The Cinder Buggy

by Garet Garrett

  “Manufacturing,” said John.

  “Yes,” said Awns, “but what do we manufacture? What is the property to be incorporated?”

  “A nail mill to begin with,” said John.

  “Where is it?”

  “Here in Pittsburgh. Thirty-ninth Street.”

  “That’s got me,” said Awns. “I can’t think of any nail mill in Thirty-ninth Street.”

  John looked at the bill of sale and improved the address without the slightest change of expression.

  “Twenty-ninth,” he said.

  The lawyer took the bill of sale, glanced at it, and gave John a curious look.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Bought it sight unseen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much stock of this new company do you mean to issue?”

  “Founders’ shares, or whatever they are, and then stock to myself for what I put in,—the mill, the money to start with, and so on.”

  “Then why an authorized capital of a quarter of a million?”

  “Because I’m going into the iron and steel business,” said John.

  Awns studied him in silence.

  “You have quit with Gib at New Damascus?”

  “I’m out for myself,” said John.

  “All right,” said Awns. “Here’s for the North American Manufacturing Company, Limited.”

  They drew up papers. At the end of the business John asked: “Will you take your fee in cash or stock?”

  Jubal Awns was amazed, and somehow challenged, too. He was ten years older than John, successful and shrewd, with a delusion that he was romantic. He loved to dramatize a matter and make unexpected decisions. Putting down the papers he got up and walked three times across the floor with an air of meditation.

  “I’ll take it in stock,” he said, “provided I may incorporate all of your companies and take my fees that way each time.”

  They shook hands on it.

  It was late that afternoon when John and Thane together set out in a buggy from the hotel to inspect the mill. Thane was eager and communicative. He had not been taking it easy. He evidently had visited all the big mills in and around Pittsburgh. He had seen some new practice and much that was bad, and had got a lot of ideas. He had informed himself as to the conditions of labor. Here and there he had found a man he meant to pick up.

  And all the time John’s heart was sinking.

  As they turned into Twenty-ninth Street the eight stacks of the Keystone Iron Works rose in their eyes. No other iron working plant was visible in the vicinity, and as John, looking for his nail mill, began to slow up, Thane leaped to the notion that the Keystone was their goal.

  “She’s a whale,” he said, enthusiastically, but with no sound of awe. John gave him a squinting glance.

  “Would you tackle that?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said Thane, “then that ain’t it.” In his tone was a sense of disappointment that answered John’s question. Of course he would tackle it.

  They drove slowly past the Keystone, past dump heaps, sand lots, a row of unpainted, upside down boxes called houses, and came at length to a group of rude sheds, one large one and four small ones. One of the small ones, open in front like a wood-shed, was filled with empty nail kegs in tiers.

  The front door of the big central shed was propped shut with an iron bar. John kicked it away, pulled the door open, and they went in. A figure rose out of the dimness, asking, “What’d ye want?”

  “Are you Coleman’s caretaker?” John asked. Coleman was the name of the bankrupt.

  “Yep,” said the man.

  So this was the mill.

  “We’ve bought him out,” said John. “Want to have a look at the plant.”

  “Help yourself.”

  They walked about silently on the earthen, scrap littered floor. A nail mill, as nail mills were at that time, was not much to look at, and a cold iron working plant of any kind has a bygone, extinct appearance. Thane had never seen a cold mill. He was horribly depressed. Gradually their eyes grew used to the dimness. The equipment consisted of an overloaded driving engine, one small furnace for heating iron bars, a train of rolls for reducing the bars to sheets the thickness of nails and five automatic machines for cutting nails from the sheet like cookies,—all in bad to fair condition.

  “Won’t look so sad when you get her hot and begin to turn her over,” said John.

  Thane said nothing. Having examined the machinery and the furnace thoughtfully he stood for a long time surveying the mill as a whole. There was no inventory to speak of. The raw material, which was bar iron bought outside, had been worked up clean. They looked into the small sheds and then it began to be dark. As they drove away Thane spoke. It was the first word he had uttered.

