The Boy Broker Part 35

"That's right, Herbert; that's what I think we ought to do, and I shouldn't come home at all only I knew you would not know what had become of me," replied Bob, as they put on their overcoats and started for Mrs. Flannery's humble home.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A CRASH IN WALL STREET.

At the end of two weeks Tom was again up and dressed. His struggle with the pneumonia had been a frightful one. It was turned in his favor largely by the aid of the best medical skill, and the untiring care given him by his mother and his two faithful friends, Herbert and Bob.

The latter took turns in watching with him at night, while Mrs. Flannery slept, that she might renew her strength for the day watch.

But the disease, as is not infrequently the case, left Tom with a hard, dry cough, which threatened serious results. His lungs were weak, and his body was much emaciated. He was not the Tom Flannery of old, the Tom so full of boyish spirits and desire to push his paper trade. This change in their young companion caused Herbert and Bob keen anxiety.

They had watched beside his bed through delirium and helplessness, when there seemed no hope of his recovery. How glad their young hearts were when he began to rally, and they could see him in imagination back with them again in their old pleasures and pastimes! His failure, therefore, to throw off the racking cough and regain his strength was a sore disappointment to them, but this was not their only source of apprehension.

How full these two weeks had been of bitter trouble--trouble that drew deeply upon their sympathy; that destroyed splendid prospects and forced one of them from a position of independence to one little better than beggary.

Disturbing elements had been gathering for days in Wall Street, which to a few wise old heads seemed ominous. They predicted danger, but their warnings were laughed at by the less cautious speculators, who operated with a reckless daring. At length, however, the storm struck almost without a moment's notice. Wild reports filled the air, and men, strong, bold men, crushed by the tremendous force of the panic, fell prostrate here and there, and everywhere. Terror spread to all, and painted its sickly hue upon their faces. When the storm had subsided the street was full of wrecks. Among them was the daring firm of Breakwell & Co., who had failed for a million and a quarter of dollars.

Young Randolph was stunned at the exhibition he witnessed on that fatal day. House after house with whom his firm had done business, and who were supposed to be almost beyond the possibility of failure, had closed their doors. Breakwell & Co. were among the last to go under. They had been kept up by the splendid loyalty of Richard Goldwin, who put his bank account at their command, relying upon their a.s.surance that they were all right, and would come out of the storm stronger than ever, if they could only receive temporary help. Mr. Goldwin, anxious to save them, stood heroically by them, and went down with them--a victim of n.o.ble generosity, of misplaced confidence. Yes, he had failed--Richard Goldwin, the banker and broker, yesterday a millionaire, today perhaps a pauper.

Herbert Randolph could not at first realize the awful fact, but the pain he saw in Mr. Goldwin's face appealed so strongly to his sympathy that the tears forced themselves from his eyes, try however bravely he would to restrain them. The doors were closed, and all business with the house of Richard Goldwin was at an end.

Mr. Goldwin bore the misfortune like a hero. His face was white and firm as marble. Certain lines, however, told his distress, but never a word of complaint at the miserable treachery of Breakwell & Co. escaped his lips.

Herbert could not help thinking how severe the shock would be to Mrs.

Goldwin and Ray, who could not bridle their emotions with an iron will like that of the ruined banker. The latter was accustomed, in his long career in Wall Street, to seeing others meet the disaster that had now overtaken him; but his wife and daughter--ah, how little they were prepared for such a shock.

The panic that ruined so many men added quite largely to the fortunes of young Bob Hunter. He had never before had such a trade. Papers sold beyond all imagination, and at double their usual price. The result was a profit of seven dollars and forty seven cents for his day's work. He felt richer than ever before in his life, and so happy that he could hardly wait till the usual time for Herbert to join him, he wanted so much to make known his grand success. But when young Randolph came to him with the sad story of that day in Wall Street, his happiness gave place to a feeling of unusual sadness, and the sadness deepened on learning that his friend was now out of a position.

"But you can get another place, Herbert," said he, rea.s.suringly; "perhaps a better one than you have lost."

"I hope so," was all the reply the young bank clerk made, but there was a world of expression in the way he said it. His face, too, looked the disappointment and sorrow he felt, and Bob rightly divined that the sorrow was more for Mr. Goldwin and his family than for himself.

