Mr. Hand, in his seventh-story suite of offices in the Rookery Building, was suffering from the heat, but much more from mental perturbation. Though not a stingy or penurious man, it was still true that of all earthly things he suffered most from a financial loss. How often had he seen chance or miscalculation sweep apparently strong and valiant men into the limbo of the useless and forgotten! Since the alienation of his wife's affections by Cowperwood, he had scarcely any interest in the world outside his large financial holdings, which included profitable investments in a half-hundred companies. But they must pay, pay, pay heavily in interest--all of them--and the thought that one of them might become a failure or a drain on his resources was enough to give him an almost physical sensation of dissatisfaction and unrest, a sort of spiritual and mental nausea which would cling to him for days and days or until he had surmounted the difficulty. Mr.
Hand had no least corner in his heart for failure.
As a matter of fact, the situation in regard to American Match had reached such proportions as to be almost numbing. Aside from the fifteen thousand shares which Messrs. Hull and Stackpole had originally set aside for themselves, Hand, Arneel, Schryhart, and Merrill had purchased five thousand shares each at forty, but had since been compelled to sustain the market to the extent of over five thousand shares more each, at prices ranging from one-twenty to two-twenty, the largest blocks of shares having been bought at the latter figure. Actually Hand was caught for nearly one million five hundred thousand dollars, and his soul was as gray as a bat's wing. At fifty-seven years of age men who are used only to the most successful financial calculations and the credit that goes with unerring judgment dread to be made a mark by chance or fate.
It opens the way for comment on their possibly failing vitality or judgment. And so Mr. Hand sat on this hot August afternoon, ensconced in a large carved mahogany chair in the inner recesses of his inner offices, and brooded. Only this morning, in the face of a falling market, he would have sold out openly had he not been deterred by telephone messages from Arneel and Schryhart suggesting the advisability of a pool conference before any action was taken.
Come what might on the morrow, he was determined to quit unless he saw some clear way out--to be shut of the whole thing unless the ingenuity of Stackpole and Hull should discover a way of sustaining the market without his aid. While he was meditating on how this was to be done Mr. Stackpole appeared, pale, gloomy, wet with perspiration.
"Well, Mr. Hand," he exclaimed, wearily, "I've done all I can.
Hull and I have kept the market fairly stable so far. You saw what happened between ten and eleven this morning. The jig's up.
We've borrowed our last dollar and hypothecated our last share.
My personal fortune has gone into the balance, and so has Hull's.
Some one of the outside stockholders, or all of them, are cutting the ground from under us. Fourteen thousand shares since ten o'clock this morning! That tells the story. It can't be done just now--not unless you gentlemen are prepared to go much further than you have yet gone. If we could organize a pool to take care of fifteen thousand more shares--"
Mr. Stackpole paused, for Mr. Hand was holding up a fat, pink digit.
"No more of that," he was saying, solemnly. "It can't be done.
I, for one, won't sink another dollar in this proposition at this time. I'd rather throw what I have on the market and take what I can get. I am sure the others feel the same way."
Mr. Hand, to play safe, had hypothecated nearly all his shares with various banks in order to release his money for other purposes, and he knew he would not dare to throw over all his holdings, just as he knew he would have to make good at the figure at which they had been margined. But it was a fine threat to make.
Mr. Stackpole stared ox-like at Mr. Hand.
"Very well," he said, "I might as well go back, then, and post a notice on our front door. We bought fourteen thousand shares and held the market where it is, but we haven't a dollar to pay for them with. Unless the banks or some one will take them over for us we're gone--we're bankrupt."
Mr. Hand, who knew that if Mr. Stackpole carried out this decision it meant the loss of his one million five hundred thousand, halted mentally. "Have you been to all the banks?" he asked. "What does Lawrence, of the Prairie National, have to say?"
"It's the same with all of them," replied Stackpole, now quite desperate, "as it is with you. They have all they can carry--every one. It's this damned silver agitation--that's it, and nothing else. There's nothing the matter with this stock. It will right itself in a few months. It's sure to."
"Will it?" commented Mr. Hand, sourly. "That depends on what happens next November." (He was referring to the coming national election.)
"Yes, I know," sighed Mr. Stackpole, seeing that it was a condition, and not a theory, that confronted him. Then, suddenly clenching his right hand, he exclaimed, "Damn that upstart!" (He was thinking of the "Apostle of Free Silver.") "He's the cause of all this.
Well, if there's nothing to be done I might as well be going.
There's all those shares we bought to-day which we ought to be able to hypothecate with somebody. It would be something if we could get even a hundred and twenty on them."
"Very true," replied Hand. "I wish it could be done. I, personally, cannot sink any more money. But why don't you go and see Schryhart and Arneel? I've been talking to them, and they seem to be in a position similar to my own; but if they are willing to confer, I am. I don't see what's to be done, but it may be that all of us together might arrange some way of heading off the slaughter of the stock to-morrow. I don't know. If only we don't have to suffer too great a decline."