  “When do we start up?”

  “Right away,” said John. “I’ll contract some iron tomorrow.”

  “Give me a couple of weeks,” said Thane. “There’s a lot to be done to that place.”

  “What?”

  “She’s all upside down,” he said. “The stuff ain’t moving right. No wonder they had to shut up.”

  That night at supper Agnes questioned her puddler.

  “What is your mill like?”

  “A one horse thing.”

  His manner was preoccupied and she let him alone. After supper he went to his room, removed his coat, waistcoat, collar and shoes and sat with his feet in the window, thinking.

  They had three rooms,—two bed chambers and a living room between. She sat in the middle room sewing, with a view of him through the door, which he left ajar. He did not move, except to refill and light his pipe. He was still there, slowly receding beyond a veil of smoke, when she retired.

  Before he went to bed the little nail mill was all made over and the stuff was moving right.

  Thane at this time was twenty-five. He had lived nearly all his life in the iron mill at New Damascus. He could not remember a time when its uproar and smells were not familiar to his senses. His mother died when he was three. He was the only child. Then his father, who was a puddler and loved him fiercely, began to take him to the mill. It was a wonderful nursery. When the shift was daytime he was the puddlers’ mascot and playmate. At night he slept on a pallet in some gloom hidden niche from which he could see his father, satanically transfigured in the glare of the furnace. Then he went to school, but spent all his playtime in the mill. The thrill of it never failed him. When he was old enough to carry water he got a job. At nineteen he became his father’s helper and delighted to vie with him in the weight of pig iron he could lift and heave into the maw of the furnace. The normal carry was one pig. He began to carry two at a time and his father matched him. But one day his father stumbled. As they stooped again side by side at the iron pile he picked up one pig. The old man gave him a queer, startled look and did the same. After that it was always one pig, and they never spoke of it. When his father died Alexander took his place, and as he drew his first heat, Enoch watching, the fact stood granted. He was the best puddler in the mill.

  He had it in his hands. Of iron, for coaxing, shaping and compelling it, he had that kind of tactile understanding an artist has for paint or clay, or any plastic stuff. He seemed to think with his hands. It is a mysterious gift, and leaves it open to wonder whether the brain has made the hand or the hand the brain. Besides this intuitive knowledge that belongs to the hand Thane possessed a natural sense of mechanics and a naïve way of taking nothing for granted because it happens so to be. All of this was to be revealed. It was John’s luck.

  XXIII

  WHILE Thane was thinking how to set the nail mill in order, John, sitting in the hotel lobby with his feet in the window, gnawing a cigar, was reflecting in another sphere. His problem was the nail industry at large. It was in a parlous way. Although cut iron nails had been made by automatic machines for a long time there had recently appeared a machine that displaced all others, because it made the nail complete, head a
nd all, in one run, and was very fast. This machine coming suddenly into use had caused an overproduction of nails. The price had fallen to a point where there was actually a loss instead of a profit in nail making unless one produced one’s own iron and got a profit there. The Twenty-ninth Street plant had to buy its iron. The probability of running it at a profit was nil.

  His meditations carried him far into the night. The lights were put out and still he sat with his feet in the window, musing, reflecting, dreaming, with a relaxed and receptive mind. An idea came to him. It will be important to consider what that idea was for it became afterward a classic pattern. It had the audacity of great simplicity. He would combine the whole nail making industry in his North American Manufacturing Company, Ltd. Then production could be suited to demand and the price of nails could be advanced to a paying level.

  He took stock of his capital. It was fifteen thousand dollars. Maybe it could be stretched to twenty. In his work with Gib, selling rails, he had acquired a miscellaneous lot of very cheap and highly speculative railroad shares, some of which were beginning to have value. But twenty thousand dollars would be the outside measurement, and to think of setting out with that amount of capital to acquire control of the nail making industry, worth perhaps half a million dollars, was at a glance fantastic. But one’s capital may exist in the idea. John already understood the art of finance.

