Kitabı oku: «Young Wallingford», sayfa 2

CHAPTER III

YOUNG WIX TAKES A HAND IN THE BLACK-EYED ONE’S GAME

The glowing end of a cigar upon the porch of the adjoining house told Gilman that young Wix was at home, and, full of his important enterprise, he stopped in front of the Wix gate to gloat.

“Hello, Gilman,” said Wix, sauntering down. “Out pretty late for a mere infant of twenty-four?”

“Little matter of business,” protested Mr. Gilman pompously, glancing apprehensively at the second-story window, where a shade was already drawn aside.

“Business!” repeated Wix. “They put midnight business in jail at daylight.”

“Hush!” warned Gilman, with another glance at the window. “This is different. This is one of those lucky strokes that I have read about but never hoped would come my way,” and enthusiastically, in an undertone which Wix had to strain to hear, he recited all the details of the golden opportunity.

It was not so much experience as a natural trend of mind paralleling Mr. Daw’s which made Mr. Wix smile to himself all through this recital. He seemed to foresee each step in the plan before it was told him, and, when Mr. Gilman was through, the only point about which his friend was at all surprised, or even eager, was the matter of the three thousand.

“Do you mean to say you can swing that amount?” he demanded.

“I – I think I can,” faltered Mr. Gilman. “In fact, I – I’m very sure of it. Although, of course, that’s a secret,” he hastily added.

“Where would you get it?” asked Wix incredulously.

“Well, for a sure thing like this, if you must know,” said Gilman, gulping, but speaking with desperately businesslike decision, “I am sure Mr. Smalley would loan it to me. Although he wouldn’t want it known,” he again added quickly. “If you’d speak to him about it he’d deny it, and might even make me trouble for being so loose-tongued; so, of course, nobody must know.”

“I see,” said Wix slowly. “Well, Cliff, you just pass up this tidy little fortune.”

“Pass it up!”

“Yes, let it slide on by. Look on it with scorn. Wriggle your fingers at it. Let somebody else have that nine thousand dollars clean profit from the investment of three, all in a couple of days. I’m afraid it would give you the short-haired paleness to make so much money so suddenly. Ever hear of that disease? The short-haired paleness comes from wearing horizontal stripes in a cement room.”

For a moment young Gilman pondered this ambiguous reply in silence, then out of his secret distress he blurted:

“But, Wix, I’ve got to do something that will bring me in some money! I’ve run behind on my wheat trades. I’ve – I’ve got to do something!”

Wix, in the darkness, made a little startled movement, the involuntary placing of his finger-tips behind his ear; then he answered quietly:

“I told you to keep away from that game. I tried it myself and know all about it.”

“I know, but I did it just the same,” answered Gilman.

Wix chuckled.

“Of course you did. You’re the woolly breed that keeps bucket-shops going. I’d like no better lazy life than just to run a bucket-shop and fill all my buckets with the fleeces of about a dozen of your bleating kind. It would be easy money.”

The front door of the Gilman house opened a little way, and the voice of a worried woman came out into the night:

“Is that you, Cliffy?”

“Yes, mother,” answered Clifford. “Good night, old man. I want to be sure to see you before I go to the bank in the morning. I want to talk this thing over with you,” and young Gilman hurried into the house.

Wix looked after him as he went in, and stood staring at the glowing second-story window. Then he suddenly went back up to his own porch and got his hat. Fifteen minutes later he was at the desk of the Grand Hotel.

“Mr. Daw,” he said to the clerk.

“I think Mr. Daw’s probably gone to bed by this time, Wix,” the clerk protested.

“We’ll wake him up, then. What’s the number of his room? I’ll do it myself.”

The clerk grinned.

“If he kicks, you know, Wix, I can’t blame you for it. I’ll have to stand it myself.”

“He won’t kick. What’s his room?”

“Number one,” and again the clerk grinned. Nobody ever point-blank refused young Wix a favor. There was that in his bigness, and in the very jollity with which he defied life and its pretended gravity, which opened all doors to him. His breadth of chest had much to do with it.

“The bridal chamber, eh?” he chuckled. “In that case, send up a bottle of champagne and charge it to Mr. Daw’s account. Yes, I know the bar’s closed, but you have a key. Go dig it out yourself, Joe, and do it in style.”

