The Titan tod-2

by Theodore Dreiser

  Cowperwood interlocked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs as he contemplated this latest evidence of earthly difficulty and uncertainty. Time and chance certainly happened to all men, and here was one opportunity of paying out those who had been nagging him. To take this stock at one-fifty on loan and peddle it out swiftly and fully at two-twenty or less would bring American Match crumbling about their ears. When it was selling at one-fifty or less he could buy it back, pocket his profit, complete his deal with Mr. Stackpole, pocket his interest, and smile like the well-fed cat in the fable. It was as simple as twiddling his thumbs, which he was now doing.

  “Who has been backing this stock here in Chicago besides yourself and Mr. Hull?” he asked, pleasantly. “I think that I already know, but I should like to be certain if you have no objection.”

  “None in the least, none in the least,” replied Mr. Stackpole, accommodatingly. “Mr. Hand, Mr. Schryhart, Mr. Arneel, and Mr. Merrill.”

  “That is what I thought,” commented Cowperwood, easily. “They can’t take this up for you? Is that it? Saturated?”

  “Saturated,” agreed Mr. Stackpole, dully. “But there’s one thing I’d have to stipulate in accepting a loan on these. Not a share must be thrown on the market, or, at least, not before I have failed to respond to your call. I have understood that there is a little feeling between you and Mr. Hand and the other gentlemen I have mentioned. But, as I say—and I’m talking perfectly frankly now—I’m in a corner, and it’s any port in a storm. If you want to help me I’ll make the best terms I can, and I won’t forget the favor.”

  He opened the bag and began to take out the securities—long greenish-yellow bundles, tightly gripped in the center by thick elastic bands. They were in bundles of one thousand shares each. Since Stackpole half proffered them to him, Cowperwood took them in one hand and lightly weighed them up and down.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stackpole,” he said, sympathetically, after a moment of apparent reflection, “but I cannot possibly help you in this matter. I’m too involved in other things myself, and I do not often indulge in stock-peculations of any kind. I have no particular malice toward any one of the gentlemen you mention. I do not trouble to dislike all who dislike me. I might, of course, if I chose, take these stocks and pay them out and throw them on the market to-morrow, but I have no desire to do anything of the sort. I only wish I could help you, and if I thought I could carry them safely for three or four months I would. As it is—” He lifted his eyebrows sympathetically. “Have you tried all the bankers in town?”

  “Practically every one.”

  “And they can’t help you?”

  “They are carrying all they can stand now.”

  “Too bad. I’m sorry, very. By the way, do you happen, by any chance, to know Mr. Millard Bailey or Mr. Edwin Kaffrath?”

  “No, I don’t,” replied Stackpole, hopefully.

  “Well, now, there are two men who are much richer than is generally supposed. They often have very large sums at their disposal. You might look them up on a chance. Then there’s my friend Videra. I don’t know how he is fixed at present. You can always find him at the Twelfth Ward Bank. He might be inclined to take a good portion of that—I don’t know. He’s much better off than most people seem to think. I wonder you haven’t been directed to some one of these men before.” (As a matter of fact, no one of the individuals in question would have been interested to take a dollar of this loan except on Cowperwood’s order, but Stackpole had no reason for knowing this. They were not prominently identified with the magnate.)

  “Thank you very much. I will,” observed Stackpole, restoring his undesired stocks to his bag.

  Cowperwood, with an admirable show of courtesy, called a stenographer, and pretended to secure for his guest the home addresses of these gentlemen. He then bade Mr. Stackpole an encouraging farewell. The distrait promoter at once decided to try not only Bailey and Kaffrath, but Videra; but even as he drove toward the office of the first-mentioned Cowperwood was personally busy reaching him by telephone.

  “I say, Bailey,” he called, when he had secured the wealthy lumberman on the wire, “Benoni Stackpole, of Hull & Stackpole, was here to see me just now.”

  “Yes.”

  “He has with him fifteen thousand shares of American Match—par value one hundred, market value to-day two-twenty.”

  “Yes.”

  “He is trying to hypothecate the lot or any part of it at one-fifty.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what the trouble with American Match is, don’t you?”

  “No. I only know it’s being driven up to where it is now by a bull campaign.”

  “Well, listen to me. It’s going to break. American Match is going to bust.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I want you to loan this man five hundred thousand dollars at one-twenty or less and then recommend that he go to Edwin Kaffrath or Anton Videra for the balance.”

  “But, Frank, I haven’t any five hundred thousand to spare. You say American Match is going to bust.”

  “I know you haven’t, but draw the check on the Chicago Trust, and Addison will honor it. Send the stock to me and forget all about it. I will do the rest. But under no circumstances mention my name, and don’t appear too eager. Not more than one-twenty at the outside, do you hear? and less if you can get it. You recognize my voice, do you?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Drive over afterward if you have time and let me know what happens.”

  “Very good,” commented Mr. Bailey, in a businesslike way.

