Joan and Co.

Burnett senior sat in his office leaning forward in his chair and drumming nervously on the desk. Every now and then he glanced at his watch, then uncertainly toward the hat-rack, and then with an effort turned to the letters in front of him. But in the end he always found himself again drumming nervously on his desk.

It was eleven o’clock and the Stock Exchange had been open for an hour. Already he had twice rung up the office of Toole & Co. and received the report that the market was strong and the trading brisk. Apparently it was going as yesterday Toole had predicted it would. Already several issues in which he was interested had advanced from a quarter to a half. Figuring roughly it made a difference of four hundred dollars to him in that first hour. This was not much compared to the profit he had taken last week on steel of five thousand, but one never knew what the next ten minutes might bring forth. That was what made the game interesting. There was no waiting for monthly statements or semi-annual balances. There was no sitting around for the maturing of carefully thought-out plans. It was possible to do a year’s business in a week; sometimes in a day; sometimes in an hour. Even if a man invested only in a small way, as he was doing, it added zest to life.

Until a few weeks ago he had never been inside a broker’s office. Forsythe had then introduced him to his friend Benton, and it was through the latter that he had bought steel and through him had sold it again—clearing up in a month the amount he had loaned Dicky. He liked the idea. It left Dicky free to lose the money as soon as he wished. A day or so later Benton had taken him down to the Street one noon hour and introduced him to Toole. A very agreeable man Toole was. He was a big fellow, physically, with pleasant manners. They had lunched together not long after this—rather heartily. Toole had offices overlooking the street—pleasant offices. Burnett had sat around there for an hour watching the board and listening to the odds and ends of gossip that circulated through the little gathering. He had gone several times since then. In a good many ways he found it a relief from the routine of his own office. There was an atmosphere of tension there which was stimulating.

If, at the beginning, he had felt the slightest bit uncomfortable, like a man visiting for the first time a race-track, he had partly quieted his conscience by the thought that after all he was playing with his own hard-earned money, and that win or lose he was entitled at his age to a little amusement. With his own business running as smoothly as it now did under Forsythe, there was every day less and less need of him in the office. If Dicky were about it might be different. Then he would have had as his ambition the training of the boy. There were certain plans for extension—the foreign field, for instance, was almost untouched—which with Dicky’s help might have acted as a fresh spur to effort. But if the lad had no taste for such schemes, why, that was the end of the matter. Projects of that sort were for Youth—Youth with the long years ahead. He himself, lately, craved a faster game. And in a sense that desire went back to Dicky too.

The day the boy had told him of his princess, Burnett had begun an inventory of his estate. The result had left him thinking. As long as he looked at it only from his own point of view, it was satisfactory enough. He had his business which on the basis of its earning power represented a value of two hundred thousand; he had his house worth in the neighborhood of seventy-five thousand; and he had a surplus in various sound securities worth around seventy-five thousand. Besides this he kept an account of forty or fifty thousand in cash. Considering the fact that he had started with nothing, this was a good deal to have accomplished in thirty years. If at twenty-one he could have looked forward to any such reward he would have felt fully satisfied.

And yet, as Dicky talked, four hundred thousand seemed little enough. It was, of course, all a matter of comparison, and Burnett knew that most of the boy’s friends belonged to families who reckoned their fortunes in millions. And he was proud that Dicky had been able to make such friends. He was proud, too, that although his own fortune was so much less, it had always been sufficient to allow the boy within reason to hold his own among the others. In college he had always had the best. Since then there had been enough so that he could still follow his fancy. If at this point Burnett winced a trifle, it was when he was alone. He must remember that it was only natural that circumstances should make a big difference in the point of view. In fact that was just what was happening to himself.

Burnett had looked up these Fairburnes, and what he learned made his own little fortune sink to insignificance. And it helped him to understand what Dicky meant when he said, “I don’t know what you can get her that she hasn’t already.” Burnett had four hundred thousand to hand over to his son, and Fairburne could match every fifty thousand with a million for his daughter.

Even Toole, so he understood, could match him two for one and had made this on the Street within ten years. And Toole told him of others. At odd times and quite incidentally the talk had run to fortunes made quickly. It was always an interesting topic and Toole had a fund of such stories.

“Why, I had an office boy,” he said one day, as he offered Burnett a cigar, “a little chap by the name of Windsor. The rascal saved some five hundred dollars from his wages and began to trade on margins. He got a tip somehow on R and M, bought, and began to pyramid. He cleaned up ten thousand on that deal and jumped into a curb oil stock. The stuff advanced from five to forty in two months, and he came out of that with a profit of seventy thousand. He quit me then, but I’m told that to-day he is worth three million.”

Three million in five years! And he, Burnett, had sweat blood to roll up a paltry four hundred thousand in thirty years! It was merely a matter of comparison.

Yet Burnett did not lose his head altogether. That thirty years of business experience counted for something. Once back in his office again he was able to smile at many of those stories. But as a result of them he worked out this scheme: he would take that fifty thousand and fool with it—merely fool with it. If he lost, well and good. At least he would have had some entertainment. He would pay for that and quit. Certainly that amount would not break him.

On the other hand, if he won! Here was where he let his imagination loose. Windsor, a mere office boy, had made three million out of five hundred. It was elementary arithmetic to figure what the youngster might have done had he started with one hundred times that capital. Discounting the story fifty per cent and admitting that such a case was one in a thousand, a man was still left an ample margin for day-dreaming.

Supposing that when it came time for Dicky to marry the girl, Fairburne should send for him and somewhat scornfully demand what prospects he had to justify such a course. There was not much doubt but that Fairburne would take the precaution to look up the Burnett rating in Dun and Bradstreet, just as Burnett had looked up the Fairburne rating. He would find him in the quarter-million class. Dicky probably would be considerably disconcerted and doubtless indignant as well. He might even consider the question beside the point, though he himself had admitted that she deserved a fortune. At any rate, the boy would have to come back for information, because he did not know any more about the family finances than a stranger. He had never asked. He had never shown the slightest interest.

So some day he would stroll into the office and repeat the question. He might quote Fairburne in some such statement as—

“What is a paltry quarter-million for a Fairburne?”

Then Burnett senior would smile. He would reach to one of the cubby-holes in his desk and take out his account-book with Toole & Co. He would hand it to Dicky. It might show one million, or two million, or three million. It depended a good deal on his mood how much he made it. At any rate, it was always enough to satisfy Fairburne.

“Go back and tell Fairburne that Dun and Bradstreet don’t always know everything,” he might say.

And Dicky would get up and slap him on the shoulder, with his face alight. Possibly he might in some good-natured way rebuke him.

“You deserved to lose for taking any such fool chance. But it’s one on Fairburne.”

But the boy’s face would be alight. That was all the reward he wanted.

Burnett senior stopped drumming on his desk and pressed a button, summoning Forsythe. The latter responded instantly. He was as alert as electricity. He came in with a pencil behind his ear and his hand full of papers.

“I’m going out for a little while, Forsythe,” explained Burnett, without looking at the man.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you want to see me about?”

“No, Mr. Burnett.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get back, but if you want me, telephone Toole & Co. I may drop in there a little while.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Forsythe.

“And if my son comes in—just say I’ll be back soon. You—er—you needn’t say where I am.”

“No, sir,” he answered. “But I’ll call you up if he seems too curious.”

“Right, Forsythe.”

Burnett waited until Forsythe left before he put on his hat and coat. Then when he did go out, he appeared more or less apprehensive until he was clear of the building.