WHO HOLDS THE ACE?
Rats, they say, will leave a sinking ship.
Perhaps it would hardly be fair to compare the solid brokerage firm of Jarboe, Willicutt & Co. with the rodents in question, but Tennyson Jarboe, after his interview with Vance Thornton and a careful study of Mr. Whitemore’s condition from the latest reports in the evening papers, decided, in consultation with his partners, that Jared Whitemore was as good as done for, both physically and financially.
With five million bushels of corn ready to be shipped to Chicago at their nod, it was reasonable to expect that the Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington clique would jump into the pit the next morning and, with little opposition to fear, hammer the market to pieces.
In the ensuing panic corn would tumble like the famous Humpty Dumpty of fairy fiction, and it therefore behooved Jarboe, Willicutt & Co., with the pointer they had got from Vance, to sell a million or so bushels short for their own private account.
It would be perfectly fair, since Mr. Whitemore’s boyish representative could do nothing toward stemming the current without money.
So when Vance Thornton reached Mr. Whitemore’s office on the following morning he found a letter addressed to himself and signed by Mr. Jarboe, in which that gentleman expressed his regret that the firm saw no way of saving their old customer from the expected crash unless something tangible in the way of money was forthcoming, and as this seemed to be out of the question, Jarboe, Willicutt & Co. could hardly be expected to execute any further commissions for Mr. Whitemore.
“All right,” exclaimed Vance, coolly; “you have deserted the ship just a moment too soon for your own good, Mr. Jarboe. I’m only a boy, it is true, but I’m not taking off my hat to you after that.”
Thrusting the letter in his pocket, he put on his hat again.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said to Bessie.
He rushed over to the Grand Pacific and sent his card up to William Bradhurst.
“Read that,” he said to his new friend, handing him Mr. Jarboe’s letter.
Mr. Bradhurst had finished breakfast, and was preparing to go over to Mr. Whitemore’s office according to arrangements entered into the night before.
“Cool, I must say,” he remarked, as he handed it back. “Well, what are you going to do?”
“Get another broker,” replied Vance decidedly.
“Quite right. Have you selected one yet?”
“I have a firm in my eye. It’s young, but I know them both. They’re square as a die. This deal will be the making of them, and I’m glad to put it in their way. Come, let us go over to their office. We haven’t any time to lose to-day.”
Mr. Bradhurst and Vance went to a brokerage office on La Salle street.
It was on the third floor front, and the sign on the door read Fox & Mason.
“Hello, Thornton,” was Mr. Fox’s greeting as the boy entered his private office with his friend. “Glad to see you. Where’ve you been for the last two weeks, and may I ask how your employer, Mr. Whitemore, is this morning?”
“I’ve been out of town. As to Mr. Whitemore, the latest reports are not encouraging. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. William Bradhurst.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Bradhurst,” said Fox, genially.
“Now, Mr. Fox, I wish your earnest attention. I’m going to put a good thing in your way,” said the boy in a business-like tone.
“Thanks. All favors thankfully accepted,” and he looked at Mr. Bradhurst as if he judged he was the good thing suggested.
“Read this,” said Vance, and he handed him the paper which authorized him to act for Mr. Whitemore.
Mr. Fox read it with some surprise.
“Now read this,” and Vance produced Mr. Jarboe’s letter.
“Phew!” was the broker’s comment after he had perused it.
“Under those circumstances I have decided to employ new brokers. I have selected Fox & Mason. Mr. Jarboe has made a slight miscalculation. Instead of having no money, I have a backing representing $11,000,000.”
“What’s that? Say that again, please!” ejaculated Fox in amazement.
Vance repeated the amount.
“Say, you’re not joking, are you?” said Fox with a smile.
“Never more serious in my life,” replied the boy earnestly. “This gentleman, William Bradhurst, is worth exactly that sum, and he is backing me. He is ready to give you a check on the Bankers’ National Bank now to cover my first transaction, which is an order to purchase any part of five million bushels of corn as soon as it is offered in the pit this morning.”
“Five million bushels!” exclaimed Fox, staring hard at Vance.
“That’s what I said. Please call up the Bankers’ National on your ’phone and verify my statement. Don’t lose a minute, please.”
Jack Fox, still somewhat bewildered by such an order, did as Vance requested him, and returned to his desk perfectly satisfied with the result.
“Now we’ll get down to business,” he said.
And they did.
“After the close of the board to-day come to Mr. Whitemore’s office, and you will find Mr. Bradhurst and myself on deck. I will then go over certain plans I have in view and make clearer our future business relations.”
Vance and his friend then left, while Fox, after leaving a note for his partner, seized his hat and made straight for the Board of Trade.
It was twenty minutes past nine when Vance’s broker entered the board room.