It is safe to presume that Herbert thought long and regretfully of the probability of Mr. Goldwin being reduced to a state of poverty--of his being turned out of his luxurious home--of Ray, his daughter, being obliged to work for her living--of her young, sweet life being embittered by want and miserable surroundings, so out of keeping with her beauty and genial, sunny nature. And if he did think in this wise, what resolutions he formed for relieving her of such a life, and of restoring her to her proper place we can only imagine, for on this matter he said never a word, not even to Bob Hunter.

On the following morning, Bob Hunter handed Herbert a small roll of bills.

"What is this for?" said the latter.

"It's for you," replied Bob. "There's only eight dollars in it, but you'll perhaps need it, and then you'll feel better with it in your pocket while looking for work."

"But I cannot accept your money, Bob," protested Herbert, with feelings of deep grat.i.tude.

"Yes, you must, for you are out in the cold, and my business is good; and then, you know, I made most all of it yesterday out of the failures in Wall Street--out of your firm's failure as much as any, probably, and that meant your failure to keep your place; so in a way I kinder made it out of you, and now I want you to have it again."

Herbert's eyes were now moist.

"Bob, you are very good and generous," said he, rather huskily; "but you are not logical. I have no claim on your money, neither has any one. You made it in legitimate trade, and should not feel that it does not belong to you."

"Well, I know I did; but I feel in a kind of way that it was made off of the misfortunes of others, you see."

[Ill.u.s.tration: YOUNG RANDOLPH AGAIN IN THE RANKS OF THE UNEMPLOYED.]

"But the misfortunes were not caused by you. They had occurred, and people wanted to know about them, and were willing and glad to pay for their information. This gave you an opportunity to make some money, and you made it."

"Well, of course you will beat me at arguing, Herbert, for you always do; but all the same I wish you would take the money, for I think you will need it."

"If I do need any money, when mine is gone, I will then borrow this of you, but until then you must keep it."

After this discussion, and after a very frugal breakfast, Herbert once more joined the ranks of the vast army who go from place to place, hungry and thinly clothed many times, in search of employment--anything to keep the wolf from the door.

CHAPTER XXVII.

DARK DAYS.

It was now midwinter. The streets were filled with snow and ice, and the cold, frost-laden air was chilling alike to the body and spirits of one in the unfortunate position in which young Randolph suddenly found himself.

If one has never been out of a position in a great city at this season of the year, he can have but little conception of the almost utterly hopeless prospects before him. After the holiday trade is over, a vast number of clerks are discharged from our stores, and thousands in the manufacturing line are thrown out of employment. These are added to the very large number that at all seasons of the year are hunting for work. Thousands, too, from the country, thinking to escape the dreary frost-bound months of rural life, flock to the city and join the enormous army of the unemployed. All want work, and there is little or no work to be had. It is the season of the year when few changes are made by employers other than to dispense with the services of those not actually needed. To be sure, a few employees die, and leave vacancies to be filled. Others prove unfaithful, and are discharged. A new business, too, is started here and there, but all the available positions combined are as nothing when compared to the tremendous demand for them by the thousands of applicants.

When Herbert Randolph came to New York in the fall, he was fortunate in arriving at the time when employers usually carry a larger force of help than at any other season of the year. There was consequently less demand for positions, and a greater demand for help. Thus he had a possible chance of securing employment, and he happened to be fortunate enough to do so. I say he had a _possible chance_, for surely he had no more than that even at the most favorable season of the year. He was extremely fortunate, coming from the country as he did, to find employment at all.

In view of these facts it will not be surprising that young Randolph, brave boy as he was, looked upon the dreary prospect before him with a heavy heart.

Bob Hunter realized fully the gravity of his friend's situation, and this is why he urged the money upon him, wishing to keep up his courage, and delicately refraining from touching upon the dark outlook ahead.

I wish I had the s.p.a.ce to picture carefully all the rebuffs, the cold treatment, and the discouragement that met our young hero on his daily wanderings, seeking for some honest labor--anything that would furnish him with the means to buy bread. But as I should not feel justified in extending this story to such a length, I must content myself with a few glimpses that will show the heroic struggle he made to sustain himself during these dark, chilly, and cheerless days of winter.

"It's pretty tough, ain't it, Herbert?" said Bob, one night when they were alone together in their room. He sought to lift the burden from his friend's mind by drawing him into conversation.

"Yes," answered Herbert, mechanically.

This reply, so short, and given with so little expression, gave Bob a feeling of uneasiness.

"I hope you ain't getting discouraged," he ventured next.

"No, nothing will discourage me now," replied young Randolph doggedly.

"But you hain't got no encouragement yet?"

"No, none whatever," was the gloomy answer.

"And you've been trying for three weeks to strike something?"