by Damon Runyon
He was docile, tranquil, and wholly peaceable. So much so, in fact, that one of the Photo Grabbers privately confided to me that he thinks the old boy is going back. He didn’t say back where. Not back to the Senate committee’s room after this inquiry, if he can help it, you can bet on that.
Today there were only a few Photo Grabbers present in the inquiry room. Satiated with pictures of Mr. M., most of the boys had gone on to fresher subjects. They’ve got enough pictures of him now to last them for years to come.
I thought Mr. M. glanced around with real regret for the missing ones. He had on a new pair of tan shoes, too. I fear that Mr. M. has succumbed at last to an old complaint among our public characters. It is known as Camera-itis.
That’s the trouble with the Photo Grabbers centering their attention on one character for several days at a stretch. It makes the subject utterly lens-conscious. Thus when the Photo Grabbers suddenly let him alone, he develops a yennion for them. I mean he wants to see them around.
I suppose the next time Mr. M. comes back from a trip abroad and looks around and sees no Photo Grabbers waiting for him on the dock, he will be right peeved about it. Still, he will be peeved if they are there, so it’s all even.
May 31, 1933
It is getting so you are practically nobody unless you are on the kind Mr. Morgan’s preferred list.
Only don’t call it “preferred” list. The House of Morgan does not care for the term.
“It gags,” says Mr. George Whitney, “the icicle,” handsome, debonair—a movie director’s idea in the flesh of a big Wall Streeter, which Mr. Whitney certainly is.
Mr. Whitney means that the term “preferred list” gags him and, doubtless, his associates in the House of Morgan. Nobody bothers to tell Mr. Whitney how the “preferred list” itself is gagging a large number of American citizens.
And yet it is conceivable that in the years to come, when some scion of an old American family is claiming proud heritage, and is asked, “Did your folks come over on the Mayflower?” they will haughtily reply, “No, but you will find our name on Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan’s list.”
Let us see, now, how the “list” that may determine future blue-bloodedness in America shapes up at this time. We have so far:
Four or five candidates for President of the United States of America.
A Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.
A Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America.
Two Senators of the United States of America.
An Ambassador-at-large of the United States of America.
One parcel of small-time judges.
One job lot consisting of a chairman and treasurers of political parties.
One large batch of millionaires.
Another large batch of ex-millionaires.
One lot of bush-league political bosses, bank directors, business men and lawyers.
One large barrel of parties not yet sorted and identified.
Even one of our celebrated war correspondents and radio broadcasters almost gets on the list this morning.
Senator Reynolds, of North Carolina, perusing a string of names longer than a hack driver’s dream, finds the monicker “F. Gibbons” staring him in the face, and inquires, “Does this mean Floyd Gibbons?”
Nineteen necks along the press bench crack audibly as the boys lean forward, breathless, and I may say, somewhat envious, to catch the reply.
Mr. Whitney looks blank, then confers with some of his assistants behind him before he answers, “I think it’s one of our clerks.”
The press bench falls back indignant. The list remains palpably discriminatory against newspapermen.
Old Senator Carter Glass, of Virginia, whose waspish buzzing about the ears of Mr. Pecora, and whose declamation that he will not stand by and see any injustice done the House of Morgan, featured the inquiry last week, waves a large portfolio of telegrams and letters at the committee today.
He says some of these are missives calling him a no-gooder in various terms, and threatening his life, while others are big boosts for him as an American patriot, and a Southern gentleman, suh.
Senator Glass’ threat to read these contributions strikes terror to every heart, for much of the morning session has already been given over to senatorial digressions, with Mr. Pecora sitting idly by unable to ask a question for half an hour, hand running, but it comes out that Senator Glass does not mean at once.
He puts in much of the noon recess being photographed alongside his portfolio of knocks and boosts, and his gray felt hat sitting jack-deuce on his head, as the faro bank players would say. Presently along comes Mr. Pecora, and the two pose together with big smiles on their faces, though the spectators are offering eight to five that neither means a single wrinkle of their smiles.
