Irma spoke up: “I have promised to help Uncle Horace out of his trouble, and I want to do the same for you, Father Budd.”
“I can’t let you do it, Irma!” The once-proud father-in-law started to protest, but her majesty cut him short.
“Lanny heard me tell my uncle what I was willing to do, and he will explain it to you. But hadn’t we better go home where we can be comfortable? There’s nothing more can happen tonight, is there?”
“I was waiting to get the closing prices,” said the exhausted man; “but I’ll have my secretary phone them to the house.”
IX
There was a duel coming, and Lanny had been bracing himself for it. He wanted to be kind, but also he wanted to have his way. He guessed that his father wouldn’t have any interest in dinner—better get it over and done with, get the load off both their minds. So he left Irma and Esther to exchange notes on the sufferings of womankind in panics, and took his father into the latter’s study.
“First, Robbie, I want to tell you, Beauty approves of your having that money. She agrees with me that you’ve done everything for us, and we owe you all we have.”
“You’re both going to get it back, Son, if I live.”
“All I say is, forget it for the present. We love you, we want you to be happy; we both think you haven’t been for a long time. What I ask you is, have I earned the right to talk to you straight?”
“Yes, Son—go ahead!”
“Neither Beauty nor I can see what you are trying to accomplish in this scramble for money. You’re wrecking your health and your happiness; you’re making us miserable, and Esther—the whole family. Nobody needs the money, nobody wants it; there isn’t a single one of us who wouldn’t vote against your plunging in the stock market, now or any time. You know that. Bess would back me up if she were here. Do you think the boys would like it if they could see the state you’re in tonight?”
“You’ve got me licked, Son. I have to take it.”
“It’s not a question of taking anything. It’s a question of getting our lives on a sane basis, so that we can get some happiness out of life. Do you think the boys are so keen to be millionaires? Ask them which would they rather have, their father or his money? They are able-bodied, and why shouldn’t they work and make their own way in the world? Do you admire the idlers at the country club so much that you want to add two more?”
“Just what is it you want of me, Son?”
“I want of you what Irma asked and got from her uncle. I want you to promise never again to buy or sell a share of stock on margin. It’s the damnedest trap for human happiness that I’ve ever seen, and you know I’ve watched a lot of them up and down the Riviera. I want you to get out, and do it tomorrow morning.”
“But at these prices it would mean the loss of practically everything I have.”
“All right, take the loss; there isn’t one of us that won’t gladly pay his share, just to know that you’re out, and to be able to breathe freely again, and not think maybe you’re getting ready to shoot your head off.”
“I’m not going to do that, Lanny.”
“How could I know what you’d do—stuck down there in New York and not able to get you on the telephone? There’ll be lots of businessmen jumping out of their office windows tonight, or into the river—and I’d just like to be sure that my father isn’t one of them.”
“You have my word as to that.”
“I want more. I can’t see you go down without going down too, and why should you drag me into a gambling-game that I despise? Beauty, Marceline, Esther, Bess—all of us have to be in it with you. I’ll send telegrams and get up a round robin of protest if you want me to.”
“I’ll do what you ask, Son; you have a mortgage on me. But I can’t possibly get out tomorrow; if I can hold on for a few days, until the market rallies—”
“There you go! It’s what every gambler says—my luck is bound to change!”
“But, Lanny, you see what has happened—the big fellows are coming in to stabilize prices.”
“Oh, my God, Robbie Budd, you tell me that—you swallow that bait for suckers! You’re actually believing that a bunch of Wall Street bankers are worrying about the public? They’re going to do something to help humanity for the first time in their sharks’ lives?”
“But they have to save the market in order to save themselves.”
“So they tell the suckers. They’re in, and of course they have to stop the panic long enough to make a market in which to sell out. After they’ve done that, the market can go to hell and the investors along with it. For God’s sake, Robbie, have as much sense as they have! Put in your selling orders for tomorrow morning, and take your losses, whatever they are. I’ll gladly chip in everything I own to help you; I’ll start life over again, and you do the same. We don’t any of us need so much money. You go take a long rest—go hunting, the way you used to, or come over to Juan and go sailing with me. You used to be such good company when you had time to think about something else but the rascals who were trying to get the better of you. And yet you go on putting yourself in their clutches. You’re just as helpless in that market as any hayseed being taken in by a shell-game at a county fair. Turn your back on it and walk away!”
“That’s what you want, Son?”
“As sure as there’s ground under your feet! Let Irma and me go back tonight with peace in our souls! Let Esther get some sleep, instead of pacing the floor all night in an agony of dread. If I’ve ever done anything in my life to earn your respect, do that favor for me! Sell at the market, and wash your hands of Wall Street!”
“All right, Son, it’s a deal.”
X
Driving back to the city late at night, Lanny described that scene to his wife, and remarked: “You and I are the gamblers now. If the market takes a turn upward, our elders will blame us all the rest of their lives!”
“Do you think it’ll do that?”
“You might as well ask me what will happen if you toss a coin. That’s just the hell of it. All we can do is hold our breath.”
