THE CORN SITUATION.
The appearance of Bessie on the scene altered the state of affairs materially.
Vyce realized that the scales had turned against him, and that if he expected to evade the consequences of his rash actions he had not a moment to lose.
With a bitter curse he cast the half-stunned boy from him, grabbed his hat and coat, and started for the door.
Vance had fallen to the floor, and Bessie, paying no further attention to the bookkeeper, ran to the boy, and lifting his head in her arms, begged him to speak to her.
As Vyce passed hurriedly out into the corridor he brushed against two clerks from an adjacent office who had been attracted to the spot by the girl’s scream.
Before he reached the stairway he ran against others.
In fact, the entire floor had by this time been alarmed, and a score of men were hurrying toward Mr. Whitemore’s office.
“What’s the excitement about, Mr. Vyce?” asked the elevator boy as the bookkeeper pushed himself into the descending cage, which had stopped at his signal.
“An accident has happened to Mr. Whitemore,” he answered in a hoarse voice. “I’m going for a doctor.”
By this ruse he managed to effect his escape from the building.
In the meantime, while the office was filling with excited people anxious to find out what had occurred, Vance gradually recovered himself.
As soon as he could sit up Bessie got him a glass of water, which he swallowed greedily.
Then he got on his feet.
“Thanks, Bessie; I feel all right now. Don’t crowd in here, gentlemen,” he said, waving back the mob.
“What’s happened to Mr. Whitemore?” asked a stout broker, peering over the railing at the unconscious corn operator.
“He’s been hurt,” answered Vance. “I’d be obliged to you, Mr. Bradley, if you will come inside and help me get him into his private office.”
At that moment the assistant bookkeeper returned, and was, of course, astonished to see such a crowd and commotion in the place.
“You back, Vance?” he ejaculated. “What’s occurred here?”
“Trouble,” replied the boy shortly. “Go out and fetch a doctor for Mr. Whitemore. I’m afraid he’s seriously injured.”
Vance and the stout broker having carried the corn operator into his sanctum, they, with Bessie’s help, tried to bring the insensible man to consciousness.
“Looks as if he had been struck by some heavy, blunt instrument,” remarked Broker Bradley, examining the jagged wound on Mr. Whitemore’s skull.
“He was hit with the heavy office ruler,” said Vance soberly.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the broker in surprise. “How did that happen?”
“I will tell you, but for the present I hope you will let it go no further.”
In the fewest words possible the boy told him what he had seen as he entered the office; also how he had been attacked by Vyce, and but for Bessie’s arrival would probably have been fatally injured.
“The scoundrel! He must have been crazy!”
“Not at all,” replied Vance. “I can easily understand how it came about; but for the present it is better I should say nothing on the subject. Mr. Whitemore will know how to deal with him when he recovers.”
“The police ought to be notified. I don’t like the looks of Mr. Whitemore. He is a long time coming to.”
“We shall have a physician here soon,” said Vance.
“He breathes very hard,” said Bessie anxiously.
She had been bathing the operator’s face and chafing his temples and hands with no satisfactory results.
In a few minutes the assistant bookkeeper appeared with a doctor, who was immediately taken into the private office.
Vance took advantage of this opportunity to clear the outer office of those drawn there by curiosity and other reasons.
He restored the ruler to its original position, locked the private compartment of the safe and put the key in his pocket.
Then he returned to the private room in time to see his employer sit up with some difficulty.
The physician looked serious, as if he did not like the aspect of the case.
“He had better be removed to his home at once and his regular doctor sent for. His condition will not bear trifling with.”
Mr. Whitemore’s eyes rested on Vance.
He beckoned him to his side.
“I am thankful you are back,” he whispered with great difficulty. “I’m afraid I’m in a bad way. I’ve been struck down at a critical moment. I depend on you to look after the office. See my brokers. All my important papers are in the inner compartment of the safe. Write an order that I empower you to act for me until further notice and I will sign it.”
“Don’t lose a moment in doing it, young man,” said Broker Bradley, who was supporting the stricken corn operator. “He seems to be growing weak fast.”