Mr. Pecora keeps burrowing into the transactions of the House of Morgan, throwing behind him as he delves, plenty of financial dirt. He begins with Mr. George H. Howard, president of the United Corporation as a witness, but presently Mr. Whitney steps up voluntarily to answer some questions that Mr. Howard seems dubious about, and Mr. Pecora always welcomes Mr. Whitney.
Mr. Pecora realizes that Mr. Whitney is one man who knows more about the House of Morgan than all the rest put together, so every time Mr. Whitney bobs up, Mr. Pecora says, “Why, sit right down, Mr. Whitney.”
Then Mr. Whitney sits down and they keep him sitting. However, it must be said for Mr. Whitney that he doesn’t just sit. He also thinks; Mr. Whitney is no dumbbell. He is extremely intelligent, suave, and sure of his ground.
Not far behind him sits old Mr. Morgan, gazing at the witness in admiration and probably wondering how Mr. Whitney can remember so many details of the Morgan business when Mr. Morgan himself can remember so few.
June 1, 1933
Our little inquisition into the doings of Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan opens today with sideshow features.
A female midget about knee high to a grasshopper, from the Ringling Circus now playing in Washington, is brought into the Senate caucus room and Mr. Morgan obligingly holds the wee lady on his knee while the photographers get busy and the spectators giggle.
It looks like a ventriloquist act.
I mean you half expect to hear the small figure on Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan’s knee, pipe, “Now, Uncle John, tell me the story of the Bad Old Bear.”
And Mr. Morgan to reply, “I don’t know any story about a bear, Melissy, but I’ll tell you one about the Great Big Bull.”
Mr. Morgan seems to enjoy the experience for a spell, and handles the midget as gently as if she were a costly doll. Indeed, the midget isn’t much bigger than a doll such as Santa Claus might bring any good little gal at Noel. And by the way, Santa Claus also gets into the inquiry today when Senator Bob Reynolds, of No’th Ca’lina, finally hits upon a name for those famous lists heretofore designated, to the distress of the House of Morgan, as “preferred.”
Senator Bob speaks of them as “Santa Claus lists.”
It seems a happy compromise.
It is just as well Senator Carter Glass is not present to see the performance with the midget. It might tend to confirm the aged Virginian’s contention that the investigation is mainly a circus.
In fact, it is only just the other day while supplying some of the clowning that the Senator is remarking that all we need to make the thing complete is peanuts and red lemonade. Of course, he didn’t think of midgets.
But the philosopher may see something else in this picture of Mr. Morgan, sitting there with a benign expression on his face, and a midget on his knee. The philosopher may see the midget as occupying toward Mr. Morgan the same relative position now occupied by the proletariat of these United States of America.
That is to say, we are all more or less on Mr. Morgan’s financial knee.
There is this difference between us and the midget, however: Mr. Morgan occasionally bends us over his financial knee, south side uppermost.
While the midget is r
oosting on Mr. Morgan’s knee, a scout reports the sinister figure of Mr. Dexter Fellowes, the Ringling press-agent, lurking in the corridors. He is afraid to enter in person and sends the midget in with a proxy.
The proxy finally overdoes himself and shifts the midget to Mr. Morgan’s other knee, and crushes into the picture himself, at which Mr. Morgan looks irked, and mutters, as if to say, “Just for that you’ve all got to get off.”
But he puts the midget down on the floor tenderly enough, and turns to beam at his immediate following, the members of which are utterly aghast at the proceeding. No one can think up out of his experience in Wall Street a precedent for a great financier posing with a midget on his knee.
The members of the Senate committee are not in the room when this incident takes place. They hear of it later and are greatly annoyed, possibly because there are no midgets left to pose on their knees. The sergeants-at-arms are instructed to guard against similar invasions of Mr. Morgan’s privacy. Some of the committee fear that Mr. Fellowes may return with an elephant and try to put him on Mr. Morgan’s knee.
The photographers are barred from the caucus room, after enjoying a long field day, although they are scarcely to blame for littering up the place with midgets.
Senator Fletcher, of Florida, chairman of the committee, denounces the incident with some vociferousness, as he calls the session to order and asks the newspapers not to print the pictures.
