Part 10

He took another stiff drink. The market had become undoubtedly a bull market. The bears had been fighting the advance, and there still remained a stubborn short interest in certain stocks, as, for example, in American Sugar Company stock. Now if that short interest could be stampeded it might mean an eight or ten-point advance. If he bought 10,000 or 15,000 shares and sold them at an average profit of four or five points, he would put off the disaster, and if he made ten points he would be a great operator. He had, to be sure, no business to buy even 1,000 shares of Sugar; but then he had no business to be on the verge of bankruptcy.

The liquor was potent. Sally said to himself, aggrievedly: “I might as well be hung for a flock as for one measly old mutton.”

He walked a trifle unsteadily from “Fred’s” across the narrow asphalted New Street to the Stock Exchange. He paused at the entrance. There was no escape. Unless he could make a lucky strike, he would fail ignominiously.

“Pike’s Peak or bust!” he muttered to himself, and walked into the big room.

“Good-morning, Mr. Hayward,” said the doorkeeper. Hayward nodded absently, caught himself repeating, “Pike’s Peak or bust!” and walked straight toward the Sugar post.

He began to bid for stock. One thousand shares at 116; he got it. Another thousand; it was forthcoming at 116⅛. A third thousand; somebody was glad to sell it at 116½. So far, so bad. Then he bid 117 for 2,500 shares, and it was promptly sold. But when he bid “117 for any part of 5,000!” the crowd hesitated; the brokers were not altogether sure Hayward was “good for it”; his ability to pay for the stock was not undoubted. So Sally, taking advantage of the hesitation, bid 117¼ and 117½ for 5,000 Sugar, at which price “Billy” Thatcher, a two-dollar broker, sold it to him. It made 10,500 shares Hayward had bought, and the stock had risen only 1½ points. The shorts were not frightened a wee bit. But Sally was. He rushed out of the crowd to his telephone and made a pretence of “reporting” the transactions to his office, as he would have done had they been _bona fide_ purchases. He was followed by a hundred sharply curious—and curiously sharp—eyes. They saw him hold the telephone receiver to his ear with an expression of great interest, as if he were listening to an important message. But the only message he heard was that of his heart-beats, that seemed to say, almost articulately: “You have played and you have lost; you have played and you have lost. Therefore, you are that much worse off than before. You must play again—_and not lose_!”

He left his telephone and rushed back to the Sugar crowd. He was less excited, less like a drunken man; his face was no longer flushed, but pale. And anon there flashed upon him, as if in candent letters, the words _Pike’s Peak or bust_! But _Pike’s Peak_ glowed dully, feebly, while the alternative was of a lurid splendor. And he blinked his eyes and made a curious impatient motion with his hand, as one waves away an annoying insect.

He gave an order for 5,000 Sugar to his friend, Newton Hartley.

“Is this for yourself, Sally?” asked Hartley.

“No. It’s for one of the biggest men in the Street, Newt. It’s all right. Absolutely O. K.”

And thus reassured, Hartley bought the stock. The price was 118. The seller would hold Hartley responsible for the purchase money if Hayward “laid down”—refused to pay.

Sally wiped his forehead twice, quite unnecessarily. The shorts were not stampeding. Any attempt to sell out the 15,000 shares he had bought would result only in depressing the price, five points at least. It was worse than bad, the outlook for him.

He gave another order to buy 5,000 shares to “Billy” Lansing, an old and reliable two-dollar broker, but Lansing declined it. He tried another, but the order was not accepted. They mistrusted him; but he could not even bluster, for they excused themselves on the ground of having important orders elsewhere. So he had recourse to another personal friend—J. G. Thompson.

“Joe, buy 5,000 Sugar.”

“Are you sober?” said Thompson, seriously.

“See for yourself,” answered Sally, laughingly. He had nerve. “Old man, I’ve got a very big order from one of the biggest men in the Street. Some important developments are going on.”

“Sally, are you sure you’ve got an order from some one else?” asked the unconvinced broker. His incredulity was obviously in the nature of an insult, but it was pardonable, for there was too much at stake.

“Joe, come over to the office and I’ll show you.—Really, I can’t tell you. But I can advise you, as a friend, to buy Sugar for all you are worth.” And as he uttered the lie he looked straight into Thompson’s eyes.

