Читать книгу Young Wallingford - George Randolph Chester - Страница 10

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Within three days, Wix, who was a curious blend of laziness and energy, had fitted up an office in a sample-room leading off the lobby of the Grand Hotel. Over the name on the door he puzzled somewhat, and it was only his hatred for every component syllable of “Jonathan Reuben Wix” that caused the sign finally to appear as “La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.” The walls were freshly papered in deep red, a thick, red carpet was put upon the floor, a resplendent cashier’s wicket and desk were installed, fine leather-padded chairs faced a neatly ruled blackboard; and the speculative element of Filmore walked right into its first real bucket-shop and made itself at home. It was a positive pleasure to lose money there, and it was a joy to have young Wix take it. He did it so jovially.

Punctually every evening Wix handed to Gilman his half of the profits on the trades closed that day, and each week the profits became larger. Gilman was thrown into a constant state of delight; Wix bought him a horse and buggy. Gilman saw fortune just ahead of him; Wix saw possible disaster. It pained him to note that Filmore was optimistic. There were many more bulls than bears, which was not the ideal condition. There should have been a bear to offset every bull, in which case the La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company would have run no risk whatever.

Of course, the inevitable happened. All the wheat and stock gamblers of Filmore got in on a strong bull market and stayed in. When the market finally turned back and the “longs” were frightened out, the crash came, and every dollar was lost of the original three thousand. Wix, having anticipated the possibility of such an event, was disappointed but “game.” Gilman, having more at stake and being at best a cheerful winner only, was frantic.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?” he moaned, over and over.

“Dig up more money,” Wix cheerfully advised him.

“I can’t!” cried Gilman. “I’ve gone now even deeper than I dared.” He was silent for a long time. Great beads of perspiration came on his brow. His hair was wet. “Wix,” he finally burst out, “I’ve got to tell you something; something that no living creature knows but me.”

“No, you don’t!” Wix sharply stopped him. “If you have any secrets, keep them to yourself. I am stone deaf.”

Gilman’s eyes widened with a look of positive terror. For the first time in his life he had met that glare in the eyes of a supposed friend which denied friendship, sentiment or emotion of any sort; which told only of cold self-interest. Two or three times he essayed to speak, but he could not. He only stood with his sides heaving, like a spent dog.

“There is no use whining about this thing,” Wix went on sharply. “We’ve got to raise money, and that’s all there is to it. How about your profits that I’ve been handing you? I’ve spent mine.”

There was no answer.

“You said something about owing four hundred dollars before we began,” Wix went on. “I suppose you repaid that—that loan.”

Gilman dumbly nodded.

“I’ve paid you over a thousand dollars rake-off. I suppose you saved the rest of it?”

Again Gilman nodded his head.

“Well, bring me that six hundred or whatever it is.”

Gilman mechanically produced it, all in one-hundred-dollar bills folded very flat.

That morning Wix faced the business anew with six hundred dollars, and felt keenly his limited capital. His severe losses had been a good advertisement, and every man who had won a dollar was prepared to put it back. Wix, with a steady hand at the helm, stood through this crisis most admirably, refusing trades from buyers until he had sellers enough to offset them, and refusing excess trades from sellers until he had buyers to balance. Within two weeks he had a comfortable little sum, but now the daily division of spoils brought no balm to Gilman. He was suddenly old, and upon his face were appearing lines that would last him throughout his life. Upon the florid countenance of Wix there was not even the shadow of a crease.

“Good money, boy,” said he to Gilman, upon the day he handed over the completion of five hundred dollars. “This business is like a poker game. If the players stick at it long enough the kitty will have all the money.”

“I don’t want it all,” replied Gilman wearily. “Wix, if I ever get back the twenty-five hundred dollars that it will take to make me square, I swear before my Maker,” and he held up his trembling, white hand, “never to touch another investment outside the bank as long as I live.”

“Your liver must be the color of a sick salmon,” retorted Wix, but nevertheless he was himself disillusioned. The bucket-shop business was not what he had imagined it to be. It was not “easy money!” It had fluctuations, must be constantly watched, was susceptible to bankruptcy—and meant work! The ideal enterprise was one which, starting from nothing, involved no possible loss; which yielded a large block of cold cash within a short time, and which was then ended. Daw’s idea was the most ideal that had come under his observation. That was really an admirable scheme of Daw’s, except for one very serious drawback. It was dangerous. Now, if as clever a plan, and one without any menace from the law, could only be hinged upon some more legitimate business—say a bucket-shop concern....

There is no analyzing a creation, an invention. It is not deliberately worked out, step by step. It is a flash of genius. At this moment young Wix created. The principle he evolved was, in fact, to stand him in good stead in a score of “safe” operations, but, just now, it was a gaudy new thing, and its beauty almost blinded him. The same idea had been used by many men before him, but Wix did not know this, and he created it anew.

“Sam,” he said to the cigar-store man next morning, “I want you to invest in The La Salle Grain and Stock Brokerage Company.”

“Not any,” declared Sam. “You have two hundred of my money now.”

“Not the entire roll,” denied Wix. “I only got twelve and one-half per cent.”

“If you’d take twelve and a half per cent. eight times you’d have it all,” retorted Sam. “That’s why I quit. I stood to lose two hundred dollars on a seven-point drop, or win a hundred and seventy-five on an eight-point raise. When I finally figured out that I had the tweezers into my hair going and coming, I didn’t wish any more.”

“But suppose I’d offer you a chance to stand on the other side of the counter and take part of the change?”

“I’d let you stand right here and talk a while. What’s the matter?”

“Haven’t capital enough,” explained Wix. “I think I refused to take a trade of yours one time, just because I had to play safe. I had to be in position to pay off all my losses or quit business.”

“How much are you increasing?” asked Glidden, interested.

“A twenty-five-thousand-dollar stock company: two hundred and fifty shares at a hundred dollars each.”

“I might take a share or two,” said Sam.

“You’ll take twenty,” declared Wix, quite sure of himself. “I want four incorporators besides myself, and I want you to be one of them.”

“Is that getting me the stock any cheaper?”

“Fifty per cent.; two thousand dollars’ worth for a thousand. After we five incorporators are in we’ll raise the price to par and not sell a share for a cent less.”

“How much do you get out of this?” Sam asked, with a leer of understanding.

“Ten per cent. for selling the stock, and have the new company buy over the present one for ten thousand dollars’ worth of shares.”