Unattended, Mr. Wix made his way to room one and pounded on the door. Mr. Daw, encased in blue pajamas and just on the point of retiring, opened cautiously, and was quite crestfallen when he recognized his visitor. Nevertheless, he thawed into instant amiability.

“Glad to see you, old scout,” he cried, and shaking hands with Wix, pulled him into the room. “I felt as if the old homestead was no longer home when I didn’t find you here to-day. Sit down. What’ll you have to drink?”

“Wine, thanks,” replied Wix. “They’re getting it ready now. I gave them your order before I came up.”

Mr. Daw gasped and batted his eyes, but swallowed quickly and had it over with.

“You see,” explained Wix, as they seated themselves comfortably. “I thought, since we wouldn’t have time for many drinks, that we might just as well make it a good one. I brought up this timetable. There’s a train leaves for the East at five-thirty-seven this morning, and one leaves for the West at six-ten. Which are you going to take?”

“Why, neither one,” said Daw in some surprise. “I have some business here.”

“Yes,” admitted Wix dryly; “I just saw Gilman. Which train are you taking?”

“Neither, I said,” snapped Daw, frowning, “I don’t intend to leave here until I finish my work.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” Wix informed him. “You’re going about the time Gilman is washing his face for breakfast; and you won’t leave any word for him.”

“How do you know so well?” retorted Daw. “Look here, Mr. Wix, this proposition I’m offering Gilman is a fair and square – ”

“You say that again and I’ll bite you,” interrupted Wix pleasantly.

“I’ve got a pretty good left-handed punch of my own,” flared Daw, advancing a threatening step.

Wix, though much the larger man, betrayed his touch of physical cowardice by a fleeting shade of pallor, and moved over next the door. The Grand Hotel had not installed a room telephone service, still relying upon the convenient push-button. To this, Wix, affecting to treat the entire incident as a joke, called attention.

“One ring, ice water,” he read from the printed card above it; “two rings, bell boy; three rings, maid. I think about six rings will bring the clerk, the porter and the fire department,” he observed; “but I don’t see where we need them in a quiet little business talk like ours.”

“Oh, I see!” said Daw in the sudden flood of a great white light, and he smiled most amiably. “I promised you a rake-off when I spoke about this on the train, didn’t I? And, of course, I’m willing to stick with it. If I pull this across there’s a thousand in it for you.”

“No. It won’t do,” said Wix, shaking his head.

“Say fifteen hundred, then.”

Once more Wix shook his head. He, also, smiled most amiably.

“I guess you want it all?” charged Daw with a sneer.

“Possibly,” admitted Wix, then suddenly he chuckled so that his big shoulders heaved. “To tell you the truth,” he stated, “I didn’t know Gilman could put up so big a prize as all that nice money, or he wouldn’t have had it loose to offer you by now. As soon as I get over the shock I’ll know what to do about it. Just now, all I know is that he’s not going into this real silky little joke of yours. I don’t want to see the money go out of town.”

“I saw it first,” Daw reminded him. “I don’t care where he gets it, you know, just so I get it.”

“Wherever he gets it,” said Wix impressively, “it will be secured in a perfectly legitimate manner. I want you to understand that much.”

“Oh, yes, I understood that, anyhow,” acknowledged Daw, and the two young men looked quite steadily into each other’s eyes, each knowing what the other thought, but refusing to admit it.

It was Daw who first broke the ensuing silence.

“Suppose I can’t decide to wing my onward way?” he suggested.

“Then I’ll have you looking out on court-house square through the big grill.”

“On what charge?”

“General principles,” chuckled Wix.

“I suppose there’s a heavy stretch for that if they prove it on me,” returned Daw thoughtfully. There was no levity whatever in the reply. He had read the eyes of Wix correctly. Wix would have him arrested as sure as breakfast, dinner and supper.

“Just general principles,” repeated Wix; “to be followed by a general investigation. Can you stand it?”

“I should say I can,” asserted Daw. “What time did you say that train leaves? The one going east, I mean.”

“Five-thirty-seven.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, you may leave me a call for five o’clock;” and Mr. Daw nonchalantly yawned.