  Cowperwood next called for Mr. Kaffrath. Conversing to similar effect with that individual and with Videra, before three-quarters of an hour Cowperwood had arranged completely for Mr. Stackpole’s tour. He was to have his total loan at one-twenty or less. Checks were to be forthcoming at once. Different banks were to be drawn on—banks other than the Chicago Trust Company. Cowperwood would see, in some roundabout way, that these checks were promptly honored, whether the cash was there or not. In each case the hypothecated stocks were to be sent to him. Then, having seen to the perfecting of this little programme, and that the banks to be drawn upon in this connection understood perfectly that the checks in question were guaranteed by him or others, he sat down to await the arrival of his henchmen and the turning of the stock into his private safe.

  Chapter XLVIII.

  Panic

  On August 4, 1896, the city of Chicago, and for that matter the entire financial world, was startled and amazed by the collapse of American Match, one of the strongest of market securities, and the coincident failure of Messrs. Hull and Stackpole, its ostensible promoters, for twenty millions. As early as eleven o’clock of the preceding day the banking and brokerage world of Chicago, trading in this stock, was fully aware that something untoward was on foot in connection with it. Owing to the high price at which the stock was “protected,” and the need of money to liquidate, blocks of this stock from all parts of the country were being rushed to the market with the hope of realizing before the ultimate break. About the stock-exchange, which frowned like a gray fortress at the foot of La Salle Street, all was excitement—as though a giant anthill had been ruthlessly disturbed. Clerks and messengers hurried to and fro in confused and apparently aimless directions. Brokers whose supply of American Match had been apparently exhausted on the previous day now appeared on ’change bright and early, and at the clang of the gong began to offer the stock in sizable lots of from two hundred to five hundred shares. The agents of Hull & Stackpole were in the market, of course, in the front rank of the scrambling, yelling throng, taking up whatever stock appeared at the price they were hoping to maintain. The two promoters were in touch by ’phone and wire not only with those various important personages whom they had induced to enter upon this bull campaign, but with their various clerks and agents on ’change. Naturally, under the circumstances both were in a gloomy frame of mind. This game was no longer moving in those large, easy sweeps which
characterize the more favorable aspects of high finance. Sad to relate, as in all the troubled flumes of life where vast currents are compressed in narrow, tortuous spaces, these two men were now concerned chiefly with the momentary care of small but none the less heartbreaking burdens. Where to find fifty thousand to take care of this or that burden of stock which was momentarily falling upon them? They were as two men called upon, with their limited hands and strength, to seal up the ever-increasing crevices of a dike beyond which raged a mountainous and destructive sea.

  At eleven o’clock Mr. Phineas Hull rose from the chair which sat before his solid mahogany desk, and confronted his partner.

  “I’ll tell you, Ben,” he said, “I’m afraid we can’t make this. We’ve hypothecated so much of this stock around town that we can’t possibly tell who’s doing what. I know as well as I’m standing on this floor that some one, I can’t say which one, is selling us out. You don’t suppose it could be Cowperwood or any of those people he sent to us, do you?”

  Stackpole, worn by his experiences of the past few weeks, was inclined to be irritable.

  “How should I know, Phineas?” he inquired, scowling in troubled thought. “I don’t think so. I didn’t notice any signs that they were interested in stock-gambling. Anyhow, we had to have the money in some form. Any one of the whole crowd is apt to get frightened now at any moment and throw the whole thing over. We’re in a tight place, that’s plain.”

  For the fortieth time he plucked at a too-tight collar and pulled up his shirt-sleeves, for it was stifling, and he was coatless and waistcoatless. Just then Mr. Hull’s telephone bell rang—the one connecting with the firm’s private office on ’change, and the latter jumped to seize the receiver.

  “Yes?” he inquired, irritably.

  “Two thousand shares of American offered at two-twenty! Shall I take them?”

  The man who was ’phoning was in sight of another man who stood at the railing of the brokers’ gallery overlooking “the pit,” or central room of the stock-exchange, and who instantly transferred any sign he might receive to the man on the floor. So Mr. Hull’s “yea” or “nay” would be almost instantly transmuted into a cash transaction on ’change.

  “What do you think of that?” asked Hull of Stackpole, putting his hand over the receiver’s mouth, his right eyelid drooping heavier than ever. “Two thousand more to take up! Where d’you suppose they are coming from? Tch!”

  “Well, the bottom’s out, that’s all,” replied Stackpole, heavily and gutturally. “We can’t do what we can’t do. I say this, though: support it at two-twenty until three o’clock. Then we’ll figure up where we stand and what we owe. And meanwhile I’ll see what I can do. If the banks won’t help us and Arneel and that crowd want to get from under, we’ll fail, that’s all; but not before I’ve had one more try, by Jericho! They may not help us, but—”

  Actually Mr. Stackpole did not see what was to be done unless Messrs. Hand, Schryhart, Merrill, and Arneel were willing to risk much more money, but it grieved and angered him to think he and Hull should be thus left to sink without a sigh. He had tried Kaffrath, Videra, and Bailey, but they were adamant. Thus cogitating, Stackpole put on his wide-brimmed straw hat and went out. It was nearly ninety-six in the shade. The granite and asphalt pavements of the down-town district reflected a dry, Turkish-bath-room heat. There was no air to speak of. The sky was a burning, milky blue, with the sun gleaming feverishly upon the upper walls of the tall buildings.

