Читать книгу The Money Gods - Ellery H. Clark - Страница 8

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The Hamilton estate was bounded upon the north by the main highway, and between the road and the hills and valleys of the links extended a strip of woodland, about a quarter of a mile in width, and covered with a dense growth of hemlocks, birches and tall pines towering upward toward the sky, while at the base of these forest giants briars and brambles, shrubs and bushes, had been permitted to grow unchecked, until they had formed a network of underbrush so thick as to be well-nigh impassable.

Upon the same day, and almost at the identical hour when Bellingham stood gazing open-eyed after his employer's vanishing form, a man came slowly through this strip of woodland, proceeding cautiously, with the practised step of the forester, along a path so narrow and so overgrown that it was practically invisible. Yet the man was apparently familiar with his surroundings, and apparently, too, he was not merely a forester, but a huntsman as well, for he carried a gun slung over his shoulder and his clothes and cap of faded green harmonized so perfectly with the underbrush that his furtive progress along the path was almost imperceptible. Slowly and noiselessly he advanced until he had drawn near to a clump of huge firs, set in a natural circle and distant about a hundred yards from the trail which led to the links. Here he paused and dropping on his hands and knees crept through the bushes and entered a hutlike shelter, artfully woven of growing shrubs, where he lay effectually concealed, commanding, through a narrow orifice, a perfect view of the approach to the clump of firs. Next, with leisurely precision, and with no trace of excitement upon his bronzed and weather-beaten face, he proceeded to unsling his weapon from his back and to make it ready for use; and as he did so, one further circumstance became apparent--namely, that he was a huntsman who did not care for noise--a poacher, perhaps--for what had resembled a gun now proved to be an old-fashioned crossbow, of rare and curious workmanship, and this bow the huntsman bent, and then, adjusting the murderous looking bolt, settled down to wait in comfort until his quarry should appear.

Silence descended upon the forest; a silence so profound that it seemed as if animals, birds and insects, all were slumbering amid the quiet of the summer afternoon. Surely, the huntsman had poor prospects of success, yet if this were so, he did not appear to care, but lay motionless, resting quietly, with ears upon the alert and eyes fixed steadily upon the clump of firs.

The moments passed. Then, presently, far up the road, sounded the throbbing rhythm of a motor, and a half a minute later Cyrus McKay's big car drew up at the gateway leading to the links, and McKay, founder and President of the National Wire Trust, stepped leisurely forth, a huge, burly, bull-necked man, with power written in every line of his ruddy, jovial face, in every movement of his big body, and in every glance of his shrewd blue eyes. With something of an effort, he reached for his golf bag, and with a nod to the chauffeur, said, "All right, Jim. Come back at half past four."

The chauffeur touched his cap; the big car turned and sped smoothly down the road, and McKay, left alone, started slowly along the pathway toward the links. Apparently, he anticipated a pleasant afternoon, for as he strolled along he whistled boyishly, burst occasionally into snatches of song, and presently, some distance up the path, he stopped for a moment, drew a white feather from his pocket and adjusted it carefully in his cap; after which he seemed suddenly to alter his mind regarding his destination, for striking boldly off from the trail, he began making his way through the waist-high underbrush, directly toward the clump of firs.

As the sound of the motor had died away in the distance, the huntsman in the thicket had redoubled his vigilance, and now, as the crackling of the bushes grew more and more distinct, his keen eyes swept searchingly about the glade and his fingers tightened upon the stock of his weapon, as if it were for human game that he was thus lying in wait. Yet if this were the fact, it was clearly not McKay whom he was expecting, for as the latter's bulky form loomed into view the hunter relaxed his grip upon his crossbow, and once more resumed his attitude of patient watchfulness.

In the meantime McKay had reached the edge of the circle of firs, and with a shrug of distaste for the ordeal that lay before him, he settled his cap more firmly on his head, and guarding his face with his upraised arm, he at length succeeded in forcing a passage through the close-knit barrier of the trees. Then, extracting a key from his pocket and achieving, not without difficulty, a kneeling posture, he cleared away the soil until a square of steel came into view, and fitting a key to the lock, he threw back the door and disclosed a flight of stone steps, down which, with the utmost nonchalance and as if he were conducting himself in a perfectly normal manner, he promptly disappeared, carefully closing the trap behind him. At the foot of the short flight of steps he paused for a moment, and drawing a flashlight from his pocket proceeded briskly along the narrow passageway, stoutly shored and timbered, until he presently emerged, through a second door of steel, into the underground chamber where Marshall Hamilton stood awaiting him.

The room itself was simply--almost barely--furnished, and in appearance was as conventional as the method of approaching it was unique. The only furniture was a heavy mission table and four chairs to match; a massive safe was set into the wall; at one end of the room stood an old wooden desk, elaborately carved and inlaid, and at the other a sideboard bearing glasses, decanters and cigars.

The two men shook hands with the ease of long acquaintance. "On time, as usual," Hamilton observed.

