Joan and Co.

It being a fair, clear day with a touch of spring in the air, Dicky took his father’s arm and escorted him on foot half the distance to the office. As a consequence they did not come in until after nine, which, while early enough under normal conditions, gave Forsythe as uneasy an hour as he had ever spent in his life. He had been pacing the floor since eight. Even then it was ten minutes before Dicky came to his desk and Forsythe had a chance to speak to him.

“You remember the matter I spoke to you of the other day?” he began abruptly.

“I’m not sure,” drawled Dicky.

“Then you didn’t realize its seriousness,” snapped Forsythe. “I was telling you about the new enamel process which has just been put on the market.”

“Right. I remember now.”

“And I told you that if we were not able to corner it in some way, it would come pretty close to putting us out of business.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve—I’ve got an option on it.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed Dicky.

“It expires at eleven o’clock to-day.”

“Snappy work!”

“It calls for twenty-five thousand dollars in cash,” said Forsythe with a little more emphasis; “I must have that within an hour.”

“That’s a lot of money,” returned Dicky.

“In one way. But if you’re getting something worth two hundred thousand—”

“Eh?”

“To us,” put in Forsythe quickly.

“But how in thunder did you do it?” questioned Dicky with interest.

“That isn’t important,” returned Forsythe. “The important thing is to have a certified check ready.”

“That ought to be easy—if you’re sure of yourself.”

“Do you think I’d go through what I’ve been through if I wasn’t sure?”

“I don’t get you.”

Forsythe took out his watch.

“It’s now quarter of ten. Shall I see Mr. Burnett or leave it to you?”

“Leave it to me,” answered Dicky. “I’ll go in now.”

Forsythe handed him the sample and several letters.

“Show him these,” he advised.

Dicky took them, and feeling, on the whole, rather important with the weight of business now on his shoulders, hurried into his father’s office. Half a minute later he was back again to Forsythe.

“That’s darned curious,” he said. “Dad isn’t there. His hat and coat are gone too.”

Forsythe sprang to his feet.

“Call a taxi,” he ordered. “Get down to the offices of Toole as fast as you can make it. ’Phone me from there.”

Burnett senior had hardly swung his swivel chair up to his desk that morning before he received a message from Toole. It was brief.

“There’s going to be something doing in steel this morning. You’d better be here.”

“You mean—”

“Come down and I’ll explain. It’s important.”

So Burnett had put on his hat and coat again and tiptoed out with his heart beating faster than it should. He was quite sure his physician would have advised against any such excitement. But if all went well, this would be the last time. It was to this end that he had taken on yesterday a heavier load than he ever had intended. It was to this end that he had broken his rule about margin trading. It was Toole who had suggested this. He reminded him that the five thousand he had made before on an outright purchase might just as easily have been fifty thousand with the same amount of capital invested on a ten-point margin. After all, this was not much different from the ordinary real-estate transaction where one paid a per cent down and mortgaged the property for the balance. The method, too, saved time. One was able to condense a year’s transactions into a day. And time was important.

Dicky had bothered him a good deal in the last few days. How much he suspected and how much he knew it was difficult to say, but it was certain that in the end Dicky would find out everything and put a stop to it. He had been around the office more than usual, ever since he came back from the South. Whatever was to be accomplished must be accomplished soon.

And in the last month he had dreamed larger and larger dreams for the boy. At first he had been content to double his four hundred thousand, but no sooner had the latter figures become established in his mind than he wanted to double those. After all, when one was about it one might as well. It appeared childishly easy. It only took a little nerve. There was the tangible evidence of all his speculations so far. He had made five thousand dollars which might just as well have been fifty thousand.

Dicky was troubled. He saw it in a dozen little ways. Once or twice he had tried to draw him out, but without much success. The lad was not the kind to whine over what could not be helped. There was no doubt, however, but what it had to do with this girl—the girl he had spoken of as a princess. If as the last big act of his life Burnett could make her a real princess—that was worth a risk. Dicky himself did not know how. He had had no training. That was not his fault. The father was beginning to realize that now. He had made his son what he was—had led him on to expect every wish to be gratified—up to this latest wish, the biggest one of all.

Perhaps this new reasoning was only born of the need of further justification of the course he was pursuing. If so, he did not realize it. He was honest with himself.

And, after all, it was something to have one’s heart pounding a bit faster. It took him back twenty years to the days when it pounded like this naturally. He called a taxi and leaned back with his thoughts racing off at all sorts of angles.

His mood was a form of intoxication. All his senses were for the moment sharpened. The sunlight appeared more golden; the sky bluer. He was like a young man upon an adventure. Strictly speaking, it was Dicky’s adventure and he was taking it for him. He was daring for him what he would not dare for himself. By three o’clock it might be concluded and the day won.

So he speeded to the offices of Toole & Co.—magnificent offices presided over by Toole the magnificent. He passed through the crowd beginning to gather in the outer rooms and went direct to the sacred inner room. Toole, big and optimistic, rose to greet him.

“Good-morning, Mr. Burnett.”

The first quotations were already coming over the private ticker and Burnett picked up the tape.

