The banker and the bear

In the library the two men watched the door until it clicked shut behind those who were going into the drawing-room to hear Jack Dorlin play. Then, after adjusting his easy-chair so that the light would not fall on his face, John Bagsbury seated himself.

“I’m tired to-night. This has been a big day. You say you have some business to talk over. It’s against your rule, isn’t it, to talk business after dinner?”

Sponley nodded. “This is rather important; and I couldn’t be sure of catching you the first thing in the morning, so I broke over, for once.

“I came around,” he continued, “to ask you what you mean to do with Pickering?”

If John had any movement at all, it was like that of a man who had just lighted a good cigar,—a relaxing of the muscles, a sinking somewhat deeper into the big arm-chair. Sponley glanced at him, expecting a reply, but it was near a minute before John spoke.

“Why do you want to know? I mean, in what capacity do you ask me?”

“Why—as a director in Bagsbury and Company’s Savings Bank, I suppose,” said Sponley, tolerantly.

“I have said nothing to my directors about any business dealings with Pickering.” The words were not said brusquely; they were the simple statement of a fact.

“Exactly, and therefore one of your directors is compelled to come and ask you about it in order to find out.”

“And as I have said nothing,” John continued more slowly, “it is a fair inference that I have nothing to say.”

Sponley laughed. “That’s a bit radical; in fact, it’s irregular. A director is generally supposed to have a right to know about a thing like that. But then I can understand that there are times when a banker doesn’t want his directors to bother him—till afterward. But I don’t insist on my status as a director. I repeat the question as Melville Sponley.”

“That’s somewhat different.”

Sponley eyed him alertly, expecting that he would go on. But John showed no sign of any such intention. He was sitting quite still in his chair—lazily is perhaps a better word—and his eyes were shut.

“Don’t you think,” the Bear asked evenly, “that this fencing is a waste of time? I have asked you what you mean to do about Pickering. I’d like to have you tell me.”

After another moment of silence John replied, but with a question:—

“What do you know about Pickering? Or, rather, how do you know that there is anything for me to tell you?”

Not until that moment did Sponley realize that here was a man who could match him at his own game. He discovered the fact when he found himself sitting bolt upright, his muscles drawn taut, a sharp reply on the end of his tongue. He dropped back into his chair and said patiently,—

“I did just what every other man in the city who has the smallest interest in commercial matters did before ten o’clock this morning, I read the story in the Herald.”

“You accused me a minute ago of fencing with you,” John spoke quickly; “I was not fencing. I was a little in doubt as to just where we stood, and I asked questions to find out. But when you tell me that all you know about the Pickering deal is what you read in the Herald, you are—evading. The story mentioned neither me nor my bank.”

“For the last twenty years, or thereabouts, we’ve called each other friends,” said Sponley, thoughtfully. “Neither of us take much stock in gush, and I shan’t begin at it now. But we’ve found we can help each other, and that it has paid to hang together. How much more it means than that there’s no good discussing. I think the mere question of self-interest ought to make it clear to you where we stand.

“Regarding what I know about Pickering,” he went on, “I tell you frankly that I know more than was in the paper. I know that you loaned him half a million dollars, and that you took his lard as security. I’m not at liberty to tell how I found that out.”

“There was a time to-day,” said John, quietly, “when if I could have got hold of the man who had sold that information, I think I would have strangled him. I don’t feel that way now, though.”

“It wouldn’t help you if I were to tell you the name of my informant. You couldn’t trace it through him. Have you thought,—I don’t like to say anything of this kind on just a guess, but this matter’s serious enough to warrant it,—have you thought of young Dorlin in that connection?”

John smiled. “No,” he said dryly; “it wasn’t Dorlin.”

“He seems,” Sponley went on slowly, “to be pretty thoroughly in your niece’s confidence—”

“We’d better leave Miss Haselridge out of the discussion entirely,” said John.

At that moment Sponley began to wonder whether he had not made a mistake in leaving Dick so completely out of his accounting. He had hardly so much as looked at her. He had thought himself familiar with every influence which had a bearing on John Bagsbury; but certainly he had never considered her in such a connection—this pretty girl, just out of college, who liked to pretend that she was interested in the banking business.

“All right,” said Sponley, “that was just a chance idea of mine; take it for what it’s worth. But that isn’t what I’ve come to talk about. I want to advise you to let go of Pickering.”

“You mean not to let him have any more money?”

“No, I mean to get back what you’ve already loaned him, and get it back quick—to-morrow, if possible.”

He paused. “Well, go on,” said the Banker; “let’s have the rest of it.”

“I say to-morrow, because to-morrow will be your last chance. Pickering’s as good as busted.”

“We’re on the wrong tack altogether,” said John. “Don’t you see we can’t get anywhere without straight talk? You know perfectly well that it was Pickering himself who knocked the bottom out of September lard, and you know why he did it.”

