Big Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'Good morning, Mr Frisby,' he said, and you could see the mortgages foreclosing and the lovers parting all over the place.

  'Robbins,' cried the financier, 'I've been hornswoggled.'

  The lawyer tightened his lips another fraction of an inch, as if to say that something of this kind was only to be expected in a world in which all flesh was as grass, and where at any moment the most harmless and innocent person might suddenly find himself legally debarred from being a feofee of any fee, fiduciary or in fee-simple.

  'What are the facts, Mr Frisby?'

  Mr Frisby made a noise extraordinarily like a sea-lion at the Zoo asking for fish.

  'I'll tell you what the facts are. Listen. You know I'm interested in copper. I practically own the Horned Toad mine.'

  'Quite.'

  'Well, the other day they struck a new vein on the Horned Toad. One of the richest on record, it looked like.'

  'Excellent.'

  'Not so darned excellent,' corrected Mr Frisby. 'It was on the edge of the Horned Toad, and it suddenly disappeared into the claim next door – a damned, derelict dusthole called the Dream Come True, which nobody had bothered to pay any attention to for years. It had just been lying there. That's where the vein went.'

  'Most disappointing.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Frisby, eyeing this word-painter strangely. 'I was a little cross about it.'

  'This would, of course,' said Mr Robbins, who had a good head and could figure things out, 'considerably enhance the value of this neighbouring property.'

  'You've guessed it,' said Mr Frisby. 'And naturally I wanted to buy it quietly. I made inquiries, and found that the original owner had sold it to a woman named Mrs Jervis.'

  'And you approached her?'

  'She was dead. But one morning, out of a blue sky, I'm darned if my secretary didn't come in and inform me that he was her nephew and had been left this mine.'

  'Your secretary? Young Parkinson?'

  'No. Parkinson's gone. This is a new one. A fellow named Conway. You've never seen him. He came in and asked my advice about selling the mine. He said it had never produced any copper, and did I think there was any chance of getting rid of it for a few hundred pounds. I tell you, when I heard him say those words, Robbins, I believed in miracles – a thing I haven't done since I quit attending Sunday School at Carcassone, Illinois, thirty-nine years ago. Can you tie it? A fellow right in my office, and without a notion that the thing was of any value. I nearly broke my fountain-pen.'

  'Remarkable.'

  Mr Frisby took a turn about the room.

  'Well, I hadn't much time to think, and I see now that I did the wrong thing. The way it seemed to me was that if I made a bid for the mine myself he might suspect something. So I told him I knew of a man named J. B. Hoke who sometimes speculated in derelict mines and I would mention the matter to him. This Hoke is a hydrophobia skunk who has been useful to me once or twice in affairs where I didn't care to appear myself. A red-faced crook who makes a living by hanging around on the edge of the financial world and yess-ing everybody. He's yessed me for years. I never liked him, but he was a man I thought you could rely on. So I told him to go to Conway and offer him five hundred pounds.'

  'For a property worth millions?' said Mr Robbins, drily.

  'Business is business,' said Mr Frisby.

  'Quite,' said Mr Robbins. 'And did the young man accept the offer?'

  'He jumped at it.'

  'Then surely . . .'

  'Wait!' said Mr Frisby. 'Do you know what happened? I'll tell you. That double-crossing scoundrel Hoke bought the mine for himself. I might have guessed, if I'd had any sense, that he would suspect something when I told him to go around buying up no-good mines. Maybe he has had private information from somewhere. He's a man with friends in Arizona. Probably there was a leak. Anyway, he went to Conway, gave him his cheque, got his receipt, and now he claims to own the Dream Come True.'

  'Tut,' said Mr Robbins.

  Mr Frisby performed a few more waltz steps, rather pretty to watch. Finding himself pirouetting in the neighbourhood of the desk, he picked up the letter and handed it to the lawyer.

  'Read that,' he said.

  Mr Robbins did so, and emitted two 'H'm's' and a 'Tchk'. Mr Frisby watched him anxiously.

  'Can he get away with it?' he asked pleadingly. 'He can't get away with it, can he? Don't tell me he can get away with it. Raw work like that. Why, it's highway robbery.'

  Mr Robbins shook his head. His manner was not encouraging.

  'Have you anything in writing – any letter – or document – to prove that this man was acting as your agent?'

  'Of course I haven't. It never occurred to me. . .'