“Well, I’d rather put up a lot of money than go through things like this,” declared Irma.
It was the opening Lanny had been waiting for. “I think we’ve both had enough,” he said. “Let’s get out of it—right away. I think about Bienvenu, with the sun shining in the patio—and not so many telephone calls. Surely this New York life can’t be very good for a baby, born or unborn.”
“I’ll go any time you say, Lanny.”
“There’s a steamer for Marseille next Wednesday.”
“All right. I’ll tell Slemmer to get the tickets.”
“And tell him we don’t have to have the most expensive suite. Let’s do a little economizing—at least until we know what’s happened to our families and friends.”
“All right.” She was a well-tamed heiress at that moment. All the rich of New York were in the same mood. Wouldn’t it be nice to go off on a farm somewhere, and grow our own vegetables, and have fresh milk, eggs, and butter, and live the simple life!
Lanny continued: “Robbie argues that this panic won’t hurt business. He says it’s just paper profits that have been lost, and that business is still sound. But that seems nonsense to me. The crowd that came up from Wall Street every night, flushed with victory and thinking it owned the world—it may have had only paper profits, but it bought real goods with them; and now it’s going to stop spending, and that’s bound to cause a slump.”
“It’s wonderful the way you understand these things,” said Irma. Lanny felt a glow of pride, and didn’t consider it necessary to mention that he had heard Stef and his Uncle Jesse saying these things, or that he had been reading them in Le Populaire and L’Humanité, in the Daily Herald of London and the New Leader of New York. He had been hearing them for so long that they were his own ideas now!
40
Tomorrow We’ll Be Sober
I
The next morning was Friday, and Lanny
read the papers, each of which gave three or four pages to the panic and its ramifications. They reported that there had never been a day in the history of the Exchange when so many accounts had been dumped overboard; they estimated that, including the Curb market, thirty million shares of stock had changed hands in the United States and Canada. But, one and all, the editors and writers did their best to sound courageous and hopeful; they made all they could of the heroism of the House of Morgan and other banking heads who had stepped forward to save the financial structure of the country. President Hoover, Great Engineer by whom Robbie swore, issued a statement that the business of the country was fundamentally sound. The chairman of the powerful National City Bank, who had come from Europe a few days before and told the country that the market situation was healthy, now repeated his assurances, and nobody reminded him of his previous slip. Not merely the speculators, but the great substantial financial houses, the insurance companies, the investment trusts, were coming into the market this Friday morning to pick up the bargains which had been scattered along the roadway during the rout.
Lanny went downstairs to the brokers’ office to get the opening prices, and it appeared that the writers were justified: the panic was over. If you wanted to sell stocks at reduced prices, you could do so, and if you had any margin left your brokers would pay it to you. Also, it was possible to communicate promptly by telephone. Robbie was at the office of his brokers in Newcastle, and Lanny called him there, and learned that he was carrying out his promise and selling; there was a tone of anguish in his voice, and once or twice he hinted for Lanny to let him off for just a day or two more, so that he might recoup some of his terrific losses. “I’m going to be out several million dollars, Son.”
“Will you have a couple of hundred thousand left, do you think?”
“Yes, I’ll have that.”
“All right, that’s fine. We can all get along.”
“I’ll have to ask you and Beauty to wait a while for what I owe you.”
“So far as I am concerned, you can consider that I’ve paid for a part of what you’ve done for me. As for Beauty, she can learn to wear last season’s dresses. Forget it, Robbie, and go and play golf before the weather gets too bad.” So he talked, as cheerful as any financial writer on the New York Times or Herald Tribune. But inside him he was shivering. “Good Lord, suppose it does go up again!”
Irma was in the same state. Uncle Horace was begging almost on his knees for three days—only two days and a half, counting Saturday but not Sunday—in which to rehabilitate his affairs. The market was absolutely certain to rebound; all the authorities agreed about it, and to sell now was suicide, it was a crime. The head of the Vandringham clan sat before his niece with tears running down his sagging cheeks—he had lost ten or twenty pounds in the last couple of days, for he had been running about, perspiring, and had forgotten to eat and perhaps even to drink. “Irma, for God’s sake!” He cursed Joseph Barnes because he was daring to misinterpret Irma’s orders and not give him enough stocks to keep him safe for the two and a half days that were really necessary to the selling-out process.
Lanny tried to keep out of the fight; but when Irma asked him, he repeated what he had said. “It’s a toss-up. You can be sure of this: if the market does come back, and Uncle Horace makes money, he’ll be right where he was before; he’ll say he was right and you were wrong, and he’ll be independent of you, and he’ll be in the market again, and the next time there’s a smash, you’ll have to go through the same scenes.”
“I’ll have given him fair warning, at any rate.”
“No, you’ll have taught him that you don’t stick by what you say.”
In spite of this advice Irma gave way. It was really hard for her; she was young, and didn’t know the world, and her mother was putting pressure on her to save the dignity and credit of the great family whose blood she shared. It might have been different if Lanny had said: “I am sure.” But how could Lanny say that? If he said it and turned out to be wrong, what would become of his standing as a husband? By God, you were in the market whether you wanted to be or not! A fish might as well talk about refusing to have anything to do with the ocean!