“How is she opening?”

“Steel is off a fraction,” replied Toole. “If I were you I’d follow it down.”

“Eh? I’m in pretty heavy now.”

“I know it, but—well, I’ve been informed the bears are going to raid the stock to-day.”

“Supposing I sit tight?”

“You can do that, but—of course you have enough on hand to bolster up your margin account?”

The ticker reported a sale of six thousand shares—off a half. A second sale of two thousand followed—off another eight.

“What the deuce does that mean?” demanded Burnett.

Toole shrugged his shoulders.

“The big ones are up to something,” he answered.

“I’ve a good mind to get out from under,” scowled Burnett.

“Then you’d better be quick about it,” advised Toole.

The next quotation was off a full point and the sales on that doubled. If he sold now it meant a loss of five thousand—all he had made up to date. It came like a challenge.

“Buy five hundred at the market,” he ordered.

Toole pressed a button on his desk and a boy jumped in.

“Five hundred steel at the market,” he repeated. “Better come back here and stand by, Mr. Burnett.”

Burnett signed the order slip and the boy went out.

That was the beginning of the Big Hour—the hour when Burnett condensed into sixty minutes almost a lifetime. Steel continued down, and he followed it while Toole studied him, making, casually, little figures on a pad in front of him. At the end of half that time he called for more margin, and Burnett signed a check and sent a messenger to the bank with it. At the end of another ten minutes he called for still more, and Burnett in a daze did what Toole asked of him. Steel went down three points, six points, ten points. Still, it could not go down forever. There must come soon a point where it would stop and start the other way. Then—

In the meanwhile a young man had stepped into the outer office of Toole & Co. He wandered around the board room a few moments, looking over the crowd as though seeking some one. These were all strange faces. He stepped up to a clerk and asked if Mr. Burnett was here.

“Don’t know him,” replied the clerk.

He was very busy. Every one was very busy. There appeared to be a great deal of excitement hereabouts.

He finally stopped another clerk.

“I’d like to see Mr. Toole,” he said.

He handed him a card and the boy went off. He returned in a moment with the report that Mr. Toole was very sorry, but he could not see him to-day.

Dicky considered a moment. There was something about the atmosphere of this place he did not like. There was something about the name of Toole and the fact that he was too busy to be seen that he did not like. He drew from his pocket another card and scribbled across it this: “I understand my father is here. I must see him on a very important matter.”

He called the clerk again and sent this in to Mr. Toole. He waited five minutes. This time Mr. Toole himself appeared—Toole the magnificent. He was smiling.

“This is Mr. Burnett?” he inquired as he extended his hand.

Dicky hesitated somehow about accepting the hand. It was large and soft and white.

“Yes. I came to see my father.”

“Just so,” answered Toole; “don’t you find him?”

He looked about the room as though joining in the search.

“He isn’t here,” said Dicky, “but I suppose you have private offices?”

“Why, yes, we have private offices, but—well, they are private.”

“Is Mr. Burnett in one of them?”

“He may be or he may not be,” replied Toole. “At any rate, it is the policy of this firm not to interrupt our customers.”

“You understand he is my father?”

“I have your word for it,” smiled Toole.

“You understand I want to see him on an important matter?”

“I have your word for that, too.”

“Then,” said Dicky, his face hardening, “take my word for it I’m going to see him.”

“That is assuming he is here.”

“Is he here?”

“I refuse to answer.”

“Then—”

Toole leaned closer to the young man’s ear.

“I wouldn’t make a scene. This is a private, not a public office. If your father is here, you may be sure he received your message and exercised his right to see you or not.”

Dicky glanced at his watch. It was half-past ten. After all, Forsythe might have made a mistake. At any rate, the safe thing to do was to go out and telephone and make sure.

“Thanks,” replied Dicky; “I’ll see if Mr. Burnett has returned to his office. If he hasn’t I’ll be back.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” replied Toole.

Dicky hurried to the nearest telephone and got Forsythe on the wire. The man sounded excited.

“I know he’s there. Insist on seeing him. Good God, you must see him!”

“Right,” answered Dicky; “if you don’t hear from me in half an hour ring up police headquarters because there may be a good-sized row develop in the office of Toole & Co.”

So Dicky went down with his face set this time and his eyes grown hard. It was almost eleven! He called the clerk once again. This time he scribbled on a card this message for Toole; “I’ve come back to see my father. If I don’t get to him in five minutes, I’m going to start a first-class rough house.”

As the clerk went across the board room and toward the inner office, Dicky followed him. He waited just outside for his reply. Once again Toole came out smiling.

“I’m sorry—” he began.

Dicky lowered his head a little as for a line plunge and bolted past him. His shoulder took Toole in the pit of his rotund stomach, which was perhaps why the man made no immediate reply. He saw his father slumped down in a chair near the ticker, his head in his hand.

Burnett senior made his feet unsteadily.

“Dicky,” he trembled, “Dicky, they’ve got me. They’ve cleaned me out.”

“So?” answered Dicky. “Then take my arm. I guess it’s time to get out of here.”