  'Then I fear, Mr Frisby, I greatly fear . . .'

  'He can get away with it?'

  'I fear so.'

  'Hell!' said Mr Frisby.

  A thoughtful expression came into the lawyer's face. He seemed to be testing this oath, assaying it, to see if it was one of the variety for which he was supposed to be a commissioner.

  'But it's murder in the first degree!' cried Mr Frisby.

  'I note that in his letter,' said Mr Robbins, 'this Mr Hoke says that he is calling here this morning with his lawyer, Mr Bellamy. I know Bellamy well. I am afraid that if Bellamy has endorsed the legality of his action we have little to hope. A very shrewd man. I have the greatest respect for Bellamy.'

  'But look what he says on the second page. Look how he proposes to hold me up.'

  'I see. He suggests that the Dream Come True be merged or amalgamated with your property, the Horned Toad, the whole hereinafter to be called Horned Toad Copper, Incorporated. . . .'

  'And he wants a half-interest in the combination!'

  'If Bellamy is behind him, Mr Frisby, a half-interest is, I fear, precisely what he will get.'

  'But it's a gold mine!'

  'A copper mine, I understood.'

  'I mean, I'm parting with a fortune.'

  'Most annoying,' said Mr Robbins.

  'What did you say?' asked Mr Frisby in a low voice.

  'I said it was most annoying.'

  'So it is,' said Mr Frisby. 'So it is. You're a great describer.'

  Mr Robbins regarded his hat sadly but affectionately.

  'If it is necessary for your purposes to acquire this Dream Come True property,' he said, 'I can see no other course but to accept Mr Hoke's proposals. He undoubtedly owns and controls the property in question. If you would care for me to be present at the conference, I shall be delighted to attend, but I fear there is nothing that I can do.'

  'Yes, there is,' said Mr Frisby. 'You can stop me beating the fellow with a chair and getting hung for murder.'

  The door opened. The office-boy appeared. He was a lad whose voice was passing through the breaking-stage.

  'Mr Hoke,' he announced in a rumbling bass.

  And then, in a penetrating treble like a squeaking slate-pencil:

  'And Mr Bellamy.'

  The Hoke–Bellamy combination then entered, both breezy. A very different person now, this J. B. Hoke, from the respectful underling who had yessed Mr Frisby for so many years.

  ''Morning, Pat,' said Mr Hoke.

  'Good morning, Mr Frisby,' said his companion.

  'Well, well, well, well, well,' said Mr Hoke. 'You're looking fine.'

  'How are you, Bellamy?' said Mr Robbins.

  'Fine. And you?'

  'In capital health, thank you.'

  'Splendid,' said Mr Bellamy.

  He took a chair. J. B. Hoke took a chair. Mr Robbins took a chair. Mr Frisby had a chair already.

  The conference was on.

  When the public reads in its morning paper that a merger has been formed between two financial enterprises, it is probably a little vague as to what exactly are the preliminaries that have to be gone through in order to bring this union about. A description of what took place on the present occasion, therefore, can scarcely fail to be of interest.

  J.B. Hoke
began by asking Mr Frisby how his golf was coming along. Mr Frisby's only reply being to bare his teeth like a trapped jackal. Mr Hoke went on to say that he himself, while noticeably improved off the tee, still found a difficulty in laying his short mashie approaches up to the pin. Whether it was too much right hand or too little left hand, Mr Hoke could not say, but he doubted if he put one shot in seven just where he meant to. He was also dissatisfied with his putting.

  'Well, take the other day for instance, at Oxhey,' said Mr Hoke.

  Business men learn to marshal their thoughts clearly. J. B. Hoke left his hearers in no doubt at all as to what had happened the other day at Oxhey. They might have been there in person.

  When he had finished, Mr Bellamy mentioned a similar experience he himself had had the Sunday before last down at Chislehurst.

  'It's a funny game,' said Mr Bellamy.

  'You bet it's a funny game,' said Mr Hoke.

  'You never can tell about golf,' said Mr Bellamy.

  'That's right,' said Mr Hoke. ' It's funny. It's a game you never can tell about.'

  At this point Mr Frisby said something under his breath and broke his pencil in half.

  There followed a short pause.

  Mr Hoke, resuming, asked the meeting to stop him if they had heard it before, but did they know the story of the two Irishmen?