McKay drew a chair up to the table and sat down. "The others will be here?" he asked.

"Any minute," Hamilton responded with equal brevity. "They come from the south, this time," and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the door opened to admit James Norton, the "Cereal King," and Vincent Brooks, senior partner in the famous banking house of Brooks & Harrington. Brooks was a tall, fair man, often described by his friends as "a fellow who had been dealt every card in the pack." In other words, he had been welcomed, from the day of his birth, into the most aristocratic society in New York, was immensely wealthy, and possessed, into the bargain, great natural ability and a wonderful aptitude for "big business," where the figures ran into billions, and the risks and the rewards were alike staggering to the imagination. Norton, on the other hand, was almost his exact opposite, a dark, eager man of forty, fairly dynamic with energy, who had been favored with no cards by Fortune, and who had thereupon fared blithely forth and had collected an entire pack for himself. In the Wall Street district he had first been hated and despised as an upstart, but later had been made welcome as a man too shrewd and forceful to be ignored.

Immediately the four men seated themselves around the table, and Hamilton, drawing a sheaf of papers from his pocket, proceeded to call the meeting to order and for perhaps fifteen minutes read steadily, interrupted now and again by a comment or a query from one or the other of his associates. At the conclusion of his task, there followed approval and acceptance of his report, the carrying of various formal motions, and then began a low-toned, informal talk between the four, apparently entirely harmonious until McKay and Norton became involved in a discussion which gradually increased in intensity until at length they had the conversation to themselves, Brooks and Hamilton listening with an intentness which made it evident that the subject was one of vital importance. Finally McKay, with the utmost earnestness, spoke at length, summarizing and emphasizing his arguments with all the skill at his command, but when he had concluded it became evident that his efforts had only served to increase Norton's opposition, for the Cereal King struck the table before him with his clenched fist, crying, "No, no, McKay, you're absolutely wrong. You're altogether too conservative. Life is short, and so I say: Let's get all we can."

At this outburst McKay only smiled, and instead of answering he turned to Hamilton. "Would you be kind enough, Marshall," he asked, "to read to us once more the statement showing our profits for the year?"

Hamilton found the document referred to. "Gross," he answered, "seventy millions. Net, after deducting all payments and expenses, forty-two millions."

"Thanks," said McKay briefly, and to Norton he added, "Well, my boy, that makes precisely ten millions and a half apiece for the four of us, to say nothing of what we've disbursed to our subordinates, or of the sums that have been realized by our friends across the water. In the face of such a showing, do you maintain with seriousness that we may be termed ultra-conservative?"

"That," responded Norton with spirit, "is exactly my contention. It's not the actual financial results, in dollars and cents, that I'm criticizing, for as you say, ten millions and a half of sure money is a satisfactory income for anyone. No, my objections are based purely on artistic grounds. When you consider--"

But McKay, with a huge burst of laughter, broke in upon him. "Artistic grounds!" he exclaimed. "Good Heavens, man, you might accuse us of plenty of other things, but not of being inartistic. Why, that is our strong point--our trump card. If we're not artistic, we're nothing."

Norton shook his head. "Only in a sense," he retorted. "In the same way that we hark back to the beginnings of any art. For their age, they sufficed, but in the light of later knowledge and achievement they are bound to appear pitifully crude and inadequate. And so it is with us. Forty years ago the founders of our society were the ablest financiers of their day, and the system which they inaugurated was wonderfully efficient for that period. But think of all that has happened in forty years. Think of the increase in population, the increase in wealth, the increase in the number of enterprises, of corporations and combinations, of securities upon the stock exchange. And yet, in spite of this, we are still satisfied to conduct our business along the old primitive lines of forty years ago. Why, I could take pencil and paper now, and in two minutes I could suggest improvements that would increase our earnings a hundred, two hundred, three hundred per cent. I'm absolutely certain of it."

"I quite agree with you," McKay responded quietly, "there's not a doubt of it. But the answer is: What's the use? Here's a parallel case for you. Suppose, somewhere in some mountain wilderness, you were to come by chance upon an undiscovered stream, simply filled with trout so hungry and so unwary that they would rush ravenously for your bare hook. Under such conditions, would you use bait?"

"Not at first," rejoined Norton. "I'll admit that. But you don't complete your parallel. After a while, as your supply of fish begins to diminish, you will find that those which are left will grow wiser and more suspicious. And that is the time when you will need all your skill, and must use your choicest bait."

"No, no," McKay protested warmly, "that's not a fair argument at all. We are not discussing some possible time when fish grow wise. We are confining ourselves to facts; my premise is that you can catch all you need with your bare hook. And when four men--" he added, with a wave of his hand toward the papers on the table, "can make forty million dollars in twelve months, without half trying, it certainly doesn't appear as if our human fish were possessed of any great supply either of caution or of brains."

Brooks, man of few words, nodded approval. "Right," he interjected. "You're quite right, Cyrus." And to Norton he added significantly, "You don't want to fish out your brook, Jim. If you do, you'll go hungry."

