CHAPTER XXI

THE BATTLE OF THE DOLLARS

ALMOST at the minute of eight o’clock next morning the “Rocket” was made fast in berth at an East River pier.

Just about three minutes later a closed automobile rolled out on the wharf. Tom Halstead and Joe Dawson had been invited to go on shore and see the finish of this notable battle of the dollars. Hank, of his own choice, remained behind as watchman over the boat.

The two motor boat boys had changed their uniforms for ordinary street dress, straw hats included. It would have taken a very close friend, indeed, to have recognized Francis Delavan as that gentleman stepped ashore from his boat. Over his natty suit he wore an enveloping linen duster. His eyes and much of his face were obscured behind a pair of automobile goggles. A cap, the peak pulled well down over his eyes, completed the concealment. Few of Mr. Delavan’s most intimate friends would have known him at first or second glance.

The employer and his two young men entered the closed car, which, first of all, rolled away to the bank of which Mr. Oliver was president. Here there were some papers that required the signature of the “Rocket’s” owner.

From the bank the automobile went straight down to the big, grim-looking building in which the New York Stock Exchange is located. Here they arrived five minutes before the opening hour, nine o’clock. Mr. Delavan was already provided with three tickets admitting strangers to the visitors’ gallery.

As they entered the trio found that, at this hour, they had the gallery to themselves. Down on the floor, however, some two or three hundred members of ’Change were already present, gathered in little groups. Though these men talked mostly in undertones, it was evident that there was much excitement.

P. & Y. had not alone suffered. Many other stocks had gone down, “in sympathy.” The outlook was for a gloomy week in financial circles. Many of the more cautious investors of the country at large were watching Wall Street and dreading a panic.

Clang! As a sonorous stroke of a gong opened the morning session the scene became instantly one of turmoil. Bellowing voices broke loose. At that instant Broker Coggswell slipped into the gallery, taking a seat behind Mr. Delavan. The entire little party was well out of range of vision from most of the floor.

“Watch the board,” whispered the broker. “There’s the first quotation—a thousand shares of P. & Y. at 67—and, by Jove, no taker!”

A few moments later information was posted that ten thousand shares of P. & Y. had been offered and sold at 66.

“That’s the work of Dimitri & Clark, and Weeks & Bond,” whispered Coggswell. “My partner has sent me word that those two firms are doing the selling for Justin Bolton. He’ll sell, through his brokers, a hundred thousand shares short in the next hour, if need be, to keep the downward course of the stock in motion. Ah, what did I tell you?”

Ten thousand more shares of P. & Y. had gone at 65½.

“He’s a reckless bear, that fellow, Bolton!” ground out Coggswell, between his teeth. “He’s selling short at a furious rate. Mr. Delavan, your enemy, Bolton, expects to close your interests out this forenoon. If he can bear the stock low enough he’ll begin to buy in for his own account, as well as to cover his sales. If he can only keep this going for a while he’ll control the P. & Y. through his bona-fide buyings of the stock.”

Francis Delavan merely smiled, and Tom Halstead, looking covertly at him, admired the difference between his employer and Eben Moddridge.

A “bear” is one who is trying to lower the selling price of a stock. Often, in order to accomplish this, the “bear” “sells short.” That is, he offers to sell large blocks of the stock in question, at a lower figure than the market price. This “short operator,” as he is called, does not actually own the stock that he sells, but he hopes to drive the price of the stock still lower, and thus be able to buy and fill his sale at a lower price than he has made the sale for.

When a stock is headed downward in price, the offer of another large block at a lower price than yet offered has a strong tendency to force the price still lower, for scared investors who really own large blocks of the stock may become panic-stricken and close out their holdings of that particular stock at any price they can obtain.

Thus, a “short operator” may offer, in a falling market, ten thousand shares of a certain stock at 67. If he makes a sale at that price the fact may induce some real owner of stock to offer his holding of ten thousand shares to be sold at the best price offered, say 65. The “short operator,” who has just disposed of ten thousand shares at 67, but does not possess those shares, may be able to buy back again enough shares at 65, which under the terms of his sale, he has disposed of at 67. Thus, he has cleared two dollars a share, or $20,000 in all, by the operation. If the “short operator” who sells at 67 is able to cover his sales by buying at the still lower price of 63, his profits would be $40,000. But if our “short operator” buys at 67, and then the market rallies, it may be that the “short” cannot buy lower than 71. Having made his sale, he must fill the order, anyway, and thus he would lose $40,000.

If a “short” sells stock he does not own, and a sudden rally in that stock carries the stock up so high that he has not money enough to make good his sales, then he is ruined and becomes a bankrupt.

If a “bear” sells short, and then the stock continues to drop and drop in price, it is a happy day for that “bear.” On this Monday morning Justin Bolton, though not yet actually present, but operating through brokers whom he instructed by telephone, was prepared to sell short at a furious rate. First of all, Bolton’s purpose was to “bear” down P. & Y. to a point where he could buy all the stock he wanted for himself, and enough more to cover his “short orders” at a profit.

As the four watchers in the gallery looked on, a howl suddenly went up from the floor:

“P. & Y. at 65!”

“No takers at that price!”

“Bring it on at a lower price!”

“It’s going to smash!”

In lower tones men on the floor of the Exchange below were talking over the latest information supplied by the newspapers. It was believed by many that Francis Delavan had looted the railroad of which he was president, and that a vast sum of the stealings was hidden securely abroad.

“It’s a bad stock to deal in anyway, at present,” muttered one of the brokers below. “I have advised all of my clients to keep away from it.”

