He ventured; he won.He was now secure--was not Dumont dispossessed, despoiled, dying?
At eleven o'clock on that Monday morning he was seated upon his embossed leather throne, under his grandfather's portrait, immersed in an atmosphere of self-adoration.At intervals he straightened himself, distended his chest, elevated his chin and glanced round with an air of haughty dignity, though there was none to witness and to be impressed.In Wall Street there is a fatuity which, always epidemic among the small fry, infects wise and foolish, great and small, whenever a paretic dream of an enormous haul at a single cast of the net happens to come true.
This paretic fatuity now had possession of James; in imagination he was crowning and draping himself with multi-millions, power and fame.At intervals he had been calling up on the telephone at his elbow Zabriskie, the firm's representative on 'Change, and had been spurring him on to larger and more frequent "sales" of Great Lakes.
His telephone bell rang.He took down the receiver--"Yes, it's Mr.Fanning-Smith--oh--Mr.Fanshaw----" He listened, in his face for the first few seconds all the pitying amusement a small, vain man can put into an expression of superiority."Thank you, Mr.Fanshaw," he said."But really, it's impossible.WE are perfectly secure.No one would venture to disturb US." And he pursed his lips and swelled his fat cheeks in the look for which his father was noted.But, after listening a few seconds longer, his eyes had in them the beginnings of timidity.
He turned his head so that he could see the ticker-tape as it reeled off.His heavy cheeks slowly relaxed."Yes, yes," he said hurriedly.
"I'll just speak to our Mr.Zabriskie.Good-by." And he rang off and had his telephone connected with the telephone Zabriskie was using at the Stock Exchange.All the while his eyes were on the ticker-tape.Suddenly he saw upon it where it was bending from under the turning wheel a figure that made him drop the receiver and seize it in both his trembling hands."Great heavens!" he gasped."Fanshaw may be right.Great Lakes one hundred and twelve--and only a moment ago it was one hundred and three."His visions of wealth and power and fame were whisking off in a gale of terror.A new quotation was coming from under the wheel--Great Lakes one hundred and fifteen.In his eyes stared the awful thought that was raging in his brain--"This may mean----" And his vanity instantly thrust out Herron and Gertrude and pointed at them as the criminals who would be responsible if--he did not dare formulate the possibilities of that bounding price.
The telephone boy at the other end, going in search of Zabriskie, left the receiver off the hook and the door of the booth open.
Into Fanning-Smith's ear came the tumult from the floor of the Exchange--shrieks and yells riding a roar like the breakers of an infernal sea.And on the ticker-tape James was reading the story of the cause, was reading how his Great Lakes venture was caught in those breakers, was rushing upon the rocks amid the despairing wails of its crew, the triumphant jeers of the wreckers on shore.
Great Lakes one hundred and eighteen--tick--tick--tick--Great Lakes one hundred and twenty-three--tick--tick--tick--Great Lakes one hundred and thirty--tick--tick--tick--Great Lakes one hundred and thirty-five--"It can't be true!" he moaned."It CAN'T be true! If it is I'm ruined--all of us ruined!"The roar in the receiver lessened--some one had entered the booth at the other end and had closed the door."Well!" he heard in a sharp, impatient voice--Zabriskie's.
"What is it, Ned--what's the matter? Why didn't you tell me?"Fanning-Smith's voice was like the shrill shriek of a coward in a perilous storm.It was in itself complete explanation of Zabriskie's neglect to call upon him for orders.
"Don't ask me.Somebody's rocketing Great Lakes--taking all offerings.Don't keep me here.I'm having a hard enough time, watching this crazy market and sending our orders by the roundabout way.Got anything to suggest?"Tick--tick--tick--Commander-in-chief Fanning-Smith watched the crawling tape in fascinated horror--Great Lakes one hundred and thirty-eight.It had spelled out for him another letter of that hideous word, Ruin.All the moisture of his body seemed to be on the outside; inside, he was dry and hot as a desert.If the price went no higher, if it did not come down, nearly all he had in the world would be needed to settle his "short" contracts.
For he would have to deliver at one hundred and seven, more than two hundred thousand shares which he had contracted to sell; and to get them for delivery he would have to pay one hundred and thirty-eight dollars a share.A net loss of more than six millions!
"You must get that price down--you must! You MUST!" quavered James.
"Hell!" exclaimed Zabriskie--he was the youngest member of the firm, a son of James' oldest sister."Tell me how, and I'll do it.""You're there--you know what to do," pleaded James."And Iorder you to get that price down!"
"Don't keep me here, talking rot.I've been fighting--and I'm going to keep on."James shivered.Fighting! There was no fight in him--all his life he had got everything without fighting."Do your best,"he said."I'm very ill to-day.I'm--"
"Good-by--" Zabriskie had hung up the receiver.
James sat staring at the tape like a paralytic staring at death.
The minutes lengthened into an hour--into two hours.No one disturbed him--when the battle is on who thinks of the "honorary commander"? At one o'clock he shook himself, brushed his hand over his eyes--quotations of Woolens were reeling off the tape, alternating with quotations of Great Lakes.
"Zabriskie is selling our Woolens," he thought.Then, with a blinding flash the truth struck through his brain.He gave a loud cry between a sob and a shriek and, flinging his arms at full length upon his desk, buried his face between them and burst into tears.
