THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.
Vance returned to the Rookery Building in a very depressed state of mind.
His interview with Mr. Jarboe seemed to indicate that nothing short of absolute ruin now faced his employer—the old man who at that moment lay at his home almost at the point of death.
The afternoon papers contained an account of Mr. Whitemore’s misfortune, and hinted at its probable bearing on the next day’s corn market.
Several reporters were waiting to interview Vance on his return.
To these gentlemen he was courteous but extremely reticent.
He insisted that the published reports were grossly exaggerated, and put as bright a complexion on the situation as he could.
But he was up against the fact that other reporters had visited Mr. Whitemore’s residence and had learned that his condition was critical.
“Poor Mr. Whitemore,” said Bessie, with tears in her eyes, “it is awful to think he may never recover from that cruel blow.”
“Perhaps it will be as well he does not,” said Vance gloomily.
“Why, Vance!” exclaimed Bessie in unfeigned surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Bessie, that his absence from the office at this time spells ruin in capital letters.”
“But he has put you in charge of everything,” said Bessie, whose confidence in Vance’s abilities was supreme.
“But I can’t do a thing without money. I should need a great deal of money.”
“He intended to sign a check for you,” she said, “but——”
“Exactly, but he was unable to do it.”
“Why couldn’t I go to his house,” she said suddenly. “He may have recovered his senses. Give me the check-book. If the thing is possible I will get his signature and bring it back to you.”
“Bessie, you’re an angel!” cried Vance, his face lighting up with a new hope. “What a chump I am not to have thought of that! The fact of the matter is, Mr. Jarboe’s view of the situation knocked me endwise. I ought to go myself instead of sending you, but I have lots to do here, and I guess you’ll do as well.”
So Bessie took the check-book and started for Michigan avenue, on the South Side.
While she was absent Vance brought all of his employer’s documents relating to corn matters from the safe to the inner office, and sat down to study them in connection with printed reports and other sources of information he found on Mr. Whitemore’s desk.
It was nearly dark when Bessie returned.
Vance saw at once from her face that she had failed in her mission.
“You did not get his signature?” he said anxiously.
She shook her head sadly.
“It is feared by his physicians that Mr. Whitemore may die before morning,” she said. “He has not recovered consciousness at any time since he was taken home. I left the check-book, after explaining matters to Mrs. Whitemore, and she said if he regains his senses she will try to get her husband to sign.”
“Thank you, Bessie,” replied Vance gratefully. “You have done all that I could have done myself under the circumstances. I have been studying the situation, and feel confident if I had enough money I could save Mr. Whitemore. Unless I get it before business opens on the Board of Trade in the morning I fear it will be too late.”
There was a painful silence for some moments.
“I am glad you have returned, Vance,” said Bessie at length. “I don’t know what I should have done under these conditions had you still been away. I think I should have gone home at once and stayed there.”
“It would have been harder for you, I suppose. I hope we shall always be such good friends, Bessie,” said the boy earnestly.
“I’m sure there is no reason why we should not be,” she replied. “Now you must tell me where you have been, unless, of course, it’s a business secret.”
“I have been West on important business for Mr. Whitemore. As soon as I get the chance I will tell you a good many interesting particulars of my trip. It is time now that you went home for the day.”
“Why, how did you get that scar on your forehead?” she asked, laying her fingers gently on a small abrasion of the skin.
“That,” he replied, with a little laugh; “oh, I got that down in Missouri yesterday morning while butting in against a runaway team. I saved a man’s life and made a good friend. His name is William Bradhurst, and he’s a millionaire eleven times over. He—why, by George!”
Vance stopped and stared at the girl.
“Eleven millions!” he muttered. “Eleven millions in cash and securities, that’s what he said.”
“Vance, what are you talking about?” asked Bessie nervously.