“I wasn’t referring to that, and I am giving you straight talk, as you say. We know each other too well to try any sort of bluff. The market’s going to take another tumble to-morrow, and it won’t be any of Pickering’s doing, then. Lard’s as sure to drop to-morrow as the sun is to rise, and we, the bank, that is, want to stand from under.”

There was no response from the Banker, and Sponley looked at him. The face in the shadow told him nothing, nor the attitude, but at last John spoke:—

“You puzzle me,” he said. “I still don’t know where you stand. You come, you say, in the interest of the bank, with information that is vital, and yet you don’t give it to me. I loaned Pickering money on what I considered good security. You want me to try to get the money back on the strength of what may be just a guess of yours. I can’t put my judgment into another man’s hands.”

“It’s not a guess,” Sponley spoke almost eagerly. “I know it.”

“Then,” said John Bagsbury, “if your warning is in good faith, tell me how you know it.”

“I know it, because I’m going to bust him myself.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Without the help you want me to give you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you do it if I back up Pickering just as I would any other customer?”

Again the unqualified affirmative.

And again the Banker was silent. Had he expressed doubt or even positive conviction that Sponley was wrong, had he shown righteous indignation and spoken of treachery, the Bear’s part would have been easier. He showed nothing; whether he was determined, or afraid, or in doubt, Sponley could only guess.

Direct argument, threat, entreaty, explanation, were to Sponley unwonted weapons. His strategy did not favor the frontal attack. He was a master at the art of making his opponent do the fighting, of giving him plenty of rope, and allowing him to entangle himself in it. But here with John Bagsbury it seemed to be the other way about. There was about John the strict economy of effort which one sees in a skilled fencer: never a word that was not necessary; never a flourish of high-sounding sentiment; simply alertness and repose and the patience of the everlasting hills.

So, though Sponley waited, he knew it was in vain, and at last began doing what he had so often compelled other men to do.

“This is the situation. I’m making this proposition in your interest and in my own, too. I ought to have told you that at the start. I’m fighting Pickering in this deal. I’ve got a big job on my hands, but I can do it. There are a few fellows who’ll be with me, but not to any great extent. If I don’t make a lot of money, I’ll be busted; but I’m going to make it. I’m not going it blind. It’s natural that in a big fight like this I don’t like to see you helping out the other fellow. I don’t ask you to help me; all I want is that you shall be neutral. It’s bad enough to be up against Pickering without having to fight you, too.”

It had a plausible sound not unsatisfactory to Sponley; but John’s next question cut right to the root of it.

“How long ago did you go into this deal?”

Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since the Bear had seen and seized this opportunity. He answered easily:—

“Oh, a couple of months. I began selling September lard in May.”

But he could not guess from the unexpressive face whether or not the Banker knew he had lied. John’s silence had in it a sting which urged Sponley’s faculties to their best efforts.

“This is no whining for mercy, you understand. It’s no figure of speech when I say that your interest lies the same way.”

He paused as though to marshal his thoughts; then continued:—

“Pickering’s a good man, but an old-timer. Even in his day lard was never so easy to corner as it looked; but now when they can make it without hogs, it’s impossible for a man to hold up the market. Right in this city there are tanks of lard, not tierced, that Pickering has never heard of; he will hear of ’em before he gets through. I have fifteen thousand tierces myself in the warehouses that he’ll never know exists until it hits him.

“Now if I bust Pickering,—and I give you my promise that I will,—just think where you’ll be. You’ve got the lard, forty thousand of it, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t have to take forty thousand more before the end, and you won’t be able to get rid of it. The market’ll be swamped, buried under it. Of course, in the end, the bank’ll get its money back, but for a while you’ll be in the hole. In fact, when the next stockholders’ meeting comes round, you’ll be in a hole, and it won’t be pleasant to have to tell those old fossils how you lost it.

“You know the make-up of the Board of Directors,” Sponley said slowly, pushing the words home hard. “There’s a majority that in general back up your policy; but I don’t believe many of them would take kindly to this sort of business: I’m opposed to it myself,—for whatever motives you please,—and I count one. You know how disagreeable a strong opposition in your board would be. By letting go right away, you can please everybody; it’ll strengthen you immensely with the old crowd, and I think,—” there was just an instant’s pause, and then the words were shot precisely into the centre of the target,—“I think that Cartwright and Meredith will look at the matter much as I do, and that that kind of conservatism will go a long way toward convincing them that you ought to have full control of your father’s estate. You’ve got old Moffat well in hand yourself; so there you are. You can run the bank as you please by next January, if you only play it right now.”

“There’s a practical detail to consider,” said John. “You say I should drop Pickering to-morrow. What excuse have I for calling his loan?”

“That’s not difficult. Ask him for some security other than lard. The tumble the stuff took yesterday is excuse enough for that, though it was his own doing. He won’t be able to put up any other collateral to-morrow morning. Then sell his lard. There’ll be market enough for it. The whole thing’ll go like clockwork.”

