire of the North,
had come to New York. What had he come for? To trim the New Yorkers
as he had trimmed the Tonopah crowd in Nevada? Wall Street had best
watch out, for the wild man of Klondike had just come to town. Or,
perchance, would Wall Street trim him? Wall Street had trimmed many
wild men; would this be Burning Daylight's fate? Daylight grinned to
himself, and gave out ambiguous interviews. It helped the game, and he
grinned again, as he meditated that Wall Street would sure have to go
some before it trimmed him.
They were prepared for him to play, and, when heavy buying of Ward
Valley began, it was quickly decided that he was the operator.
Financial gossip buzzed and hummed. He was after the Guggenhammers
once more. The story of Ophir was told over again and sensationalized
until even Daylight scarcely recognized it. Still, it was all grist to
his mill. The stock gamblers were clearly befooled. Each day he
increased his buying, and so eager were the sellers that Ward Valley
rose but slowly. "It sure beats poker," Daylight whispered gleefully
to himself, as he noted the perturbation he was causing. The
newspapers hazarded countless guesses and surmises, and Daylight was
constantly dogged by a small battalion of reporters. His own
interviews were gems. Discovering the delight the newspapers took in
his vernacular, in his "you-alls," and "sures," and "surge-ups," he
even exaggerated these particularities of speech, exploiting the
phrases he had heard other frontiersmen use, and inventing occasionally
a new one of his own.
A wildly exciting time was his during the week preceding Thursday the
eighteenth. Not only was he gambling as he had never gambled before,
but he was gambling at the biggest table in the world and for stakes so
large that even the case-hardened habitues of that table were compelled
to sit up. In spite of the unlimited selling, his persistent buying
compelled Ward Valley steadily to rise, and as Thursday approached, the
situation became acute. Something had to smash. How much Ward Valley
was this Klondike gambler going to buy? How much could he buy? What
was the Ward Valley crowd doing all this time? Daylight appreciated
the interviews with them that appeared--interviews delightfully placid
and non-committal. Leon Guggenhammer even hazarded the opinion that
this Northland Croesus might possibly be making a mistake. But not that
they cared, John Dowsett explained. Nor did they object. While in the
dark regarding his intentions, of one thing they were certain; namely,
that he was bulling Ward Valley. And they did not mind that. No
matter what happened to him and his spectacular operations, Ward Valley
was all right, and would remain all right, as firm as the Rock of
Gibraltar. No; they had no Ward Valley to sell, thank you. This
purely fictitious state of the market was bound shortly to pass, and
Ward Valley was not to be induced to change the even tenor of its way
by any insane stock exchange flurry. "It is purely gambling from
beginning to end," were Nathaniel Letton's words; "and we refuse to
have anything to do with it or to take notice of it in any way."
During this time Daylight had several secret meetings with his
partners--one with Leon Guggenhammer, one with John Dowsett, and two
with Mr. Howison. Beyond congratulations, they really amounted to
nothing; for, as he was informed, everything was going satisfactorily.
But on Tuesday morning a rumor that was disconcerting came to
Daylight's ears. It was also published in the Wall Street Journal, and
it was to the effect, on apparently straight inside information, that
on Thursday, when the directors of Ward Valley met, instead of the
customary dividend being declared, an assessment would be levied. It
was the first check Daylight had received. It came to him with a shock
that if the thing were so he was a broken man. And it also came to him
that all this colossal operating of his was being done on his own
money. Dowsett, Guggenhammer, and Letton were risking nothing. It was
a panic, short-lived, it was true, but sharp enough while it lasted to
make him remember Holdsworthy and the brick-yard, and to impel him to
cancel all buying orders while he rushed to a telephone.
"Nothing in it--only a rumor," came Leon Guggenhammer's throaty voice
in the receiver. "As you know," said Nathaniel Letton, "I am one of
the directors, and I should certainly be aware of it were such action
contemplated." And John Dowsett: "I warned you against just such
rumors. There is not an iota of truth in it--certainly not. I tell
you on my honor as a gentleman."
Heartily ashamed of himself for his temporary loss of nerve, Daylight
returned to his task. The cessation of buying had turned the Stock
Exchange into a bedlam, and down all the line of stocks the bears were
smashing. Ward Valley, as the ape, received the brunt of the shock,
and was already beginning to tumble. Daylight calmly doubled his
buying orders. And all through Tuesday and Wednesday, and Thursday
morning, he went on buying, while Ward Valley rose triumphantly higher.
Still they sold, and still he bought, exceeding his power to buy many
times over, when delivery was taken into account. What of that? On
this day the double dividend would be declared, he assured himself.
The pinch of delivery would be on the shorts. They would be making
terms with him.