“Hayward, are you sure? Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?” He wanted the commission of $100, but he did not feel certain of his friend.

“Oh, hell, no. I’ve got a lot more to buy. It’s all right. Go ahead, Joe.”

And Joe went ahead. He bought the 5,000 shares. The stock rose to 119½, and Hayward, warned by his experience with Hartley and Thompson, did not ask either friend or foe to buy another 5,000 shares for him. What he did was to distribute buying orders for 10,000 shares in lots of 500. Brokers now accepted his orders, for they were not so large as to be dangerous. And the stock rose to 122¾. A few shorts were frightened. He might win out after all; he might make Pike’s Peak. He began to bid up the stock. He even bought “cash” stock, that is, stock for which he paid cash, had to pay cash outright, receiving the certificates forthwith, presumably to hand over to some investor of millions. Everybody on the “floor” was talking about Hayward. The entire market had risen in sympathy with Sugar.

But at 124 it seemed as if the entire capital stock was for sale. He ceased buying. He had accumulated 38,000 shares. To pay for the stock necessitated about six and one-half millions! But if he could unload on an average of only 122 he might “come out even” in his other troubles.

He gave an order to sell 10,000 shares to a broker to whom he had always been a good friend. It was a fatal mistake. The broker, Louis W. Wechsler, had previously sold 1,000 shares to Hayward for “cash” at 122. He suspected what was coming, and declining the order, he himself went to Hayward’s office and asked for a check. The cashier sought to put him off with excuses, and Wechsler now being certain of the true state of affairs, returned to the Board and began to sell Sugar short for his own account. If a crash came he would make instead of losing it. Hayward was sure to be ruined, and Wechsler told himself sophistically that he was only profiting by the inevitable. In the meantime Sally had sold the 10,000 shares through another broker, and the price had declined to 121¾. But Wechsler’s 5,000 shares put it down to 120½. And somebody else sold more, and the shorts recovered from their fright, and the fatal hour was approaching when Hayward would have to settle. Pike’s Peak or bust! He did, indeed, need a veritable Pike’s Peak of dollars to pay for the 28,000 Sugar he had on hand. So he busted.

He threw up his hands. He acknowledged defeat to himself. The tension was over. He was no longer excited, but cool, almost cynical. On one of the little slips of paper on which brokers jot down memoranda of their transactions he scribbled a message in lead pencil. It was his last official lie, and would cost Hartley and Thompson and other friends, as well as his customers, many thousands of dollars. It was as follows:

“Owing to the refusal of their bank to extend the usual facilities to them, Hayward & Co. are compelled to announce their suspension.”

“Boy!” he yelled. And he gave the bit of paper to one of the Exchange messenger boys in gray. “Take this to the Chairman.”

And he walked slowly, almost swaggeringly, out of the New York Stock Exchange—for the last time—as the Chairman pounded with his gavel until the usual crowd gathered about the rostrum, and listened to the announcement of the failure of “Sally” Hayward, who began as a nice little telephone-boy and ended as a stock-gambler.

A THEOLOGICAL TIPSTER

At first Wall Street thought that Silas Shaw’s “religiousness” was an affectation. What purpose the Old Man desired to serve by the calculated notoriety of his church affiliations no one could tell. It is true that many ingenious theories were advanced, some going so far as to hint at repentance. But deep in the hearts of his fellow-brokers, and of his friends and his victims alike, was the belief that old Shaw, in some not generally known way, made practical use of his ostentatious enthusiasm for things churchly as politicians resort to more or less obvious devices to “capture the German vote” or to “please the Irish element.”

One day, after a series of skirmishes and a final pitched battle in “South Shore” between the Old Man and the bears, when the pelts of the latter, after the capitulation, added nearly a half million to the old fellow’s bank account, certain luminaries of the Methodist Episcopal Church were called into consultation. Silas Shaw had long thought about it; and now there was much conferring and more or less arid and misplaced sermonizing by the theologians and much soothing talk by the Old Man’s lawyers; and more Methodist clergymen and more lawyers and more talk; and then a real estate agent and an architect and a leading banker and, at last, just one check from the Old Man.

