Blow The Man Down: A Romance Of The Coast
meeting was about to come off, and then I would see what a condemned
poor show I stood to get even the toe of my boot into the crack of the
company door. He's a Maine corporation. I've known of cases where that
fact helped a lot. There are plenty of ifs and buts in this thing, but
here goes!”
He applied himself to one of the office telephones, asked for several
numbers, one after the other, and put questions with eagerness and
rapidity.
The information he received seemed to disturb him considerably. He came
out of the booth and scrubbed his cheeks with his purple handkerchief.
“Their annual meeting at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, four hundred
miles from here! Well, I suppose I ought to be thankful that it's not
being held right now,” Mr. Fogg informed himself, determined to fan that
one flicker of hope with both wings of his optimism. “But I've got to
admit that twenty-four hours is almighty scant time for a job of this
sort, even when the operator is the little Fogg boy himself. Damme, I
haven't come to a full, realizing sense yet of all I've got to do and
how I'm going to do it.”
He hurried out, dove into an elevator, and was shot down to the street.
He was lucky enough to find a taxi at the curb.
“Grand Central,” he told the driver. “I've got five dollars that
says you can beat the Subway express and land me in season for the
ten-o'clock limited for Boston.”
As soon as it became evident to Mr. Fogg that his driver had seen his
duty and was going to do it, traffic squad be blowed, the promoter
settled back, and his thoughts began to revolve faster than the taxi's
wheels.
“It's going to be like the mining-camp 'lulu hand,'” was his mental
preface to his plans. “It can be played only once in a sitting-in; it
has got to be backed with good bluff, but it's a peach when it works.
And what am I a promoter for? What have I studied foreign corporation
laws for?”
Mr. Fogg took off his hat and mopped his bald spot, wrinkling his
eyelids in deep reflection.
“The idea is,” he mused, “I'm a candidate for the presidency of the Vose
line at to-morrow's meeting. But I haven't been elected yet!”
However, Mr. Fogg's preliminary sniffing at the affairs of the Vose line
had informed him where he could pick up at least ten scattered shares of
their stock. He figured that before midnight he would have them in his
possession. As to the next day and the next steps, well, the nerve of a
real American plunger clings to life until the sunset of all hopes, even
as the snake's tail, though the serpent's head be bruised beyond repair,
is supposed to wriggle until sunset.
He despatched a telegram at New Haven. He received a reply at
Providence, and he read it and felt like a gambler who has drawn a
card to fill his bobtail hand. When a design is brazen and the game is
largely a bluff, plain, lucky chance must be appealed to.
The telegram had been addressed to Attorney Sawyer Franklin, in a Maine
city. It had requested an appointment with Mr. Franklin on the following
morning.
The reply had stated that Mr. Franklin was critically ill in a hospital,
but that all matters of business would be attended to by his office
force, as far as was possible.
Attorney Sawyer Franklin, as Mr. Fogg, of course, was fully aware, was
clerk of the Vose line corporation, organized according to the Maine
law as a “foreign corporation,” under the more liberal regulations which
have attracted so many metropolitan promoters into the states of Maine
and New Jersey.
XVIII ~ HOW AN ANNUAL MEETING WAS HELD--ONCE!
O, a ship she was rigged and ready for sea,
And all of her sailors were fishes to be!
Windy-y-weather,
Stormy-y-weather!
When the wind blows we're all together!
--The Fishes.
Fletcher Fogg, suave, dignified, radiating business importance,
freshened by a barber's ministrations, walked into the Franklin
law-offices the next morning at nine-thirty.
He announced himself to a girl typist, and she referred him to a young
man who came forth from a private room.
“I have power of attorney from Mr. Franklin to transact his routine
business,” explained the young man. “Of course, if it's a new case or a
question of law--”
“Neither, neither, my dear sir! Simply a matter of routine. But,” he
leaned close to the young man's ear, “strictly private.”
Mr. Fogg himself closed the door of the inner office when the two had
retired there.
“One of your matters to-day, I believe, is the annual meeting of the
Vose line. I am a stockholder.”
Fogg produced a packet of certificates and laid them on the desk.
“Are there to be any officers or other stockholders present?” he asked,
showing just a bit of solicitude, in spite of himself.
“I think not,” returned the young man. “Nothing has been said about it.
The proxies and instructions have been sent in, as usual, by registered
mail.” He indicated documents stacked on the desk. “I was just about to
begin on the matter.”
“I suppose our proxies run to the clerk of the corporation, as usual,
with full power of substitution, clerk to follow instructions,” said
Mr. Fogg, a bit pompously, using his complete knowledge of corporation
routine.