There came a knock at the door.

“I’m sorry you have to leave us so soon, Mr. Daw,” said Wix, admitting the clerk with the wine, and speaking with much regret in his tone.

“I’ll clink glasses with you, anyhow, old sport,” offered Daw, accepting the inevitable gracefully, after the clerk had gone. “I don’t know what your game is, but here’s to it! Always remember, though, that I located this three thousand for you. I hate to leave it here. It was such easy money.”

“Easy money!” Again that phrase rang in the ears of young Wix, as he walked home, as he stood at his gate looking over at the second-story window of the Gilman house, and as he lay upon his pillow. To dwell in perpetual ease, to be surrounded with endless luxury, to spend money prodigally in all the glitter and pomp of the places that had been built at the demand of extravagance: these things had become an obsession with him – yet, for them, he was not willing to work and wait.

Gilman felt that he had lost vast estates, when, upon calling at the hotel in the morning, he found that Mr. Daw had left upon an early train. He was worried, too, that he had not been able to see Wix before he started down-town. Most opportunely, however, Wix sauntered out of Sam Glidden’s cigar store, opposite the hotel, as Gilman emerged upon the street.

“When’s the funeral?” asked Wix. “You look like a sick-headache feels.”

“Daw has gone, and without leaving me any word,” quavered Gilman. “I suppose he’ll – he’ll probably write to me, though.”

“I’m betting that he has writer’s cramp every time he tries it,” asserted Wix.

“But I signed an agreement with him last night. He must write.”

“Does this look anything like that agreement,” asked Wix, and from his pocket drew the document, torn once across each way. Gilman gazed at the pieces blankly. “I got it away from him, and tore it up myself, last night,” continued Wix. “Also, I ran the gentleman out of town on the five-thirty-seven this morning, headed due east and still going.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Gilman. “Why, man, you’ve taken away the only chance I had to get even. I have to make money, I tell you!”

“Be calm, little Cliffy,” admonished Wix soothingly. “I’m going to get it its money. Look here, Gilman, this man was a fake and I made him say so, but his coming here gave me an idea. I’m going to open a bucket-shop, and you’re going to back it.”

“Not a bucket-shop!” objected Gilman, aghast at the very name.

“Yes, a bucket-shop. Do you know how they operate? Of course not, merely having played against them. Well, suppose you gamble a thousand bushels of wheat on a two-cent margin, holding for a two-cent advance. What happens to your twenty dollars? The bucket expert takes out his buying commission of one-fourth cent a bushel. A straight broker takes off one-eighth cent, but your man milks you for a nifty little total of two dollars and a half, because you’re a piker. If wheat goes down one and three-fourths cents you lose the other seventeen-fifty, don’t you?”

“Yes,” admitted Gilman.

“If it goes up two cents the man closes the deal and takes out another one-fourth cent a bushel for closing. That’s another two-fifty. You get back thirty-five dollars. Your bucket-shop man is practically betting fifteen dollars of his money against twenty of yours on worse than an even break. Pretty good game for the bucket-shop man, isn’t it? But there’s more. He doesn’t take as much risk as matching pennies on a three-to-four shot. Suppose he has one man betting that wheat will go up and another that it will go down. Each man puts up twenty, and one must lose. The man with the bucket runs no chances, and every time he takes in forty dollars he pays out only thirty-five of it. Twelve and one-half per cent. of all the money that passes through his hands stays there. Moreover, the winner puts his right back into the game, and the loser rakes up more, to win back what he lost. Pretty syrupy, eh? The only trouble with you is that you have been playing this game from the wrong end. Now, you’re going to play it from the inside. I’m going to rent an office to-day. You’re to back me to the extent of three thousand dollars, and we’ll split the profits.”

Gilman’s eyes glistened. He was one who did his thinking by proxy, and reflected enthusiasm with vast ease.

“Do you suppose it would take the three thousand all at once?” he asked with some anxiety.

“No, we won’t need it in a lump,” Wix decided, after some sharp thought over Gilman’s nervousness; “but it must be where we can get all or any part of it at a minute’s notice.”