Sponley lighted a cigar and walked to the bookcase. He had said all that was necessary, and he was too wise to say more; so he stood looking at the books, his back to John. Occasionally he would take out a volume which had attracted his eye, and glance through its pages. He was in no hurry. John should have plenty of time to think.

John was not thinking at all. There was coming before his mind’s eye a succession of pictures, without consequence, and quite irrelevant to the situation he ought to be facing. They were just haphazard memories,—some recent, some very old, nearly all of them trivial. He saw Sponley lighting his cigar when they had just lunched together for the first time—how long ago? He saw himself slamming the carriage door on Harriet’s skirt when they were coming from a play one night. He saw—and this took him far back into his boyhood—his father taking books out of that very shelf where Sponley stood, and handing them to Martha, who dusted them rebelliously. As he looked at this half-forgotten sister of his, the childish figure grew older, and he saw that she was Dick Haselridge, smiling whimsically, just as a little earlier that evening she had smiled over the notion that honesty was a matter of more than good intentions.

“This is your proposition, as I understand it,” said John. “I sell out Pickering, on a pretext, to-morrow morning. When he’s weakened by that attack, you’ll throw your lard in, and that’ll break him. And afterward you will turn Cartwright and Meredith over to me, and support me as before on the Board of Directors.”

“That’s about it,” said Sponley, without turning.

“You want my answer to-night?”

“If you please.”

“You won’t get it,” said the Banker, “to-night, or any other time.”

Sponley whirled around. “What do you mean?”

John had risen and thrust his hands into his pockets. His voice, when he spoke, was a little louder and it had a nasal resonance peculiar to his moments of excitement.

“I mean that I do not see that anything you have proposed requires an answer.”

The two men looked full into each other’s eyes. There was no regret there over the breaking up of the ties of a score of years; that would come later, probably to both of them. Now, there was nothing but the old primal lust of fighting: a challenge flatly given and swiftly accepted.

“Steady, there! Steady!” said Sponley, softly. “I’m going to smash Pickering; and if you don’t stand from under, I swear to God I’ll smash you, too.”

Once more John Bagsbury’s answer was silence. As he turned away, there was no gesture even of dissent, and his face told nothing. He stood looking at the picture cover of a magazine which chanced to lie on the centre table; his hands were still in his trousers pockets, every line of his long, supple, loose-jointed figure showed him to be at ease.

Sponley looked at him, then he replaced the books he was holding on the shelf, and with a swift decision he made his first move.

“Bagsbury,” he said, “I’m a fool. I’ve lost my temper. Haven’t got it back yet. I’m disappointed that you can’t help me out. But I can see how the business looks to you, or, rather, I know I’ll be able to see to-morrow morning. I don’t feel like talking about it yet, and I’m going home. But the thing’ll come out right, somehow. We aren’t children. Come, the others’ll wonder what’s become of us.”

It was not fear that induced the sensation of nausea which John Bagsbury experienced at that moment, though Sponley’s conciliatory words were far more formidable than his previous declaration of war, for they meant that the war was already begun. For a flash this uncontrollable disgust showed in his face. Sponley saw it and understood.

“Come,” he repeated, “let’s find the others.”

An hour later Dick, entering the library, found John sitting there alone.

“Come in,” he called, “come in, Dick, you’re just the one I wanted to see.”

But though she came and stood near his chair, he seemed again to have lost himself in a brown study.

“Has anything serious happened?” she asked at length.

“I think I want to thank you, Dick,” he said, disregarding her question. “I think you’ve pulled me out of the hole.

“A man loses something, living as I have,” he went on presently. “He loses the power of seeing things clearly. I suppose you never have any doubt as to whether a thing’s straight or crooked. I have an idea that having you around—well—that you’ve brushed up my windows a little,” he smiled apologetically over the figure, “and—and I want to thank you.”

Dick’s eyes were full, and she was not sure of her voice, but even if she had been ready, John would not have given her time to speak. He was filled with a mixture of embarrassment and alarm over the words he had just said, and he hurriedly changed the subject.

“I’m afraid you won’t forgive me readily for coming in here as I did when you and Dorlin—”

“What do you mean? forgive you?”

“Why, yes; I interrupted—”

“You didn’t interrupt at all. We were just—we were waiting for you. And anyway, when people are as good friends as we three are, there isn’t any such thing as an interruption.”

“Friends?” he said. “You and—”

“That’s just what Jack and I are, if that’s what you mean. I was afraid you might not understand.”

John was still smiling somewhat sceptically.

“He was speaking of that himself, to-night—of our being friends, I mean. He told me—”

(Dick! Dick! what are you doing?) She hesitated a moment; then it came with a rush.

“He told me that he had thought once that—that—but he knew now he had been mistaken.”

Her face was averted. Her voice was uneven, but with what kind of emotion John could not be sure. He was not expert in the matter of inflections.

“Are you laughing or crying, Dick?”

“Neither,” she answered, turning upon him; “I’m going to bed.”