  Mr. Hand, in his seventh-story suite of offices in the Rookery Building, was suffering from the heat, but much more from mental perturbation. Though not a stingy or penurious man, it was still true that of all earthly things he suffered most from a financial loss. How often had he seen chance or miscalculation sweep apparently strong and valiant men into the limbo of the useless and forgotten! Since the alienation of his wife’s affections by Cowperwood, he had scarcely any interest in the world outside his large financial holdings, which included profitable investments in a half-hundred companies. But they must pay, pay, pay heavily in interest—all of them—and the thought that one of them might become a failure or a drain on his resources was enough to give him an almost physical sensation of dissatisfaction and unrest, a sort of spiritual and mental nausea which would cling to him for days and days or until he had surmounted the difficulty. Mr. Hand had no least corner in his heart for failure.

  As a matter of fact, the situation in regard to American Match had reached such proportions as to be almost numbing. Aside from the fifteen thousand shares which Messrs. Hull and Stackpole had originally set aside for themselves, Hand, Arneel, Schryhart, and Merrill had purchased five thousand shares each at forty, but had since been compelled to sustain the market to the extent of over five thousand shares more each, at prices ranging from one-twenty to two-twenty, the largest blocks of shares having been bought at the latter figure. Actually Hand was caught for nearly one million five hundred thousand dollars, and his soul was as gray as a bat’s wing. At fifty-seven years of age men who are used only to the most successful financial calculations and the credit that goes with unerring judgment dread to be made a mark by chance or fate. It opens the way for comment on their possibly failing vitality or judgment. And so Mr. Hand sat on this hot August afternoon, ensconced in a large carved mahogany chair in the inner recesses of his inner offices, and brooded. Only this morning, in the face of a falling market, he would have sold out openly had he not been deterred by telephone messages from Arneel and Schryhart suggesting the advisability of a pool conference before any action was taken. Come what might on the morrow, he was determined to quit unless he saw some clear way out—to be shut of the whole thing unless the ingenuity of Stackpole and Hull should discover a way of sustaining the market without his aid. While he was meditating on how this was to be done Mr. Stackpole appeared, pale, gloomy, wet with perspiration.

  “Well, Mr. Hand,” he exclaimed, wearily, “I’ve done all I can. Hull and I have kept the market fairly stable so far. You saw what happened between ten and eleven this morning. The jig’s up. We’ve borrowed our last dollar and hypothecated our last share. My personal fortune has gone into the balance, and so has Hull’s. Some one of the outside stockholders, or all of them, are cutting the ground from under us. Fourteen thousand shares since ten o’clock this morning! That tells the story. It can’t be done just now—not unless you gentlemen are prepared to go much further than you have yet gone. If we could organize a pool to take care of fifteen thousand more shares—”

  Mr. Stackpole paused, for Mr. Hand was holding up a fat, pink digit.

  “No more of that,” he was saying, solemnly. “It can’t be done. I, for one, won’t sink another dollar in this proposition at this time. I’d rather throw what I have on the market and take what I can get. I am sure the others feel the same way.”

  Mr. Hand, to play safe, had hypothecated nearly all his shares with various banks in order to release his money for other purposes, and he knew he would not dare to throw over all his holdings, just as he knew he would have to make good at the figure at which they had been margined. But it was a fine threat to make.

  Mr. Stackpole stared ox-like at Mr. Hand.

  “Very well,” he said, “I might as well go back, then, and post a notice on our front door. We bought fourteen thousand shares and held the market where it is, but we haven’t a dollar to pay for them with. Unless the banks or some one will take them over for us we’re gone—we’re bankrupt.”

  Mr. Hand, who knew that if Mr. Stackpole carried out this decision it meant the loss of his one million five hundred thousand, halted mentally. “Have you been to all the banks?” he asked. “What does Lawrence, of the Prairie National, have to say?”

  “It’s the same with all of them,” replied Stackpole, now quite desperate, “as it is with you. They have all they can carry—every one. It’s this damned silver agitation—that’s it, and nothing else. There’s nothing the matter with this stock. It will right itself in
a few months. It’s sure to.”

  “Will it?” commented Mr. Hand, sourly. “That depends on what happens next November.” (He was referring to the coming national election.)

  “Yes, I know,” sighed Mr. Stackpole, seeing that it was a condition, and not a theory, that confronted him. Then, suddenly clenching his right hand, he exclaimed, “Damn that upstart!” (He was thinking of the “Apostle of Free Silver.”) “He’s the cause of all this. Well, if there’s nothing to be done I might as well be going. There’s all those shares we bought to-day which we ought to be able to hypothecate with somebody. It would be something if we could get even a hundred and twenty on them.”

  “Very true,” replied Hand. “I wish it could be done. I, personally, cannot sink any more money. But why don’t you go and see Schryhart and Arneel? I’ve been talking to them, and they seem to be in a position similar to my own; but if they are willing to confer, I am. I don’t see what’s to be done, but it may be that all of us together might arrange some way of heading off the slaughter of the stock to-morrow. I don’t know. If only we don’t have to suffer too great a decline.”