The crowd applauds Senator Fletcher’s statement that he considers the midgeting of Mr. Morgan an outrage. The first thing we know, we will all commence to feel sorry for poor Mr. Morgan, and forget the bewildering financial sleight-of-hand that Mr. Ferdinand Pecora is exposing in the manner of the tobacco ads.
Mr. Morgan does not appear to take the business of the midget seriously. Perhaps he thinks he may have brought the midget in himself in one of his pockets by accident.
A man never knows when he may find a midget on his person.
Anyway, as soon as we are relieved of the sinister presence of Mr. Leif and his midget we feel greatly relieved and the inquiry proceeds.
The opening of the morning session is long delayed. This because of the rule adopted by the skittish members of the committee that Mr. Ferdinand Pecora must reveal to them in advance what he expects to bring out during the inquiry. It is old Senator Glass’ idea, but some of the others fell in with surprising alacrity.
The senatorial committee has the inquiry slowed down to a walk and seems to love the pace. At the beginning Mr. Pecora was going through the mass of evidence like water through a tin horn. He was bringing out the high spots one after the other with bewildering rapidity.
Now the members of the senatorial committee spend much time mumbling. The mumbles leave Mr. Pecora sitting silent at the head of a long table at which the Senators are assembled. He gets in a question just now and then. But Mr. Pecora remains sweetly patient with the gentlemen. After all, it is their inquiry and Mr. Pecora is getting the terrific sum of $255 per month for sitting around.
Mr. George Whitney is again on the stand most of the day. Mr. Whitney is our only sex appeal in this inquiry. The ladies enjoy gazing at Mr. Whitney. In fact we hear that if it wasn’t for Mr. Whitney, the female attendance at the inquiry would fall to low ebb. As it is, the ladies continue to occupy the best seats.
Mr. Whitney today wears a dark blue sack suit with a starched white linen collar against a colored shirt. A crest ring and a wrist watch are his only jewelry. His iron-gray hair is combed to a gloss. His nose glasses are delicately balanced on his patrician beezer.
Toward the close of the morning session Mr. Whitney seems to grow somewhat Wall Streetish toward Mr. Pecora who is cheerfully trying to show how the House of Morgan lends millions of dollars without collateral and far beyond the limits permitted a public bank.
Mr. Whitney refers to a matter of $30,000,000 as “a relatively small amount.” I am inclined to think that it is this supercilious, not to say blasé attitude toward money on Mr. Whitney’s part that impresses the ladies. They can see what a handy thing around the house a man must be who considers $30,000,000 “a relatively small amount.”
Mr. Morgan seems to start slightly, as Mr. Whitney speaks of the thirty million in this offhand way and to gaze keenly at Mr. Whitney. You know Mr. Morgan got his start by carefully saving all his thirty millions, and perhaps it alarms him to hear a young man speak so casually of them.
The inquiry drags on toward six o’clock reminding many of the spectators that it is supper-time in Washington. Dinner time to you swells, perhaps, but supper-time in Washington. The folks began going home. All Senators except Senator Fletcher, the chairman, and Alva Adams, of Colorado, had departed.
Senator Adams is a banker in Pueblo, Colorado. He is sticking to the inquiry in the hope that he may learn some new ideas for Pueblo. I doubt if Senator Adams will ever persuade the Puebloans to Mr. Whitney’s idea that $30,000,000 is a “relatively small amount” of money.
If the attendance keeps falling off we may have to take this show on the road.
June 2, 1933
If Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan should fall into a barrel of onion soup—may the fates forfend!—the chances are he would come up with a rose in his hand. At least you gather this impression from the testimony today in the Senate inquiry into the private financial life of Mr. Morgan.
In one of the darkest hours of the long, long night of Wall Street, Mr. Morgan—or rather one of Mr. Morgan’s bright young blades—joined with other financiers in an attempt to prop the market, at the moment aslant, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
They bought a job lot of those checks that seemed to be most afflicted with what the deep sea divers call the “bends,” and wound up making over $1,000,000 for the rescue mission. Which brings us to the thought that to him who hath shall be given. Also a stitch in time saves nine. Likewise you can’t keep a squirrel on the ground.
