CHAPTER XX

THE COUNCIL OF WAR

IT was Saturday morning when the “Rocket’s” crew boarded the schooner out on the high seas. Late Sunday evening the motor boat moved in through the Narrows of lower New York Bay. The cruise had been at racing speed, without a single hitch after Engineer Joe had fitted that new valve.

On the way Francis Delavan, who had thoroughly recovered, formed his plans in case his fortunes had not gone entirely to smash in Wall Street. But it was still needful to consult Broker Coggswell and others, in order to learn just how far the plans were likely to succeed.

As the “Rocket” was intended, in ordinary times, to be a “one-man” boat—that is, to be handled from the bridge by the helmsman, the three members of the crew had managed to divide up the watches so that all had had plenty of sleep.

As Captain Tom dropped anchor at ten o’clock that August Sunday night, near Bedloe’s Island, and Hank hung out the anchor light, all three of the boys were wide awake and eager to see what was to follow.

Hank was to row Mr. Delavan ashore in the same little port boat that had figured in the Shinnecock Bay affair. The owner intended going to one of the cheapest of the downtown hotels, whence he would telephone Broker Coggswell and some others.

“Expect a party of us back by midnight,” was the last word the owner left with the young skipper. “We’ll want a little cruise out to sea, to-night, where we can talk things over with no danger of any eavesdroppers about.”

Mr. Moddridge and the two remaining members of the crew stretched themselves out comfortably in arm-chairs on the bridge deck.

“It’s hard to realize that we can rest,” sighed Captain Tom. “It seems to me that I still hear the throb-throb-throb of the engine and hear the continual turning of the propeller shaft. Still, we really _are_ having a brief rest.”

“Rest?” snorted Eben Moddridge, getting up and pacing within the short limits of that deck. “What does rest mean, I wonder? I feel as though this Wall Street game I’m in had been going on, night and day, for ten years, with never a pause for breath. Rest! Is there such a thing?”

A few days before Halstead would have been either amused or bored by this exhibition of nervousness. But he had seen Mr. Moddridge come out with surprising strength when things had been darker. There was a good deal of hidden manhood in this undersized, nervous little fellow who had had the hard luck to be born with too much money.

“You can feel pretty easy, sir, with a man like Mr. Delavan,” Captain Tom went on, after a few moments. “If there’s a single foot of ground left for him to fight on, you can feel pretty sure that he’ll pull at least a goodly portion of both your fortunes out of the panic that has struck the money market.”

“I can hardly believe that we have a dollar left in the game,” rejoined Mr. Moddridge, shaking his head moodily. “Of course, Coggswell is capable and honest, and he has done his best, whatever that was. But with such a terrific run on P. & Y. stock, and with such an overwhelming part of our assets bound up in that stock, I haven’t the least belief that Coggswell has been able to hold our heads above water for us. This long suspense, this awful wait for news, is killing me,” went on the nervous one, sinking weakly back into his chair. “Oh, why didn’t I go ashore with Frank, the sooner to know how we stand?”

“Mr. Delavan thought it would be better for him to go alone, and to move quickly,” hinted Tom Halstead, gently.

“Oh, yes, I know,” retorted Moddridge, with a sickly smile. “Frank was certain that my nerves would go to pieces on shore, and that I’d make a fool of myself and be in the way.”

Hank came back at last, alone in the port boat.

“What’s the news ashore, Butts?” cried the nervous one, anxiously.

“If you mean the stock market news,” Hank replied, as he brought the port boat around under the davits, “I don’t know. Mr. Delavan left me at the pier where I landed him. Told me he’d get a launch to bring his friends out here in.”

So Mr. Moddridge took to another long stretch of pacing the bridge deck.

Almost punctually as the “Rocket’s” ship’s bell tolled out the eight bells of midnight the lights of a small launch were to be seen approaching. It came alongside, bringing Mr. Delavan and three other gentlemen. One was Coggswell, the broker. A second was Lyman Johnson, a middle-aged man and managing vice-president of the P. & Y. The third stranger was a banker named Oliver.

“What news?” was the quaking question that Eben Moddridge shot over the waters as soon as the little craft was within hail.

“Things right down to the bottom,” replied Broker Coggswell, plainly.

“But there’s a fighting chance, Eb,” broke in Francis Delavan, “and a chance to fight is all I want for winning.”

As soon as the party had boarded, and the launch was speeding back to town, Mr. Moddridge began to shake again.

“Look at that little boat scoot,” he shivered. “That boatman is going back as fast as he can, to trade the information he has overheard.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Delavan. “A passenger boatman like that fellow hears all kinds of talk in twenty-four hours. If he tried to remember a hundredth part of what he hears it would drive him into an insane asylum. Captain Halstead, get up anchor and take us outside, anywhere. We’re going to sit up and talk for a while. Then we’ll turn in below and sleep. We don’t want to berth the boat in New York earlier than eight in the morning, but must be there sharp at that hour.”

Tired of the motion of the boat so long at racing speed. Captain Tom got under way at a speed of about eight miles an hour. The newcomers and Mr. Moddridge sat in a close group on the bridge deck, to hold their council of war for the morrow.

“In the first place, Moddridge,” began Mr. Coggswell, “P. & Y. closed yesterday noon, on the Stock Exchange, at 68.”

“We must be closed out, then—ruined!” cried the nervous one, aghast. “You figured, you know, that the stock touching 71 would wind us up.”

“And so it would have done,” replied the broker, “but Steel and the other stocks that are traveling with it behaved rather better than I had expected. So, as things stand to-night you and Delavan have, perhaps, a few hundred thousand dollars left out of the game. But if P. & Y., at the opening on the Board to-morrow, goes down to 65—well, Oliver, as the head of the bankers’ syndicate that has been furnishing money to the Delavan-Moddridge interests, suppose you tell what must happen.”

“If the stock drops to 65 to-morrow morning,” took up the banker, “our pool will have to call in the loans, Mr. Moddridge. Delavan and yourself will have to heave all your P. & Y. stock overboard in order to meet the call of the loans. Then, but not until then, as I understand Mr. Coggswell’s statement, you will both be cleaned out.”

“But that isn’t going to happen,” declared Francis Delavan, coolly lighting a fresh cigar and puffing slowly. “There have, of course, been all sorts of stories out that I’ve been robbing the P. & Y. railroad and that I’ve smuggled the money out of the country. But Johnson, our vice president, has had a firm of the most respected and trusted accountants in New York going over all the railroad’s accounts. By to-morrow forenoon the reports of the accountants will be ready, and will show that every dollar of the P. & Y.’s money is safe.”

“That will help,” replied Mr. Coggswell, “if the buying and selling public believe the statement at once. But you never can tell how small dealers in stocks will accept any report. They may think the move only a trick to bolster up confidence until the inside operators can slip out of their holdings in P. & Y. If that view is taken, the stock may fall off a dozen points in the first half hour that ’Change is open.”

“It can all be summed up in these words,” announced Banker Oliver, gravely. “Delavan, start P. & Y. going up in the morning, and you’re safe for a while, with a big chance for fortune left. But let the stock start downward at the opening to-morrow morning, and you won’t be able to get the stock up again in season to do you any good.”

Breathing hard, shaking all over, Eben Moddridge rose and left the council, tottering below and seeking his berth.

“Now that the poor, shaken fellow is gone,” murmured Francis Delavan, sending a sympathetic glance in the direction his friend had taken, “I’ll tell you, gentlemen, the plan I have for to-morrow.”

The council did not break up until an hour later.