The next day the newspapers announced that the Shaw Theological Seminary had been founded and endowed by Mr. Silas Shaw. But even after the Old Man had devoted his ursine spoils to this praiseworthy object, Wall Street continued skeptical.

And, yet, Wall Street made a mistake—as it often does in its judgment of its leaders. Silas Shaw really had a soft spot in his tape-wound and ticker-dented old heart for all things ecclesiastical. Next to being a power in the Street he loved to be regarded as one of the pillars of his church. He heard with pleasure, of week days, the wakeful _staccato_ sound of the ticker; but on Sundays he certainly enjoyed the soothing cadences of familiar hymns. And if more than one hardened broker expressed picturesque but unreproducible opinions of the old man, so also more than one enthusiastic young minister could tell pleasant stories of how the old stock gambler received him and responded to the fervent appeal for the funds wherewith many a little backwoods church was built.

Shaw’s generosity was so notorious among the church people that the Reverend Doctor Ramsdell, pastor of the Steenth Street Methodist Episcopal Church and a trustee of the Shaw Theological Seminary, felt no embarrassment in applying to him for assistance. It was not Shaw’s church, but in Dr. Ramsdell’s charge there were one or two bankers well known in Wall Street and several members of the New York Stock Exchange. It seemed particularly fitting to the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell that the name of Silas Shaw, followed by a few figures, should head a subscription list. It was desired to erect a Protestant Chapel in Oruro, Bolivia—the most uncivilized of all the South American “republics.”

“Good-morning, Brother Shaw; I trust you are well.”

“Tolerable, tolerable, thank’ee kindly,” replied the sturdy old gambler. “What brings you down to this sinful section? Doing some missionary work, eh? I wish you’d begin among those da—er—dandy young bears.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell, eagerly. “It is precisely _à propos_ of missionary work.” And he told Silas Shaw all about the plan for carrying the light into Bolivia by building the only Protestant chapel in Oruro, where it was incredibly tenebrous—worse than darkest Africa. The reverend doctor hoped, nay, he knew, in view of Brother Shaw’s well-known devotion to the glorious work of redeeming their benighted Bolivian brethren, that he could count upon him, etc.; and the subscription list——

“My dear Dr. Ramsdell,” interrupted Shaw, “I never sign subscription lists. When I give, I give; and I don’t want everybody to know how much I’ve given.”

“Well, Brother Shaw, you need not sign your name. I’ll put you down as X. Y. Z.,” he smiled encouragingly.

“No, no; don’t put me down at all.”

The good doctor looked so surprised and so woebegone that Shaw laughed.

“Cheer up, Doctor. I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll buy some Erie for you. Yes, sirree; that’s the best thing I can do. What do you say to that?” And he looked at the doctor, triumphantly.

“Ahem!—I am not—are you sure it will prove a—ahem!—a desirable investment? You see, I do not—ah—know much about Wall Street.”

“Neither do I. And the older I grow the less I know.”

The reverend doctor ventured a tentative smile of semi-incredulity.

“That’s right, Doctor. But we’ll make something for you. The blooming, I mean, benighted Bohemians——”

“Ahem!—Bolivians, Brother Shaw.”

“I meant Bolivians. They must have a chance for their souls. John,” to a clerk; “buy 500 shares of Erie at the market.”

“Yes, sir,” said John, disappearing into the telephone booth. To buy, “at the market” meant to buy at the prevailing or market price.

“Brother Shaw, I am extremely grateful to you. This matter is very close to my heart, I assure you. And—ah—will—when will I know if the—ah—investment turns out profitably?”

“Oh, have no fears on that score. We shall make the stock market contribute to your missionary fund. All you’ll have to do is to look on the financial page of your paper every evening and keep posted.”

“I fear, Brother Shaw,” said Dr. Ramsdell, deprecatingly, “that I shall have no little trouble in—ah—keeping posted.”

“Not at all. See, here,” and he took up his paper and turned to the stock tables. “Draw up your chair, Doctor. You see, here is Erie. Yesterday, on transactions of 18,230 shares, Erie Railroad stock sold as high as 64¾ and as low as 63¼, the last or closing sale being at 64½. The numbers mean dollars per share. It was very strong. Haven’t you got a report on that 500 Erie yet, John?”

