John Henry Smith Part 37

For some time the quotations vibrated nervously about the seventy mark.

I was about to start for Mr. Harding's office when a man with a loud voice read a bulletin just received.

"_One forty-five p.m._," he began. "_Robert L. Harding authorises the announcement that in conjunction with John Henry Smith he has purchased a majority of the stock of the N.O. & G. railroad, and that it will be operated as a part of the system with which Mr. Harding is identified_."

"Who in thunder is John Henry Smith?" asked a veteran stock gambler.

I hurriedly left the room.

In the inner offices of Mr. Harding's headquarters I found Mrs. and Miss Harding.

"We have heard the news!" exclaimed Miss Harding. "Isn't it splendid? I congratulate you, Mr. Smith!"

Mr. Harding appeared at this moment, a broad smile on his face.

"Not so bad, eh Smith!" he said, shaking hands. The fierce light of battle was in his eyes. "They're headed for the tall timber, but we still have their range! Did you hear the last quotation?"

"The last figure I saw was seventy-three," I said.

"Seventy-three?" he laughed. "I just bought a thousand shares for ninety-one. Take the folks over to the visitor's gallery and let them watch the animals. I'm going to begin to feed them raw meat in about half an hour."

As we walked toward the Exchange, Mrs. Harding said to me: "I think it's perfectly wicked the way you men gamble!"

Bless her dear heart, so do I, but what could I say except to utter some commonplace?

The huge box of marble and gold where this gambling is done already was seething with maniacs who had reached a stage of delirium pitiful to those who witness such scenes for the first time. It was as if a thousand human rats had been hurled into a pit, with heaven and earth offered as prizes to those who survived.

The swaying forms, the tossing arms, the frantic uplifted faces of aged men, the football rush of impetuous youths, the shrieks, howlings and bellowings of the combatants, the tramp of feet on the paper-strewn floor, the clatter of innumerable instruments, the tinkle of myriads of bells; and through the opened windows G.o.d's pure sunlight illumining this h.e.l.l on earth--such was the scene they looked down upon.

I knew the signs which told when Harding threw the first bits of "raw meat" into this gilded corral. I knew that he long since had cornered N.O. & G., and that he would whet the appet.i.tes of his victims as only he knew how, but I did not know that it was his day of reckoning for other "conspirators" equally as grasping as those with whom I had measured my puny sword.

As the hands of the clock slowly crawled to the hour of three the frenzy of the mob in the centre of the pit became maddening. I had no way of knowing from where we stood whether prices were moving up or down, but it was evident that Harding was "feeding the animals."

Then the gong boomed the signal that the session was ended. The tumult rose to one resounding crash, hesitated, subsided and died away. The struggling groups dissolved and partial sanity resumed its sway.

I was ushered into Mr. Harding's private office immediately on our return. The magnate was in his shirt sleeves. His mouth was set in stern lines and his dark hair tousled as if he had just emerged from deadly physical combat. As I entered the room his features relaxed and then he laughed. It was the roar of the lion who raises his head for a moment from his stricken quarry.

"We won this foursome, Smith, ten up and eight to play," he said. "Sit down and I'll tell you how we stand. I put the market up to 175. Could have put it to a thousand if it had been necessary, but what's the use?

There is a short interest of 60,000 shares. Most of them are in the outer offices waiting to come in and settle. I'm going to let 'em off easy, Smith. Those who were extra dirty will settle at 200, and I've made a sliding scale down to 150, which is about what N.O. & G. is actually worth as an investment. Outside of your original 45,000 shares you have profits coming to you on about 20,000 shares which I bought for you at various figures on the way up. Roughly speaking it will net you somewhere between a million and a half and two millions, depending on how merciful we are to your 'conspirators.' How much will it cost you to take up your 45,000 shares?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ten up and eight to play"]

I consulted the statement of my account with Morse & Davis, my brokers in these transactions.

"I have paid them $1,525,000, which margined it down to 30," I said.

"In order to take the stock up I must pay them about $1,375,000 more, making my investment in N.O. & G. a total of $2,900,000."

"Tell you what I'll do, Smith," said Mr. Harding. "If you care to get out of this deal I'll take that block of 45,000 shares off your hands at $150 a share. That's $6,750,000," he concluded after making a rapid calculation.

"Thank you," I said, "but I've decided to hold it as an investment and go into the railroad business."

"Good for you, Smith!" he heartily exclaimed. "Mark my prediction; N.O.

& G. will go to 200 before the first of the year. You've done fairly well for a beginner, my boy. Your investment and the contributions of the wicked 'conspirators' net you between five and six millions. That's better than sweating over that 'Bronze Gent,' now isn't it?"

The magnitude of my winnings nearly took my breath, and I fear that my expression and words showed it.

"You'll have to get out of here now, Smith," said Mr. Harding, glancing at his watch. "Take the folks for a ride or something to entertain them, and come back here at 5:30. Then we'll all go to dinner somewhere and take the nine o'clock train for Woodvale."

ENTRY NO. XXI

I AM ENTIRELY SATISFIED

For an hour I have been seated at a table on the veranda of the Woodvale club house looking over the pages of this diary.

Certainly I am ent.i.tled to a new sobriquet. As a youngster I was called "Socks Smith." In more recent years I have been hailed as "Foxy Old Smith," and by a few friends as "Old Prog. Smith," but as I review my record for the past two months it seems to me that I am fairly ent.i.tled to be called "Lucky Smith."

Of least importance, but none the less satisfying has been the wonderful improvement in my golf game. I am driving as long a ball as any club member. I have won the club championship and the Harding Trophy. I hold the low amateur score for the course, and only yesterday came within a stroke of defeating Wallace. I must admit that the poor chap was off his game. He is still thinking of Miss Lawrence. It's a shame the way she led him on, but he is young and will get over it.

It was my privilege to be instrumental in saving Mr. Harding's life from the mad rush of that bull. I showed a little judgment and nerve, perhaps, but luck gave me the opportunity.

Every incident preceding, during and after that tornado was in my favour. Even my mistakes resulted to my advantage. Fate smiled on me through the awful fury of that tempest.

These fortuitous happenings and incidents are nothing compared with one consideration which makes me the happiest man in the world. It is not that I made a lucky venture in stocks and acquired more millions than all of my ancestors ever possessed. That is something, of course, but I had enough money for any rational human being before this flood of wealth poured into my lucky hands.

These are not the things which steep my soul in joy ineffable!

I know that I possess the love of Grace Harding!

She has not told me; it is not necessary that she shall say the words to confirm the truth which has come to me. I know that she loves me; is not that enough?

Chilvers pa.s.sed while I was sitting here and caught me smiling. I was reading the sixteenth entry in this diary.

"What are you grinning at, Smith?" he demanded.

I did not tell him. I had been reading my soliloquy to the effect that the knowledge of love is conveyed without verbal expression between those who love. I had written: "The man who fails to avail himself of this silent but eloquent language, and who stupidly a.s.saults a woman with an open avowal of an alleged love deserves to be coldly rejected."

Then I wrote that these voiceless messages to the one you love would be considered and finally answered, and that there might come a day "when over the throbbing unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding the letters 'Y-E-S,' then proceed with the sweet formality of a verbal confession and avowal of your love, and you will not be disappointed."

I have received that glorious message! Grace Harding has told me that she loves me!

The message was transmitted from the depths of her beautiful eyes! It has been confirmed by the gentle pressure of her hand as it rested on my arm! It has been echoed in the accents of her sweet voice! I have read it in the blush which mantles her check as I draw near, and I know it from a thousand little tokens which my heart understands and which my feeble words cannot express.

I am