  He proceeded to relate their adventures at considerable length, supplying dialogue, where the narrative called for it, in a strong Swedish accent. He then laughed heartily and left the floor for the next speaker.

  This was Mr Bellamy again. Mr Bellamy, overcoming with some difficulty the mirth which his friend's anecdote had stirred in him, said that that reminded him of another, of which the protagonists were a couple of Scotsmen, Donald and Sandy. He apologized for not being able to do the dialect, and then did it, revealing these North Britons as a pair of eccentrics who conversed in a patois which was not exactly Cockney and yet not wholly negroid. It made him chuckle a good deal, and it made J. B. Hoke chuckle a good deal. Mr Frisby thought J. B. Hoke looked particularly offensive when he chuckled. Absolutely at his worst.

  Mr Frisby did not chuckle. Nor did Mr Robbins. Mr Robbins took up his top-hat, brushed it, eyed it expectantly for a moment, as if weighing the chances of a rabbit coming out of it, and then put it back on the desk again – reverently, as one feeling that there is a home beyond the skies. Mr Frisby, after directing at Mr Hoke a look of extraordinary sourness, picked up one of his cuffs and inscribed on it the words:

  J. B. Hoke is a red-faced thug.

  The two story-tellers, meanwhile, were fawning on each other in rather a sickening way.

  Hoke said, 'That's a hot one, Max.'

  Bellamy said, 'Yours was a scream, J. B.'

  Hoke said, ' I heard a good one yesterday about two Jews.'

  Bellamy said, 'What was that, J. B.?'

  Hoke said, 'Well, stop me if you've heard it before.'

  It was at this point that Mr Robbins, of Robbins, Robbins, Robbins and Robbins, removed his gaze reluctantly from the hat, coughed in a suggestive sort of way like a distant sheep clearing its throat, and said, 'Er – gentlemen.'

  'Yes,' said J. B. Hoke with alacrity, realizing that the second stage in the formalities had now been reached, 'let's get down to brass tacks.'

  There was a silence for some moments.

  Mr Frisby was the first to break it.

  'I've been wondering,' said Mr Frisby in a meditative voice.

  'Yeah?' said J. B. Hoke. 'What about?'

  'Oh, nothing,' said Mr Frisby. 'Just your initials. I was wondering what the B. stood for.'

  'Bernard,' said Mr Hoke, a little proudly.

  'Oh?' said Mr Frisby. 'I thought it might be Barabbas.'

  'Hey!' said Mr Hoke.

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen!' said Mr Robbins.

  'Really, really!' said Mr Bellamy.

  'Is that actionable?' inquired Mr Hoke of his legal adviser.

  Mr Bellamy shook his head.

  'To constitute a tort, the words should have been accompanied by a blow or buffet.'

  'Is that so?' said Mr Frisby, rising. 'I didn't know. Well, here she comes.'

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen!' said Mr Robbins, as if he were all four Robbinses speaking simultaneously.

  There was another silence.

  'This sort of thing isn't going to get you anywhere,' said Mr Hoke reprovingly.

  'Quite,' said Mr Robbins, gazing at his principal as at a favourite, but erring, son.

  'Do please, gentlemen,' said Mr Bellamy, 'let us try and endeavour and – er – attempt to steer clear of what you might call – er—'

  'Cracks,' said Mr Hoke.

  'Snacks,' amended Mr Bellamy.

  'Verbal attacks,' said Mr Robbins. 'Personal animadversions. Vituperation, as Mr Hoke has remarked, will get us nowhere.'

  'Not that we're trying to get anywhere,' said Mr Hoke, speaking now with a return of his former cheeriness. 'Mean-to-say, we're here already. See what I mean? I mean there's nothing to chew the rag about. The thing's clear. I own the Dream Come True, don't I? Well, say, don't I? What I mean, if any poor fish present wants to argue otherwise, let him explain why. Let him tell this meeting what he thinks is eating him. Let him inform this meeting just where he imagines . . .Well, say, listen,' he said, directing his fire immediately upon Mr Frisby, 'I take it you aren't disputing my title? Of course you aren't. Well then, let's get down to it. Let's talk turkey.'

  'Turkey?' said Mr Robbins, in an undertone.

  'An American colloquialism,' said Mr Bellamy, 'meaning – let us concentrate on the – ah – res.'

  'Characteristically quaint,' said Mr Robbins.

  Mr Frisby, gallant in defeat, put a point.