“Eleven million dollars! Why, Great Caesar! If I could induce him to back me up, with Mr. Whitemore’s enormous corn holdings I should win out. Mr. Whitemore would be saved financially, while Bradhurst himself would almost double his capital, for if we cornered the market—and with the start the boss has made we ought to be able to do it—we could surely control the price. We could easily buy up every bushel of that five million at Elevatorville. That would keep that lot from being moved to Chicago until we chose to have it put in motion. With scarcely any corn in transport the market would soar to—good gracious, I dare not think of it. I haven’t a moment to lose. I must see Mr. Bradhurst at once.”
And Vance, for the first time in his life utterly ignoring Bessie, rushed for his hat.
“Vance—Vance!” she cried, running after him. “You haven’t gone crazy, have you?”
“Crazy!” he cried almost fiercely, turning full upon her. “Yes, I have! I’m crazy—crazy with a scheme that means millions to us. Go home. I can’t see you to the car. I’ve got to go to the Grand Pacific on business.”
“Vance!” and then Bessie broke down.
“Why, what are you crying about?” he said with an abruptness unusual with him.
“Because (sob) you are so (sob) rough with me.”
He looked at her a moment without speaking, and then seemed to realize how he had been acting.
“Forgive me, Bessie, for making you cry; but I’ve thought of a plan by which I hope to save Mr. Whitemore, and perhaps corner the market as he had started out to do. If I put it through—there, I’m so excited over the bare idea you must excuse me saying anything more. Everything depends on my finding Mr. Bradhurst at his hotel to-night, so you see I mustn’t delay a moment. There, I wouldn’t offend you for the world,” he continued, as he led her out of the office and locked the door; and then, as she turned her tear-stained face before him in mute forgiveness, he quite forgot himself and actually kissed her.
“Oh, Vance!” she exclaimed, blushing violently.
It is possible the boy was somewhat astonished at his own audacity, but, if the truth must be told, he was not a bit repentant, and would have repeated the performance if he had dared.
Twenty minutes later Vance was in Bradhurst’s apartments in the Grand Pacific Hotel, talking with a purpose and earnestness which he had never before displayed in his life.
Bradhurst had been looking about him for something in the line of business that would engage his attention, for the mere idea of spending his wealth simply to amuse himself by leading a life of ease was extremely distasteful to him.
He was a man of active habits and a busy brain, and the boy’s plan, which Vance laid down with convincing directness, appealed to his fancy.
“Come over to the office, Mr. Bradhurst, and I will show you the documents and the proofs. I can there better explain what has been done, what our position is to-night, and what we shall be able to accomplish. I have been studying Board of Trade methods ever since I entered Mr. Whitemore’s office. With the grasp on the market I have at this moment, through my employer’s holdings, I see my way clear, with your backing to corner the product and force the price to almost any figure within reason. In a week the Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington pool won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“All right; I’ll go over with you, Vance. But before we go we’re going to have dinner. You look as though you needed a square meal.”
“I’ve scarcely had a bite all day,” admitted the boy; “but I don’t feel hungry at that.”
“That’s because you’re all worked up over this matter and the unfortunate affair at your office. Take a wash and we’ll go down to the dining-room.”
The clock in Mr. Whitemore’s office struck the hour of midnight when the conference between Vance and William Bradhurst came to an end.
“If for no other reason than because I owe you a good turn I’ll see you through this, my boy,” said the big man cheerfully. “But in addition to that, I see the opportunity for both of us to make a million or more easily.”
“You are risking the money, Mr. Bradhurst, and the profits over and above the figure at which corn closed to-day will rightfully be yours. I am satisfied to save Mr. Whitemore’s interest as it now stands.”
“Vance Thornton, I am backing your information and experience with my money. It is a fair partnership. If we win out the profits are to be evenly divided, do you understand? Only on that condition will I go in.”
“But,” almost gasped the boy, “the profits may run into——”
“Millions. Exactly. In which case you will be a millionaire at eighteen. Do you object?”
The boy was too much stunned at the prospect to reply.