Mr. George Whitney, that cool, calm, suave, impeccably arrayed gentleman who comes out the most limelighted of all the members of the House of Morgan, tells the story today. Give Mr. Whitney a question, and a few quotations, and he is one of the finest financial raconteurs in the world. I spoke yesterday of Mr. Whitney being our only sex appeal in this inquiry. I said the ladies enjoyed gazing at him. A committee of ladies waits on me this morning to inform me that I am all wrong in my impression that Mr. Whitney is entirely responsible for the feminine attendance at the inquiry. They say:
“We really like Mr. Morgan better than anyone else. Mr. Whitney is very nice, but his answers to Mr. Pecora’s questions indicate that he may be a man very handy with excuses when he comes home. Anyway, he can undoubtedly out-talk any woman. Mr. Morgan is our candidate.”
Well anyway, Mr. Whitney gives a thrilling word picture of that black hour in Wall Street in 1929, when you couldn’t find another drying towel on the rack, and when in fact, to use Mr. Whitney’s own language, all was chaos. Or do you remember it yourself?
In this hour, a little group of intrepid souls gathered in Mr. Morgan’s office and said to each other, “Well, boys, what will we do?”
Mr. Whitney recalls the names of the members of this devoted band: his brother, Dick Whitney, now president of the New York Stock Exchange, the Messrs. Potter Williams, Mitchell and George F. Baker, Jr., all representing big financial institutions.
“Well, boys, what will we do?”
So they do it.
They pool their resources, and buy up Alleghany, Allied Chemical, American Can, Anaconda, F. & O., American Telephone, Columbia Gas, Bethlehem Steel, and others. (“Vas you dere, Sharlie?”) The liquidation some months later finds them winner, off of $37,000,000 worth of buying, to the tune of $1,067,000.
Your correspondent, grown calloused to anything short of $90,000,000, whispers disdainfully to the brilliant young Mr. Julius Berens, financial editor of the New York American, “It doesn’t sound like much profit.”
Mr. Berens pauses in his voluminous note-making and whispers
back, “You may sneeze at it, but it makes a big noise to me.”
History does not record that the errand of mercy embarked on by these philanthropists put the market back on an even keel, although it is only fair to say it had its beneficial effects at the time.
Mr. Morgan, who enters the inquiry room rather cautiously this morning, perhaps fearful that some miscreant may be lurking about to slip a midget into his pocket, listens to Mr. Whitney’s recitation quite enthralled.
Indeed, Mr. Whitney, in his many hours on the witness stand, must have been a liberal education to Mr. Morgan, especially in the matter of the affairs of the House of Morgan, which Mr. Morgan frankly confessed early in the inquiry are somewhat of a mystery to him.
He hasn’t muffed a word uttered by Mr. Whitney, and he has been watching Mr. Whitney with an approving gaze, and many head-noddings, as if saying to himself, “I think I’ll have to raise this young man’s salary.”
Mr. Ferdinand Pecora, who says Mr. Whitney is about as clever a witness as he ever tackled, concludes his examination of the gentleman shortly before noon today, and is starting in on young Mr. Thomas Stillwell Lamont, son of old Thomas W. Lamont, of the Morgan firm, when the Morgan attorney, John W. Davis, once a candidate for President of these United States, ups with objections.
Finally the inquiry adjourns until Monday morning when it will be resumed with young Lamont on the stand. Mr. Pecora expects to get through with the House of Morgan by Tuesday. He will then start taking up other more or less celebrated houses of Wall Street.
The one touch of tone, or class, needed to make our inquiry the high-tonedest affair from top to bottom on record, is provided this morning by Senator Bob Reynolds, of North Carolina, who works in a couple of real kings.
Senator Bob, a husky, ruddy-faced gentleman, who omits all “r’s” from his conversation, is the chap who tagged the Morgan favor rolls as “Santa Claus” lists.