Vance drew up the paper, which was signed with great trouble by Mr. Whitemore and witnessed by Broker Bradley and Bessie.
“Now the check-book,” he gasped feebly. “I will sign in blank. Fill it up by and bye with the amount of my entire balance at the Chicago National.”
“He has wonderful confidence in you, Thornton,” Mr. Bradley said, in great astonishment.
But the check was fated never to be signed.
As the pen was placed between the old corn operator’s fluttering fingers he uttered a sudden groan, his head fell back, and he became unconscious once more.
In this state he was taken home.
Under these considerations Vance saw that the responsibility of notifying the police rested on him.
Accordingly, he visited headquarters and interviewed the chief of police.
Detectives were at once furnished with an accurate description of Edgar Vyce and despatched to hunt him up and arrest him.
Vance then visited the offices of Jarboe, Willicutt & Co., in the Board of Trade building, and explained the situation.
Mr. Jarboe, the head of the firm, was very much concerned over the news.
“The affair will be printed in all the afternoon papers and will certainly have a bad effect on the market. With Mr. Whitemore down and out the Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington crowd will have a clean sweep. In which case Mr. Whitemore’s losses will be immense. It is very bad, very bad indeed,” said Mr. Jarboe, shaking his head dismally.
“I have authority to act for Mr. Whitemore,” said Vance, producing the paper which had been signed by the stricken corn operator.
“That’s all right as far as it goes,” said Mr. Jarboe. “It gives you the right to act for Mr. Whitemore, but what can you do without money, even supposing you to be capable of intelligent action on the big interests involved?”
“You are right, Mr. Jarboe; I’m afraid my hands are tied. Mr. Whitemore intended to transfer his Chicago National balance to me by check, but he lapsed into insensibility at the critical moment.”
“Is that really the fact?” asked the senior partner, looking his astonishment.
“Mr. George Bradley was present when Mr. Whitemore asked for his check-book and expressed his intention.”
“Well,” said the broker, “such a mark of confidence in your honesty and business capacity is remarkable. It is true I have lately heard him speak about you in terms of the greatest praise, but—however, it is useless to discuss the matter. He was prevented from signing the check, you say, so you cannot touch a cent of Mr. Whitemore’s money, even if your handling of that money would save him from ruin.”
“True,” admitted Vance dejectedly.
“I will have to consult with my partners as to what is best to be done under the circumstances,” said Mr. Jarboe, “and will advise you as soon as possible. We recognize your authority in the premises, and of course can make no move unless authorized by you in writing.”
“The bear pool will certainly try to break the market,” said Vance.
“Undoubtedly. Corn is high, and, but for this unfortunate affair, likely to go higher. Mr. Whitemore’s holdings have dominated the market and controlled the price. He has stood ready to buy every bushel offered. Probably half the visible supply of corn stored in the Kansas and Nebraska elevators is owned by him—a fact you should be familiar with, as you have just been out in that part of the county in his interest. Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington most likely have a quantity of grain which they have been holding back for a coup. Mr. Whitemore has suspected its existence, but has failed to discover any evidence to prove the fact. All reports point to the contrary supposition.”
“I have thrown a little light on that point, Mr. Jarboe,” said Vance.
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Whitemore directed me to investigate the true state of the corn situation at Elevatorville, Missouri.”
“Well?”
“There are five elevators in that place. They have been reported out of business temporarily.”
“So I understand. Are they not?”
“Possibly they may be,” replied Vance, “but all the same Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington have five million bushels of corn stored in them at this moment.”
“Five million bushels?” almost gasped Mr. Jarboe.
“Yes, sir—five million bushels.”
“If this is the fact,” said Mr. Jarboe, greatly excited, “we are beaten to a standstill. Without money we cannot take a dollar of that corn which the pool will throw on the market at once, now they have learned of Mr. Whitemore’s misfortune. Thornton, as sure as you sit there, there will be a panic in the corn pit to-morrow morning.”