“Yes, sir,” said John. “Sixty-five and one-eighth.”

“You see, Doctor, the stock is still going up. Well, every day when you look on the table you will see at what price Erie stock is selling. If it is more than 65⅛, why, that will show you are making money. Every point up, that is, every unit, will mean that your missionary fund is $500 richer.”

“And—Brother Shaw—ahem!—if it should be—ah—less?”

“What’s the use of thinking such things, Dr. Ramsdell? All you have to remember is that I am going to make some money for you; and that I paid 65⅛ for the stock I bought.”

“You really think——”

“Have no fears, Doctor. You understand, of course, that it is well not to give such matters undue publicity.”

“Of course, of course,” assented the doctor. “I understand.” But he did not.

“Nothing more, Doctor?”

“No; I thank you very much, Brother Shaw. I—er—most sincerely hope my—ah—your—I should say—ah—our investment, may result in—ah—favorably for our Bolivian Missionary Fund. Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it, Doctor. And don’t you worry. We will come out O.K. You’ll hear from me in a week or two. Good-morning.”

The reverend doctor went across the Street to the office of one of his parishioners, Walter H. Cranston, a stock broker.

Mr. Cranston was bemoaning the appalling lack of business and making up his mind about certain Delphic advice he contemplated giving his timid customers, in order to make them “trade,” which would mean commissions, when Dr. Ramsdell’s card was brought.

“Confound him, what does he want to come around, bothering a man at his business for?” he thought. But he said: “Show him in, William.”

“Good-morning, Brother Cranston.”

“Why, good-morning, Dr. Ramsdell. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“I’ve called to see you about our Missionary Fund. You know I take a great deal of interest in it. We desire to build a chapel in Bolivia, where the light is needed, Brother Cranston, as much as in China, I assure you. And it is so much nearer home.”

“Doctor, I really—” began Cranston, with an injured air.

“I want your valuable autograph to head the subscription list,” said the clergyman with an air he endeavored to make arch and playful. “Don’t refuse me.”

“Why don’t you try some well-known person?” said Cranston, modestly.

“To tell you the truth, Brother Cranston, I did try Silas Shaw.” And he added, hastily, “Not but that you are sufficiently well-known for my purpose.”

“What did the old ras—the Old Man say?”

“He said he never signed subscription lists.”

“Didn’t he give you anything at all?”

“Oh, yes; he—er—he did something for me.” The doctor’s face assumed a portentous air.

Cranston’s eyes brightened. “What was that?” he said.

“Well,” said the clergyman, hesitatingly, “he said we would come out O.K. Those are his own words, Brother Cranston.”

“Yes?” Cranston’s face did not look promising for Bolivian enlightenment.

“Yes. He—er—told me he would make the stock market contribute to the fund.”

“Indeed!” Cranston showed a lively interest.

“Yes. I suppose since you are in the same business, there is no harm in telling you that he bought some stock for me. Five hundred shares, it was. Do you think, Brother Cranston, that that—er—that will mean much? You see, I have the fund very close to my heart; that is why I ask.”

“It depends,” said Cranston, very carelessly, “upon what stock he bought for you.”

“It was Erie Railroad stock.”

“Of course, Dr. Ramsdell, your profits will depend upon the price you paid.” This also in a tone of utter indifference.

“It was Brother Shaw who paid. The price was 65⅛.”

“Aha!” said Cranston. “So the Old Man is bullish on Erie, is he?”

“I do not know what you mean, but I know he told me I should read the paper every day and see how much above 65⅛ the price went; and that I would surely hear from him.”

“I sincerely hope you will, Doctor. Let me see, will $100 do? Very well, I’ll make out a check for you. Here it is. And now, Doctor, will you excuse me? We are very busy, indeed. Good-morning, Dr. Ramsdell. Call again any time you happen to be down this way.” And he almost pushed the good man out of the office in his eagerness to be rid of him.