II
More and more clearly every hour Lanny realized this truth. When he came up at noon from watching the market, he found the family in a state of excitement. A check which Irma had written for her uncle had “bounced”; the bank had called up to inform her that she had no funds. The check had been written right after Slemmer had told her that she had seventy-five thousand dollars to her account; but Mr. Slemmer had been mistaken, said the seventeenth vice-president of the Seventh National Bank; on that date there had been only about one hundred dollars in the Irma Barnes account. (She still kept her maiden name in business affairs, it being one of power.)
So Irma had to phone Uncle Joseph and tell him to sell some of her stocks and put the money to her account; after which began a search for Slemmer. He had checked out of his hotel in the city, and he hadn’t showed up at Shore Acres, and he didn’t show up at either place or any other. Very soon there was a scandal, the police having to be notified, the district attorney’s office sending a man up, and newspaper reporters and photographers coming to the hotel.
The most conscientious and efficient of business managers had been playing the market, like everybody else; and he had got caught, as the saying was, with his pants down. He had drawn out Irma’s money in an effort to save himself, and when she had called him, he had realized that the jig was up and had disappeared. Had he tied a stone around his neck and jumped off one of the piers? It was a considerate way of behaving, but not all were considerate—they shot themselves in hotel-rooms, which was bad for business, or they jumped from windows and messed up the sidewalks. Or had Slemmer taken a train for Mexico or Canada? No one would ever know. He left behind him a wife and two children, who never heard from him—or if they did, they kept the secret. There they were, weeping hysterically, and what could Mrs. Fanny do—order them out of the estate with cold weather coming on?
That was one story out of thousands. If you were in a prominent position, like the Barneses, you couldn’t help hearing many such. Your friends came in and wrung their hands and harrowed your soul—sometimes they actually didn’t have money for food. You just had to give them small checks to tide them over. No matter what your resources were, you could be sure that the demands would exceed them. New York had become a torture house, and you couldn’t bear to look at the faces of people in the streets. All sorts, rich and poor, had suffered, and would go on suffering for a long time. Lucky indeed you were if you had the price of steamer tickets for the warm Mediterranean route! Lucky if you could afford to have a baby, and not have to get rid of it by the abortion route—a well-traveled highway at all times
III
Trading was gigantic in volume that Friday, but the market was orderly from bell to bell. The red-eyed and exhausted brokers could catch their breath, and let their hoarse throats heal, and eat a little food their clerks and office workers could dig out from under the avalanche of paper which had overwhelmed them. There was a story of a broker who remembered a waste-basket under his desk, into which he had been stuffing bundles of orders which he was unable to handle. Now the storm was over, and everybody was saying: “Don’t sell yet; wait for the rise; it’s sure to come.” There were signs of it all day Friday; the market had what the papers called “strong support,” and the names of the great bankers were freely used to convince everybody that securities were as secure as ever.
But Robbie Budd was a man of his word; he had said that he would get out, and in the afternoon he reported to his son that he did not own a share of stock on margin. He had many pawned at the First National Bank of Newcastle, including Lanny’s; now the only danger was that the bank might have to have more collateral for its loans. Lanny said: “Sell some of them now, Robbie—sell at market, and pay the bank off. Get yourself in the clear.” Robbie said again: “Is that what you wa
nt, Son?” and the answer was flat: “It is.”
There might have been sons who would have got pleasure out of giving such orders to their fathers, but Lanny was surely not among them. He had the right to do it, because part of the money was his and his mother’s; but he hated the responsibility—the more so because he had so little assurance of being right. But he had acquired a sort of phobia on the subject of this stock market, dating from the hour when he had watched the frenzied brokers down in the tradingpit; they had seemed to him like the damned souls in Dante’s inferno. It made no difference whether Satan had sentenced them to behave like that or whether they were slaves of their own greed—they were just as pitiable human victims.
So Robbie sold; and when he got through he said that he had redeemed Lanny’s stocks and put them back in the vault where they belonged; now he had just about enough money to repay the three hundred thousand which Lanny had handed him. Lanny said: “Give us three notes, one for Beauty, one for Marceline, and one for me, and we’ll put them away. If you can ever pay them off comfortably, all right, and if not, we’ll forget them. Now take my advice and go home and sleep twelve hours. And you and Esther make your plans to come and visit us at Juan after Christmas.”
A funny thing, which Lanny had been gradually coming to realize. Bienvenu would now be a completely respectable place! Mr. and Mrs. Parsifal Dingle, Mr. and Mrs. Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson, and Mr. and Mrs. Irma Barnes! Three sinless couples, each with a marriage certificate! And four children, and another on the way! The “faintly incestuous atmosphere” would be dissipated entirely, the strict Miss Addington would be happy, and any daughter of the Puritans could be invited for a visit! Surely the last trace of suspicion that Esther might have harbored concerning Mabel Blackless, alias Beauty Budd, must have been dispelled by her behavior during the last couple of days!
Between Two Worlds Page 91