“If the run is based on false information, someone is going to reap a heavy profit when the stock begins to soar again,” remarked another broker.

“It won’t soar in a year. There’s something peculiar and rotten behind the whole business. The road won’t amount to anything until it has been reorganized by another crowd.”

Just then an agile young man hurried out on the floor, holding in his hand the earliest edition of an evening paper. He called out something to those nearest him. Instantly there was a rush, others crowding about the bearer of the newspaper.

“Accountants have just finished going over the statements of the P. & Y. There’s not a dollar short anywhere. The road is as sound as a good nut.”

That information, backed by the reputation of the accountants, sent a small squad scurrying off to buy if more P. & Y. were offered at low prices.

“A thousand shares at 67!” shouted one of those who offered to buy.

“Wanted, two thousand, at 67½!” called another.

“Bosh! That’s only a trick played by those who are ‘long’ to get a little more for their paper!”

Thus belief and disbelief eddied and surged backward and forward.

Some small sales were made at a fraction above 68. Then, like a thunderclap came the offer:

“Ten thousand P. & Y. at 66!”

Five minutes later the stock was being offered at 65½ with few takers.

A man entered the visitors’ gallery, taking a swift, careless look at the others. It was Justin Bolton, but, as he had reason to be sure that Francis Delavan was hundreds of miles out to sea, Bolton nodded coldly to Coggswell, merely glanced at the boys, and turned to a seat at some distance.

Now the Bolton brokers were hurling short stock in, in thousand, two-thousand and five-thousand lots, trying to break the price below 65. There were takers, for the newspaper report made many buyers look upon P. & Y. as a fair bargain at 65.

Coggswell took a sidelong look at Justin Bolton, whose gaze was turned unceasingly upon the floor below.

“Your enemy is smashing things the best he knows how,” whispered the broker to the “Rocket’s” owner.

“It’ll be rough on him if anything happens to prevent his covering his sales, won’t it?” smiled back Mr. Delavan.

Another evening newspaper reached the floor below, then half a dozen appeared, each being glanced over by excited groups of men.

Johnson, the managing vice-president of the P. & Y., had been found and interviewed. He had confirmed the news given out by the accountants. P. & Y. went up two points. A messenger entered the gallery, handing a note to Mr. Coggswell.

“Oliver sends word he likes the looks of things better, and that he won’t desert you just yet in the battle of the dollars, Mr. Delavan,” whispered the broker. “Oliver has a million of his own money placed in this game. He’s buying on the ‘bull’ side of the market.”

“Oliver may be a much richer man, then, by the time night comes,” smiled the “Rocket’s” owner. This seasoned financier had not, during all the storm below, shown the faintest trace of excitement. His face was calm, his voice even. One would have thought him almost bored with dulness.

“Justin Bolton must be wondering hard why your holdings of P. & Y. haven’t been dumped into the market,” suggested Coggswell.

“That’s what he’s here for, sitting over yonder,” replied Mr. Delavan. “As soon as the dealings denote that my holdings are being dumped Bolton will know that the day and the game are his.”

Some other stocks were being traded in briefly, now. Steel, among them, was going up a couple of points. Bolton found time to look over curiously at Coggswell, whom he knew to be directing the fight for the Delavan-Moddridge combine. Bolton also studied the man behind the goggles rather attentively, though not once did it occur to the arch-plotter to connect that half-hidden face with the countenance of the man he was moving heaven and earth to ruin.

“Twenty thousand P. & Y. offered at 65½!”

That was the next challenge hurled on the floor below. There were no takers at the moment.

“Twenty thousand at 65!”

Within the next few minutes this offering was traded off in smaller lots.

“Watch Bolton fidget,” whispered Mr Coggswell. “There’s a bigger hammering coming, and of course Bolton knows it’s near. We’ll see his biggest plunge within the next few minutes.”

Within two minutes by the big clock the pounding came.

“Forty thousand P. & Y. offered at 62!”

There was instant pandemonium. While there were those on the floor who rushed forward to get in on some of the buying at this price, there were many more who believed that P. & Y. would quickly slump far worse than it had yet done.

Justin Bolton’s eyes were gleaming. Most of the color had left his cheeks. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps. It was near the moment when he hoped to reap millions from his operations, and also to become the largest owner of P. & Y. Yet this schemer, knowing full well that the sales below were being made mainly on his own account, realized also that the Delavan-Moddridge stock had not been sprung.

“Does Delavan think he’s at a moving-picture show?” whispered Joe Dawson, in Tom Halstead’s ear. “Is he going to do nothing but sit here and smile?”

“Perhaps there’s nothing he can do here yet,” was Halstead’s answer. “I am wondering whether he’s going down to ruin, or whether he hopes to find the way out yet.”

A messenger from one of the brokers on the floor now darted through the gallery, handing a sheet of paper to Justin Bolton.

That worthy, after glancing over the sheet, penciled a few words upon it. The messenger hastened back to one of the brokers below.

Bolton’s own face, after the messenger had gone, was of a ghastly pallor. He looked unsteady, worried—or else as though he were about to take the most daring plunge of all.

“Watch out for what’s going to happen,” nudged Mr. Coggswell. That broker had now a pad on his own knee, a fountain pen in hand, as though prepared to dash off written orders in a hurry.

“Look out for a thunderclap,” whispered Coggswell, as one of the Bolton brokers on the floor hurried forward.

Then it came:

“Forty thousand P. & Y. at 60!”