Gilman drew such an obvious breath of relief that Wix became once more thoughtful; but it was a thoughtfulness that brought with it only hardening of the jaw and steeling of the eyes.

CHAPTER IV

WHICH SHOWS THE EASIEST WAY TO MAKE A BUCKET-SHOP PAY

Within three days, Wix, who was a curious blend of laziness and energy, had fitted up an office in a sample-room leading off the lobby of the Grand Hotel. Over the name on the door he puzzled somewhat, and it was only his hatred for every component syllable of “Jonathan Reuben Wix” that caused the sign finally to appear as “La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.” The walls were freshly papered in deep red, a thick, red carpet was put upon the floor, a resplendent cashier’s wicket and desk were installed, fine leather-padded chairs faced a neatly ruled blackboard; and the speculative element of Filmore walked right into its first real bucket-shop and made itself at home. It was a positive pleasure to lose money there, and it was a joy to have young Wix take it. He did it so jovially.

Punctually every evening Wix handed to Gilman his half of the profits on the trades closed that day, and each week the profits became larger. Gilman was thrown into a constant state of delight; Wix bought him a horse and buggy. Gilman saw fortune just ahead of him; Wix saw possible disaster. It pained him to note that Filmore was optimistic. There were many more bulls than bears, which was not the ideal condition. There should have been a bear to offset every bull, in which case the La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company would have run no risk whatever.

Of course, the inevitable happened. All the wheat and stock gamblers of Filmore got in on a strong bull market and stayed in. When the market finally turned back and the “longs” were frightened out, the crash came, and every dollar was lost of the original three thousand. Wix, having anticipated the possibility of such an event, was disappointed but “game.” Gilman, having more at stake and being at best a cheerful winner only, was frantic.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” he moaned, over and over.

“Dig up more money,” Wix cheerfully advised him.

“I can’t!” cried Gilman. “I’ve gone now even deeper than I dared.” He was silent for a long time. Great beads of perspiration came on his brow. His hair was wet. “Wix,” he finally burst out, “I’ve got to tell you something; something that no living creature knows but me.”

“No, you don’t!” Wix sharply stopped him. “If you have any secrets, keep them to yourself. I am stone deaf.”

Gilman’s eyes widened with a look of positive terror. For the first time in his life he had met that glare in the eyes of a supposed friend which denied friendship, sentiment or emotion of any sort; which told only of cold self-interest. Two or three times he essayed to speak, but he could not. He only stood with his sides heaving, like a spent dog.

“There is no use whining about this thing,” Wix went on sharply. “We’ve got to raise money, and that’s all there is to it. How about your profits that I’ve been handing you? I’ve spent mine.”

There was no answer.

“You said something about owing four hundred dollars before we began,” Wix went on. “I suppose you repaid that – that loan.”

Gilman dumbly nodded.

“I’ve paid you over a thousand dollars rake-off. I suppose you saved the rest of it?”

Again Gilman nodded his head.

“Well, bring me that six hundred or whatever it is.”

Gilman mechanically produced it, all in one-hundred-dollar bills folded very flat.

That morning Wix faced the business anew with six hundred dollars, and felt keenly his limited capital. His severe losses had been a good advertisement, and every man who had won a dollar was prepared to put it back. Wix, with a steady hand at the helm, stood through this crisis most admirably, refusing trades from buyers until he had sellers enough to offset them, and refusing excess trades from sellers until he had buyers to balance. Within two weeks he had a comfortable little sum, but now the daily division of spoils brought no balm to Gilman. He was suddenly old, and upon his face were appearing lines that would last him throughout his life. Upon the florid countenance of Wix there was not even the shadow of a crease.

“Good money, boy,” said he to Gilman, upon the day he handed over the completion of five hundred dollars. “This business is like a poker game. If the players stick at it long enough the kitty will have all the money.”

“I don’t want it all,” replied Gilman wearily. “Wix, if I ever get back the twenty-five hundred dollars that it will take to make me square, I swear before my Maker,” and he held up his trembling, white hand, “never to touch another investment outside the bank as long as I live.”