  Leaving the Twenty-ninth Street plant in Thane’s hands, with funds for overhauling it, he consulted with Jubal Awns and set out the next morning on his errand.

  The nail makers were responsive for an obvious reason. They were all losing money. In a short time John laid before Awns a sheaf of papers.

  “There’s the child,” he said. “Examine it.”

  He had got options in writing on every important nail mill in the country save one. The owners agreed to sell out to the North American Manufacturing Co., Ltd., taking in payment either cash or preferred shares at their pleasure. The inducement to take preferred shares was that if they did they would receive a bonus of fifty per cent. in common stock.

  “But they will take cash in every case,” said Awns, “and where will you find it?”

  “They won’t,” said John. “I’ll see to that. What have you done with Gib?”

  Awns had been to see Enoch. The New Damascus mill produced in its nail department a fifth of all the nails then made. There was no probability of buying him out. John well knew that. Yet his nail output had to be controlled in some way, else the combine would fail. So he had sent Awns to him with alternative propositions. The first was to buy him out of the nail making business. And when he had declined to sell, as of course he would, Awns was to negotiate for his entire output under a long term contract.

  “He wouldn’t sell his nail business,” said Awns.

  “I knew that,” said John.

  “But I’ve got a contract for all his nails,” said Awns, handing over the paper. “The price is stiff,—fifty cents a keg more than nails are worth. It was the best I could do.”

  “That’s all right,” said John reading the agreement. “We are going to add a dollar a keg to nails. This phrase—’unless the party of the second part,’ (that’s Gib), ‘wishes to sell nails at a lower price to the trade’—who put that in?”

  “He did,” said Awns. “I couldn’t see any point in objecting to it. No man is going to undersell his own contract.”

  John handed the agreement back and sat for several minutes musing.

  “There’s a loose wheel in your scheme, if I’m not mistaken,” said Awns. “If you add a dollar a keg to nails won’t you bring in a lot of new competition? Anybody can make nails if it pays. These same people who sell out to you may turn around and begin again. You’ll be holding the umbrella for everybody else.”

  “Anybody can’t make nails,” said John. “I’ve looked at that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nail making machines are covered by patents. There are only four firms that make them. I’ve made air tight contracts with them. We take all their machines at an advance of twenty-five per cent. over present prices and they bind themselves to sell machines to nobody else during the life of the contract. So we’ve got the bag sewed up top and bottom. They were glad to do it because there isn’t any profit in machines either with the nail makers all going busted.”

  Awns stared at him with doubt and admiration mingled.

  “Well, that is showing them something,” he said. “If you go far with that kind of thing laws will be passed to stop it.”

  “It’s legal, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no law against it,” said Awns.

  “We’re not obliged to be more legal than the law,” said John. “Tell me, what do you know about bankers in Pittsburgh? I’ve got to do some business in that quarter.”

  Pittsburgh at this time was not a place prepared. It was a sign, a pregnant smudge, a state of phenomena. The great mother was undergoing a Caesarian operation. An event was bringing itself to pass. The steel age was about to be delivered.

  Men performed the office of obstetrics without knowing what they did. They could neither see nor understand it. They struggled blindly, falling down and getting up. Forces possessed them. Their psychic condition was that of men to whom fabulous despair and extravagant expectation were the two ends of one ecstasy. They were hard, shrewd, sentimental, superstitious, romantic in friendship and conscienceless in trade. They named their blast furnaces after their wives and sweethearts, stole each other’s secrets, fell out with their partners, knew no law of business but to lay on what the traffic would bear, read Swedenborg and dreamed of Heaven as a thoroughfare resembling Wood Street, Pittsburgh, lined with banks and in the door of each bank a grovelling president, pleading: “Here’s money for your payrolls. Please borrow it here. Very fine quality of money. Pay it back when you like.”