No sooner had the ground-glass door closed on the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell than Cranston rushed to the telephone and put in an order to buy 1,000 shares of Erie at the best possible price. By doing this before he notified his friends he proved that he himself firmly believed in Erie; also, he bought his stock ahead of theirs and thereby, in all likelihood, bought it cheaper. He then rushed into the customers’ room and yelled: “Hi, there! Everybody get aboard Erie! Silas Shaw is bullish as Old Nick on it. I get this absolutely straight. I’ve thought all along the old rascal was quietly picking it up. It’s his movement and no mistake. There ought to be ten points in it if you buy now.”

The firm of Cranston & Melville bought in all, that day, for themselves and their customers, 6,200 shares of Erie, doing as much as anyone else to advance the price to 66½.

All that week the reverend doctor was busy collecting subscriptions for the Bolivian Missionary Fund. He was a good soul and an enthusiast on the subject of that particular subscription list.

So, he told his parishioners how Brother Cranston had given $100 and Brother Baker, another Wall Street man, $250, and Brother Shaw had promised—he told this with an amused smile, as if at the incongruity of it—to make the stock market contribute to the fund! Brother Shaw had done this by buying some stock for him and had assured him, in his picturesque way, that it would come out O.K. in a week or two. Everybody to whom he told that fact developed curiosity regarding the name of the stock itself. They showed it in divers ways, according to their various temperaments. And as he had told some he felt that he should not discriminate against others; so, he told to all, impartially, the name of the stock. It would not harm Brother Shaw, he supposed—and he supposed rightly. He experienced, in a gentle, benevolent, half-unconscious sort of way, something akin to the great Wall Street delight—that of “giving a straight tip” to appreciative friends. The Bolivian Missionary Fund grew even beyond the good man’s optimistic expectations.

But a strange, a very strange thing happened: Erie stock, according to the doctor’s daily perusal of the dry financial pages, had been fluctuating between 65 and 67. On the following Tuesday, to his intense surprise, the stock table recorded: “Highest, 65¾; lowest, 62; last, 62⅝.” On Wednesday the table read: “Highest, 62½; lowest, 58; last 58.” On Thursday, there was a ray of hope—the stock sold as high as 60 and closed at 59½. But on Friday there was a bad break and Erie touched 54⅛, just 11⅛ points below what the Bolivian Missionary Fund’s stock had cost. And, on Saturday, the stock declined to 50, closing at 51¼.

That Sunday the Reverend Doctor Henry W. Ramsdell preached to the gloomiest congregation in Gotham. Wherever he turned his gaze he met reproachful looks—accusing eyes, full of bitterness or of anger or of sadness. An exception was Mr. Silas Shaw, who had come, as he often did, to hear his friend, Dr. Ramsdell, preach. His eyes beamed benignantly on the pastor throughout the long sermon. He looked as if he felt, Dr. Ramsdell thought, inexplicably contented. Had he forgotten his promise—the promise from which benighted Bolivia expected so much?

The two men met after the service. Dr. Ramsdell’s manner was constrained; Mr. Shaw’s affable.

“Good-morning, Doctor,” said the grizzled old operator. “I’ve carried a small piece of paper in my pocket for some days, in the hope of meeting you. Here it is.” And he handed a check for $5,000 to the clergyman.

“Why—er—I—er—I—didn’t—the stock—er—go down?”

“Sure!”

“How is it then that——”

“Oh, that’s all right. It came out just as I expected. That’s why you get the check.”

“But—ahem!—didn’t you buy 500 shares for me?”

“Yes; but after you left I sold 10,000 shares between 65 and 67. Your congregation, Doctor, developed a remarkable bullishness on Erie.” He chuckled gleefully. “It was to them that I sold the stock!”

“But my—ahem!—impression was that you said the stock would go up.”

“Oh, no. I never said that. I merely told you we’d come out O.K. And I guess we have.” He laughed joyously. “It’s all right, Doctor; those pesky Bolivians will be enlightened, you bet.”

“But,” said the doctor, with a very red face, fingering the check, hesitatingly, “I don’t know whether to accept it or not.”

“Oh, you’re not robbing me,” the old stock gambler assured him, gaily. “I made out quite well; quite well, thank you.”

“I—I—mean—” stammered the clergyman, “I don’t know whether it is right to——”

Shaw frowned. “Put that check in your pocket,” he said, sharply. “You earned it.”

THE END

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