“Your liver must be the color of a sick salmon,” retorted Wix, but nevertheless he was himself disillusioned. The bucket-shop business was not what he had imagined it to be. It was not “easy money!” It had fluctuations, must be constantly watched, was susceptible to bankruptcy – and meant work! The ideal enterprise was one which, starting from nothing, involved no possible loss; which yielded a large block of cold cash within a short time, and which was then ended. Daw’s idea was the most ideal that had come under his observation. That was really an admirable scheme of Daw’s, except for one very serious drawback. It was dangerous. Now, if as clever a plan, and one without any menace from the law, could only be hinged upon some more legitimate business – say a bucket-shop concern…

There is no analyzing a creation, an invention. It is not deliberately worked out, step by step. It is a flash of genius. At this moment young Wix created. The principle he evolved was, in fact, to stand him in good stead in a score of “safe” operations, but, just now, it was a gaudy new thing, and its beauty almost blinded him. The same idea had been used by many men before him, but Wix did not know this, and he created it anew.

“Sam,” he said to the cigar-store man next morning, “I want you to invest in The La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.”

“Not any,” declared Sam. “You have two hundred of my money now.”

“Not the entire roll,” denied Wix. “I only got twelve and one-half per cent.”

“If you’d take twelve and a half per cent. eight times you’d have it all,” retorted Sam. “That’s why I quit. I stood to lose two hundred dollars on a seven-point drop, or win a hundred and seventy-five on an eight-point raise. When I finally figured out that I had the tweezers into my hair going and coming, I didn’t wish any more.”

“But suppose I’d offer you a chance to stand on the other side of the counter and take part of the change?”

“I’d let you stand right here and talk a while. What’s the matter?”

“Haven’t capital enough,” explained Wix. “I think I refused to take a trade of yours one time, just because I had to play safe. I had to be in position to pay off all my losses or quit business.”

“How much are you increasing?” asked Glidden, interested.

“A twenty-five-thousand-dollar stock company: two hundred and fifty shares at a hundred dollars each.”

“I might take a share or two,” said Sam.

“You’ll take twenty,” declared Wix, quite sure of himself. “I want four incorporators besides myself, and I want you to be one of them.”

“Is that getting me the stock any cheaper?”

“Fifty per cent.; two thousand dollars’ worth for a thousand. After we five incorporators are in we’ll raise the price to par and not sell a share for a cent less.”

“How much do you get out of this?” Sam asked, with a leer of understanding.

“Ten per cent. for selling the stock, and have the new company buy over the present one for ten thousand dollars’ worth of shares.”

“I thought so,” said Glidden with a grin. “Fixtures, established business and good will, I suppose.”

Wix chuckled.

“You put it in the loveliest words,” he admitted.

“You’re a bright young man,” said Glidden admiringly. “You’d better pay for those fixtures and put in the whole business at five hundred.”

“What do you suppose I’m enlarging the thing for, except to increase my income?” Wix demanded. “With ten thousand dollars’ worth of stock I’d get only two-fifths of the profit, when I’ve been getting it all heretofore. As a matter of fact, I’m doing pretty well not to try to capture the majority.”

They both laughed upon this, and Glidden capitulated. Within forty-eight hours Wix had his four directors, all ex-traders who would rather make money than gamble, and each willing to put in a thousand dollars. As soon as they were incorporated they paid Wix his hundred shares for the old business, and that developing financier started out to sell the balance of the stock, on commission.

It was an easy task, for his fellow-directors did all the advertising for him. Practically all he had to do was to deliver the certificates and collect. It was while he was engaged in this pleasant occupation that he went to Gilman with a blank certificate for twenty-five shares.

“I think you said, Gilman, that if you could get your remaining twenty-five hundred dollars out of the La Salle you’d be satisfied, didn’t you?”

“Satisfied!” gasped Gilman. “Just show me how it can be done!”

“Here’s twenty-five hundred dollars’ worth of stock in the new company I’ve incorporated from the old one, and it’s selling – at par – like beer at a German picnic.”

“That would ruin me,” Gilman protested in a panic. “You must sell it for me or I’m gone. Why, Wix, this new state bank inspection law has just gone into effect, and there may be an inspector at the bank any day.”

“I see,” said Wix slowly, looking him straight in the eye, “and they may object to Smalley’s having loaned you that money on insufficient security. Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Nevertheless, he let Gilman’s stock lie while he sold the treasury shares, and, the market being still so eager that it seemed a shame not to supply it, he sold his own!