  They were always begging money at the banks. When they made money they used it to build more mills and to fill the mills with automatic monsters that grew stranger and more fantastic. Many of these monsters, like things in nature’s own history of trial and error, appeared for a short time and became extinct. When they were not making money they were bankrupt. That was about half the time. Then they came to the banks in Wood Street to implore, beg, wheedle money to meet their payrolls.

  There is the legend of a man, afterward one of the great millionaires, who drove one mare so often to Wood Street and from one bank to another in a zigzag course that the animal came to know the stops by heart, made them automatically, and could not be made to go in a straight line through this lane of money doors.

  The bankers were a tough minded group. They had to be. Nobody was quite safe. A man with a record for sanity would suddenly lose his balance and cast away the substance of certainty to pursue a vision. The effort to adapt the Bessemer steel process to American conditions was an irresistible road to ruin. That process was producing amazing results in Europe but in this country it was bewitched with perversity and it looked as if the English and German manufacturers would walk away with the steel age. Fortunes were still being swallowed up in snail shaped vessels called converters, not unlike the one Aaron had built at New Damascus twenty-five years before.

  Of all the bankers in Wood Street the toughest minded was Lemuel Slaymaker.

  “All the same,” said Awns, “I should try him first. His name would put it through and he loves a profit.”

  Awns knew him. They went together to see him. Slaymaker saluted Awns and acknowledged his introduction of Mr. John Breakspeare not otherwise nor more than by turning slowly in his chair and staring at them. He had a large white face, pale blue eyes and red, close-cropped hair. The impression he made was one of total sphericity. There was no way to take hold of him. No thought or feeling projected.

  John laid out his plan, producing the papers as exhibits, A, B, C, in the appropriate places. Lastly he produced data on the nail trade, showing the amount of nails consumed in the country and the normal rate
of annual increase with the growth of population, together with a carefully developed estimate of the combine’s profits at various prices per keg. When he had finished the idea was lucid, complete in every part and self-evident. Therein lay the secret of his extraordinary power of persuasion. He seemed never to argue his case. He expressed no opinion of his own to be combatted. He merely laid down a state of facts with an air of looking at them from the other man’s point of view.

  “And what you want is a bank to guarantee this scheme,” said Slaymaker. “You want a bank to guarantee that if these people want cash instead of stock the cash will be forthcoming.”

  This was the first word he had spoken. The papers he had not even glanced at. They lay on his desk as John had placed them there.

  “That’s it,” said John. “Guarantee it. Very little cash will be required.”

  “How do you say that?”

  “To make them want stock instead of cash,” said John, “you have only to engage brokers to make advance quotations for the stock, here and in Philadelphia at, say, par for the preferred and fifty for the common. If you do not know brokers who can do that I will find them. The scheme is sound. The stock will pay dividends from the start. A bank that had guaranteed it might very well speak a good word for it here and there. The public will want some of the stock.”

  Slaymaker gazed at a corner of the ceiling and twiggled his foot. Then he turned his back on them.

  “Leave the papers,” he said, “and see me at this time tomorrow.”

  When they were in the street again Awns said: “You got him.”

  And so the infant trust was born,—first of its kind, first of a giant brood. Biologically they were all alike, but with evolution their size increased prodigiously. The swaddling cloths of this one would not have patched the eye of a twentieth century specimen delivered in Wall Street.

  Slaymaker’s lawyers and Jubal Awns together verified all the agreements. The stock of the N. A. M. Co., Ltd., was increased enough to make sure there would be plenty to go around. Slaymaker took a large amount for banker’s fees, John took a block for promoter’s services and another block for the Twenty-ninth Street mill, the lawyers took some, and a certain amount was set aside for Thane,—for Agnes really. John was elected president and the combine was launched. Before the day came on which the options of purchase were to be exercised the preferred stock was publicly quoted at 105 and the common stock at 55, and there were symptoms of public interest in its possibilities. As John predicted, nearly all the nail manufacturers elected to take stock in the new company, with Slaymaker’s name behind it.