The gong which started business would sound in ten minutes, and already the floor was filling up, while groups in earnest consultation were to be seen on the steps of both the wheat and corn pits.
Sid Carrington and Abe Palmer were standing aloof on the steps of the latter.
A triumphant smile played about the mouths of each of these bear operators.
For weeks they had been laying their plans, joining together subtle schemes for the overthrow of Jared Whitemore, but they had made but little way against the acute old fox, who had been gradually drawing together his control of the corn market.
Now the one man they had feared—the man who stood like a stone wall between them and the accomplishment of all their carefully conceived plans—had been suddenly put out of the fight.
Their chance had come at last, and they did not intend to do a thing with the corn market that morning.
Everybody interested was talking about the sudden misfortune which had occurred to Jared Whitemore, and not one but felt sure that one of the biggest slumps in the history of the board was about to set in.
Consequently there was a subdued feeling of excitement in the air.
Brokers with their pockets crammed with selling orders constantly came on the floor, adding to the din.
Eyes were cast frequently and nervously at the clock, noting the slow crawling of the minute hand toward the half-hour mark.
Representatives from Jarboe, Willicutt & Co. were ready to sell the minute the gong opened proceedings.
Apparently all bulls had sought cover on this fateful morning.
From the Western Union desks, located in a great railed-in space in the northwest angle of the floor, came an incessant ticking of the telegraph sounders, and messenger boys pushed their way hither and thither across the floor with yellow envelopes in their hands.
From the telephone alcoves sounded the almost continuous ringing of the call bells.
Suddenly, with startling distinctness, came the single stroke of a great gong.
Instantly, with a strident roar, the battle was on.
Corn in lots of five thousand was offered at once at half a point below the previous day’s figures.
Not at first by Carrington and Palmer—they were holding back, like men whose positions were unassailable.
The attack on corn was begun by the smaller fry, from the outposts, as it were, of the bear army.
Carrington and Palmer were holding their immense forces in reserve for the real attack that was to carry everything down before the onslaught.
But the first real surprise developed at once.
Jack Fox, one of the new traders on the board, accepted every bid offered.
He was immediately the center of a furious vortex that hurled corn in a flood at his head.
But with a confident smile on his face, that soon began to be noted with some uneasiness by cautious brokers, he welcomed the rush with open arms.
The result was that the grain began to recover and present a bold front to the bears.
“What in thunder does this mean?” growled Abe Palmer to his partner.
“Some fool has lost his head, that’s all,” sneered Carrington.
“We’d better get in and send him where he belongs—to the asylum,” said Palmer with a menacing toss of the head.
Then Palmer and Carrington took a hand, and the excitement grew to fever heat.
In spite of it all, Jack Fox, calm and serene amid the babel and confusion, stood firm, and welcomed all selling orders as he would a much-loved relative.
Around and around the pit went the question: Who is Fox buying for?
Nobody could guess.
Suddenly there dawned the suspicion that Jared Whitemore was still in the fight.
It must be so.
Who else could be loading up in the face of such adverse conditions?
But the most astonished of all men were Jarboe and Willicutt as the telephone conveyed the astounding intelligence to their offices.
Already their representatives had, according to orders, sold a million bushels of grain they did not own, but hoped to be able to get later on at a low rate. Jack Fox was the buyer of this lot.
Some one had clearly come to Mr. Whitemore’s rescue.
It apparently was some one able to resist the great bear clique.
He must have recovered in time to furnish Vance Thornton with the sinews of war to carry on the fight until he could get down himself.
If this was true, then Jarboe, Willicutt & Co. had made a big blunder.
Not only had they placed themselves in a bad light with their old client, but they were liable to face a big loss, since they knew only too well that if the Whitemore forces were still back of the fight they stood a poor chance of getting any corn when they wanted it.
So Jarboe hastened to try and square himself.
He made a personal call on Vance.
“I received your letter,” said the boy coldly when the big broker had been admitted to Mr. Whitemore’s sanctum, where Vance now ruled supreme. “The only thing for me to do was to hire a new broker. I have done so. From the looks of things,” he said, with a significant smile, “I still hold a grip on the market in spite of the Jarrett, Palmer & Carrington clique.”
Bessie knocked at the door, then entered and laid a slip on the desk before Vance.
“I have bought over three million bushels this morning, and I am ready and anxious to take in every grain that may be offered.”
“Great heavens, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Jarboe in utter amazement, “where have you got the money from to do this? Has Mr. Whitemore come to his senses and signed his balances over to you?”
“I am obliged to refuse you this information, Mr. Jarboe, as you have ceased of your own accord to represent me. All I can say is this: I am at the head of the deal from this on. I control all of Mr. Whitemore’s holdings. I mean to control the price as he has done. No corn will be moved east that amounts to anything until I say the word. If you think you can beat me, Mr. Jarboe, sell a million short and see. Good-day.”