There was now time for Gilman, and Wix, with an artistic eye for dramatic propinquities, presented his proposition to no less a person than Smalley, grinning, however, as he went in.

“I couldn’t think of such a thing, sir,” squeaked that gentleman. “I’ll have nothing to do with gambling in any way, shape or form.”

“No,” agreed Wix, and carefully closed the door of Smalley’s private office. “Well, this isn’t gambling, Mr. Smalley. It’s only the people outside who gamble. The La Salle doesn’t propose to take any chances; it only takes commissions,” and he showed to Mr. Smalley, very frankly, a record of his transactions, including the one disastrous period for the purpose of pointing out the flaw which had brought it about.

Smalley inspected those figures long and earnestly, while Wix sat back smiling. He had penetrated through that leathery exterior, had discovered what no one else would have suspected: that in Smalley himself there ran a long-leashed gambling instinct.

“But I couldn’t possibly have my name connected with a matter of this sort,” was Smalley’s last citadel of objection.

“Why should you?” agreed Wix, and then a diabolical thought came to him, in the guise of an exquisite joke. He had great difficulty in repressing a chuckle as he suggested it. “Why not put the stock in Gilman’s name?”

“It might be a very bad influence for the young man,” protested Smalley virtuously, but clutching at the suggestion. “He is thoroughly trustworthy, however, and I suppose I can explain it to him as being a really conservative investment that should have no publicity. I think you said, Mr. Wix, that there are only twenty-five shares remaining to be sold.”

“That’s all,” Wix assured him. “You couldn’t secure another share if you wanted it.”

“Very well, then, I think I shall take it.”

“I have the certificate in my pocket,” said Wix, and he produced the identical certificate that he had offered Gilman some days before. It had already been signed by the complacent Sam Glidden as secretary. “Make this out to Gilman, shall I?” asked Wix, seating himself at Smalley’s desk, and poising his pen above the certificate.

“I believe so,” assented Smalley, pursing up his lips.

With a smile all of careless pleasure with the world, Wix wrote the name of Clifford M. Gilman, and signed the certificate as president.

“Now, your check, Mr. Smalley, for twenty-five hundred, and the new La Salle Company is completely filled up, ready to start in business on a brand-new basis.”

With his lips still pursed, Smalley made out that check, and Wix shook hands with him most cordially as he left the room. Outside the door he chuckled. He was still smiling when he walked up to the cashier’s wicket, where young Gilman sat tense and white-faced. Wix indorsed the check, and handed it through the wicket.

“Here’s your twenty-five hundred, Cliff,” said he. “You can turn it over on the books of the bank as soon as you like.”

Gilman strove to voice his great relief, but his lips quivered and his eyes filled, and he could only turn away speechless. Wix had gone out, and Gilman was still holding in his nerveless fingers the check that had saved him, when Smalley appeared at his side.

“Ah,” said Smalley; “I see you have the check I gave Mr. Wix. Did he deposit?”

“No, sir,” replied Gilman, in a low voice; “he took currency.”

Mr. Smalley visibly winced.

“A bill of exchange might have done him just as well,” he protested. “No non-employing person has need of actual currency in that amount. I’m afraid young Wix is very extravagant – very. By the way, Mr. Gilman, I have been forced, for protection and very much against my will, to take some stock in an enterprise with which I can not have my name associated for very obvious business reasons; so I have taken the liberty of having the stock made out in your name,” and, before young Gilman’s eyes, he spread his twenty-five-share certificate of The La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.

Gilman, pale before, went suddenly ghastly. The blow of mockery had come too soon upon the heels of his relief.

“I can’t have it,” he managed to stammer through parched lips. “I must refuse, sir. I – I can not be connected in any way with that business, Mr. Smalley. I – I abhor it. Never, as long as I live – ”

Suddenly the fish-white face and staring eyes of Gilman were not in the line of Mr. Smalley’s astonished vision, for Gilman had slid to the floor, between his high stool and his desk. Sam Glidden, coming into the bank a moment after, found Smalley working feverishly over the prostrate form of his feebly reviving clerk.