And then the thunderbolt struck. True to the rumor, Ward Valley levied
the assessment. Daylight threw up his arms. He verified the report
and quit. Not alone Ward Valley, but all securities were being
hammered down by the triumphant bears. As for Ward Valley, Daylight
did not even trouble to learn if it had fetched bottom or was still
tumbling. Not stunned, not even bewildered, while Wall Street went
mad, Daylight withdrew from the field to think it over. After a short
conference with his brokers, he proceeded to his hotel, on the way
picking up the evening papers and glancing at the head-lines. BURNING
DAYLIGHT CLEANED OUT, he read; DAYLIGHT GETS HIS; ANOTHER WESTERNER
FAILS TO FIND EASY MONEY. As he entered his hotel, a later edition
announced the suicide of a young man, a lamb, who had followed
Daylight's play.
What in hell did he want to kill himself for? was Daylight's muttered
comment.
He passed up to his rooms, ordered a Martini cocktail, took off his
shoes, and sat down to think. After half an hour he roused himself to
take the drink, and as he felt the liquor pass warmingly through his
body, his features relaxed into a slow, deliberate, yet genuine grin.
He was laughing at himself.
"Buncoed, by gosh!" he muttered.
Then the grin died away, and his face grew bleak and serious. Leaving
out his interests in the several Western reclamation projects (which
were still assessing heavily), he was a ruined man. But harder hit
than this was his pride. He had been so easy. They had gold-bricked
him, and he had nothing to show for it. The simplest farmer would have
had documents, while he had nothing but a gentleman's agreement, and a
verbal one at that. Gentleman's agreement. He snorted over it. John
Dowsett's voice, just as he had heard it in the telephone receiver,
sounded in his ears the words, "On my honor as a gentleman." They were
sneak-thieves and swindlers, that was what they were, and they had
given him the double-cross. The newspapers were right. He had come to
New York to be trimmed, and Messrs. Dowsett, Letton, and Guggenhammer
had done it. He was a little fish, and they had played with him ten
days--ample time in which to swallow him, along with his eleven
millions. Of course, they had been unloading on him all the time, and
now they were buying Ward Valley back for a song ere the market righted
itself. Most probably, out of his share of the swag, Nathaniel Letton
would erect a couple of new buildings for that university of his. Leon
Guggenhammer would buy new engines for that yacht, or a whole fleet of
yachts. But what the devil Dowsett would do with his whack, was beyond
him--most likely start another string of banks.
And Daylight sat and consumed cocktails and saw back in his life to
Alaska, and lived over the grim years in which he had battled for his
eleven millions. For a while murder ate at his heart, and wild ideas
and sketchy plans of killing his betrayers flashed through his mind.
That was what that young man should have done instead of killing
himself. He should have gone gunning. Daylight unlocked his grip and
took out his automatic pistol--a big Colt's .44. He released the
safety catch with his thumb, and operating the sliding outer barrel,
ran the contents of the clip through the mechanism. The eight
cartridges slid out in a stream. He refilled the clip, threw a
cartridge into the chamber, and, with the trigger at full cock, thrust
up the safety ratchet. He shoved the weapon into the side pocket of
his coat, ordered another Martini, and resumed his seat.
He thought steadily for an hour, but he grinned no more. Lines formed
in his face, and in those lines were the travail of the North, the bite
of the frost, all that he had achieved and suffered--the long, unending
weeks of trail, the bleak tundra shore of Point Barrow, the smashing
ice-jam of the Yukon, the battles with animals and men, the
lean-dragged days of famine, the long months of stinging hell among the
mosquitoes of the Koyokuk, the toil of pick and shovel, the scars and
mars of pack-strap and tump-line, the straight meat diet with the dogs,
and all the long procession of twenty full years of toil and sweat and
endeavor.
At ten o'clock he arose and pored over the city directory. Then he put
on his shoes, took a cab, and departed into the night. Twice he changed
cabs, and finally fetched up at the night office of a detective agency.
He superintended the thing himself, laid down money in advance in
profuse quantities, selected the six men he needed, and gave them their
instructions. Never, for so simple a task, had they been so well paid;
for, to each, in addition to office charges, he gave a
five-hundred-dollar bill, with the promise of another if he succeeded.
Some time next day, he was convinced, if not sooner, his three silent
partners would come together. To each one two of his detectives were
to be attached. Time and place was all he wanted to learn.
"Stop at nothing, boys," were his final instructions. "I must have
this information. Whatever you do, whatever happens, I'll sure see you
through."
Returning to his hotel, he changed cabs as before, went up to his room,
and with one more cocktail for a nightcap, went to bed and to sleep.
In the morning he dressed and shaved, ordered breakfast and the
newspapers sent up, and waited. But he did not drink. By nine o'clock
his telephone began to ring and the reports to come in. Nathaniel
Letton was taking the train at Tarrytown. John Dowsett was coming down
by the subway. Leon Guggenhammer had not stirred out yet, though he
was assuredly within. And in this fashion, with a map of the city
spread out before him, Daylight followed the movements of his three men
as they drew together. Nathaniel Letton was at his offices in the
Mutual-Solander Building. Next arrived Guggenhammer. Dowsett was
still in his own offices. But at eleven came the word that he also had
arrived, and several minutes later Daylight was in a hired motor-car
and speeding for the Mutual-Solander Building.