  'You may own the Dream Come True,' he said, 'just the same as Captain Kidd and Jesse James . . .'

  'Please!' said Mr Robbins.

  'You may own the Dream Come True, but you can't get the stuff out of it. Not without using my spur-line. You'll have to carry the stuff over the mountains on the backs of mules.'

  'My principal,' said Mr Bellamy, 'is cognisant of that fact. Fully cognisant. It is for that reason that he has suggested this merger.'

  'Amalgamation,' said Mr Robbins.

  'This amalgamation or merger,' said Mr Bellamy.

  'And I think I may as well say frankly, my dear Frisby,' said Mr Robbins, 'that in my opinion, my carefully considered opinion, there seems to be no other alternative before you but to accept the proposition on the lines laid down by Mr Hoke.'

  A sharp sound broke the silence which followed this observation. It was Mr Frisby snorting. And with that snort ended what may be called the picturesque part of the proceedings. After that, they became dull and technical, with the two lawyers taking matters in hand and doing all the talking. And, as no historian wants to spoil white paper recording the sort of thing lawyers say on these occasions, a further description may be omitted.

  Mr Bellamy jotted down a rough memorandum, and handed it to Mr Robbins, saying he hoped it covered everything. Mr Robbins, producing a special pair of spectacles in honour of the importance of the moment, scanned it and said it seemed to cover everything. Mr Bellamy then read it aloud, and Mr Hoke said Yes, that covered everything. Mr Frisby just sat and suffered.

  The two lawyers then left, chatting amiably about double burgage, heirs taken in socage, and the other subjects which always crop up when lawyers get together: and Mr Hoke, having seen that the door was closed, approached Mr Frisby's desk in a cautious and conspiratorial manner.

  'Hey!' said Mr Hoke.

  Mr Frisby looked up wanly. He had been sitting with his head in his hands.

  'Haven't you gone?' he asked.

  'No,' said Mr Hoke.

  'Why not?' said Mr Frisby inhospitably.

  Mr Hoke leaned over the desk.

  'Say, listen,' he said. 'Now that those two have left, you and I can have a little friendly pow-wow.'

  Mr Frisby's rep
ly to this was to inform Mr Hoke that in his opinion he, Mr Hoke, was a robber, a despicable thief, a pickpocket and a body-snatcher. Once, said Mr Frisby, when out in Mexico, he had seen a rattlesnake. He had not liked the rattlesnake – indeed, he had formed a very low opinion of its charm and integrity – but, nevertheless, if it came to friendly pow-wows, he would choose the serpent every time in preference to Mr Hoke. Rather than pow with Mr Hoke, he would wow with a hundred rattlesnakes. This, he explained, was because he considered Mr Hoke a hound, a worm, a skunk, a ghoul, and a low-down, black-hearted hi-jacker.

  'Yes, but all kidding aside,' said Mr Hoke amiably, 'listen. Now that we're partners, you and me, here's something we got to make our minds up about. How do you feel about the shareholders? What I mean, what's your reaction to the idea of the shareholders getting money that we could both of us use quite nicely ourselves? What I mean, when do we spill the news of this new reef on the Dream Come True? Before we've bought in all the stock, or after?'

  Mr Frisby said nothing.

  'It's going to mean a difference of fifty points on the share when the thing comes out. Fifty? It might be a hundred. You never can tell where she'll stop, once they start buying. And if you say you'd like to be loaded up with Horned Toad at four and watch her shooting into the eighties and nineties, you'll only be saying the same as me.'

  Mr Frisby chewed his fountain-pen reflectively.

  'You know what copper's like,' urged Mr Hoke. 'It's one thing or the other with copper. Either it's down in the cellar, or else it's up singing with the angels. One of the first stocks I ever bought was Green Cananea at twenty-five. I sold at fifty, and kicked myself every morning till it hit two hundred. Today you could buy up all the Horned Toad shares you wanted and still have plenty over for a good meal and a couple of cigars. And a week after this information about the Dream Come True gets out, the National City Bank'll have to hock its undervest if it wants to blow itself to more than about half a dozen. That's how good that stock is going to be. I'm telling you. What we want to do, you and me, is to get together and have a little gentlemen's agreement.'

  'Who are the gentlemen?' asked Mr Frisby, interested.

  'You and me.'

  'Ah!' said Mr Frisby.

  Mr Hoke proceeded.