Norton's eyes gleamed. "Perfect rot," he persisted. "That's the same old 'safe and sane' chatter I'm so tired of hearing. In the first place, you can't fish the brook out; there's one born every minute. But wouldn't I like to try it, though. I'd like to start right now; there never was a better chance; and for the next twelve months do nothing else except slaughter the innocents. Big fish, fingerlings, I'd keep 'em all. Never a one would I throw back into the brook to grow. Why, just imagine what we could make, if we once started after it. We'd murder 'em; crucify 'em; skin 'em alive." And he licked his lips covetously at the thought.

McKay's brows contracted. It was not the first time that his own views and those of his younger associate had come into violent contact. "Oh, if you aspire to be a game hog, a professional butcher--" he began, but at this point Marshall Hamilton, who had maintained an unbroken silence, allowing the debate to range unchecked, suddenly leaned forward in his chair. "One moment, Cyrus," he said courteously, "may I interrupt you?" And as McKay assented, the banker continued, "This figure of the trout brook is a very appropriate one, but neither of you has quite completed the picture. To make the parallel exact, you must include a very important person, and that is the owner of the stream."

Norton stared. Then, with the respect which was invariably accorded to the financier, he objected, "I don't think I follow you, Mr. Hamilton. Who is this owner? I should say that we come pretty close to being the owners ourselves."

"No," Hamilton answered, "we are not the owners. There are times when it might appear so, but we must not allow ourselves to be deceived. We are nothing more than poachers--bold, formidable and successful poachers, I admit--but none the less poachers for all that. And though the owner of the stream is stupid and careless, slow to anger and to realize that he is being robbed, still we must never forget that he exists and that when once aroused his power is irresistible."

Brooks looked frankly puzzled. "I cannot suppose, Marshall," he said quizzically, "that after the highly uncomplimentary adjectives you have been using, you are venturing to refer to the individual mentioned in the prayer books as the 'High and Mighty Ruler of the Universe.'"

"No," Hamilton answered briefly, "this is the twentieth century. I'm not bringing God into the discussion in any way."

"I don't understand you either, Marshall," broke in McKay. "I disagree with Norton in many respects, but I do agree with him in this--that so far as this enterprise of ours goes, we are supreme. Whom do you designate as this owner of the stream? Surely not the Law?"

There was a general smile. "No," Hamilton drily responded, "scarcely that. As far as the Courts are concerned, I suppose we may fairly claim that we are the Law."

"And the Profits--" interjected Brooks under his breath, but Hamilton was too much in earnest to heed him, and continued, "No, the owner of the stream is the Public, and the weapon we have to fear is the intangible but terribly effective one of Public Opinion."

"Oh, the Public," commented Norton flippantly, "well, as Vanderbilt said--"

But Hamilton went on gravely. "I assure you that I am quite serious. Our one possible danger is that some day the Public may learn the truth. You all know that periodically, after some spectacular rise or equally spectacular decline in prices, there is sure to be a terrific bleating from the victims, and a plaintive demand that someone must investigate the New York Stock Exchange. Of course these demonstrations don't amount to anything--it's child's play to check them--but if we should adopt Norton's suggestion and should play the game to the limit, then the danger would be correspondingly increased, and if some day the truth should become known--"

Norton interrupted him. "But that is impossible," he declared.

"Impossible," retorted Hamilton, "is a dangerous word. I acknowledge that it is highly improbable--thanks to the founders of this order for taking the precautions that they did--but it's not impossible. There is always 'the plaguy millionth chance.' And grant," he added with increased emphasis, "that the truth should become known; admit, for the sake of the argument, that the public should find out what has been happening to their money for the last forty years, and where would we be? I'll tell you where. We'd be marked men, fleeing for our lives, and never safe from vengeance, even in the uttermost corners of the earth."

No one gainsaid him, and the gravity of his hearers' faces was sufficient confirmation of the importance of what he said. "You're right," Brooks assented. "Quite right," McKay agreed. And Norton, convinced in spite of himself, added thoughtfully, "Well, perhaps you are."

"I'm sure of it," Hamilton answered, "and now, gentlemen, it is time to go. When shall we meet again?"

"I suggest day after to-morrow, at the same hour," said McKay. "To-morrow will be a big day in the market, and we shall have a number of things to discuss."

"Yes, the time is ripe," Hamilton responded, "it is a wonderful opportunity."

"How far will cotton decline?" asked Norton.

"I should say, off-hand," answered Hamilton, "a couple of hundred points, at least. But that will be decided, of course, in the usual way. We can tell better after the first break."

"And wheat," queried Brooks, "will go up?"

"Exactly," said Hamilton. "The conditions there are exactly reversed. The advance will be sharp."

He walked over to the sideboard, filled his friends' glasses, and then raised his own high in the air, glancing, as he did so, at the old desk across the room.

"Here's to our predecessors," he said gravely. "The men who came here forty years ago. The men who have made us what we are to-day."