“Yes, sir. We handle most of the corporation meetings that way when it's
all cut and dried. In this case, it's simply a re-election of the old
officers.”
“Exactly!”
Mr. Fogg pulled his chair closer, dabbed his purple handkerchief on
each side of his nose, and inquired, kindly and confidentially: “My son,
what's your name?”
“David Boyne.”
“Law student here--secretary, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Exactly--and a long, hard pull ahead of you. It's too bad you're not in
New York, where a young man doesn't have to travel the whole way around,
but can cut a corner or two. I could give you a lot of examples of
bright young chaps who have grabbed in when the grabbing was good.
“But I haven't the time. You take my word for it. I'm a plain, outspoken
business man, and I'm in with the biggest financial interests in New
York. And I'm going to offer you the grandest opportunity of your life
right now, David.”
He picked up his certificates and arranged them in one hand, as a player
arranges his cards.
“I have here ten shares, say, and each share is owned by a different
individual--all good men. You don't know them, but I do. They are
connected with our big interests. And I'm right here as a stockholder.
Do you realize, David, that instructing you to hold this meeting without
a single stockholder present is really asking you to do something that's
not strictly legal?”
“We usually do it this way,” faltered Boyne.
“Exactly! Men like those who are running the Vose line are always asking
an innocent man to do something illegal. I'm going to come right to
the point with you, David. Those old moss-backs who have sent those
instructions are trying to wreck the Vose line. I want you to disregard
those instructions. I am anxious to be president and general manager
of the line. I want you to elect as directors these stockholders.” He
tapped his finger on the certificates.
The young man was both frightened and bewildered. He turned pale. “I
can't do that,” he gasped.
“Yes, you can. There are the proxies. It's up to you to vote 'em as you
want to. They allow full power of substitution, usual fashion!”
“But I can't disobey my instructions.”
“I say you can, if you've got grit enough to make a good thing for
yourself.”
“Such a thing was never done here.”
“Probably not. It's a new idea. But new things are being done right
along in high finance. You ought to be up where big things are happening
every day. You stand in with me, and I'll put you there. You see, I'm
getting right down to cases on this matter with you, David. Vote those
proxies as I direct and I'll hand you five thousand dollars inside of
two hours, and will plant you in a corking job with my people as soon as
this thing calms down. I could have palavered a long time before coming
to business in this way, but I see you're a bright young fellow and
don't need a lot of hair-oil talk. I don't ask you to hurt anybody in
especial. You can elect the old treasurer--we don't want to handle the
money--this is no cheap brace game. But I want a board of directors
who will put me in as general manager until certain reforms can be
instituted so as to bring the line up to date. Five thousand dollars,
mind you, and then you'll be taken care of.”
“But I'll be put into state prison.”
“Nonsense, my boy! Why would you vote those proxies according to your
instructions? Why, because it would be for your interest to do so if
I hadn't come in here with a better proposition. Now it's for your
interest to vote 'em as I tell you. The most they can make out of it
is a breach of trust, and that amounts to nothing. With five thousand
dollars in your mitt, you wouldn't need to hang around here to take
a lot of slurs. I'll slip you another thousand for your expenses on a
little trip till the air is all clear.”
Boyne stared at this blunt and forceful tempter; his hand which clutched
the chair-arms trembled; “I'm going to be still more frank with you,
my boy. And, by the way, you must know that I'm no mere four-flusher.
You've heard of Fletcher Fogg, eh? You knew who I was when you got that
wire from me yesterday?”
“Why, yes, I know of you through our corporation work, sir.”
“Exactly!” Mr. Fogg assumed even more unctuously the manner of an old
friend. “Now, as I say, I'm going to be frank--take you in on the ground
floor. Of course, they can have another--a special meeting of the Vose
line after a thirty days' notice to the stockholders. They will probably
call that meeting, and I don't care if they do. But I have an ambition
to be general manager of the line for those thirty days to make--well, I
want to make a little investigation of general conditions,” declared Mr.
Fogg, resorting to his purple handkerchief. “That's all I care to say.
At the end of thirty days we may--I'm speaking of the big interests
I represent--we may decide to buy the line and make it really worth
something to the stockholders. You understand, I hope. It's strictly
business--it's all right--it's good financiering. After it's all over
and those old, hardshell directors wake up, I'll venture to say they'll
be pleased all around that this little turn has been made. In the
mean time, having been taken care of, you needn't mind whether they're
pleased or not.”
Boyne looked at the sheaf of certificates in Fogg's hand; he bent
frightened gaze on the documents stacked on the desk. They lay there
representing his responsibility, but they also represented opportunity.
The sight of them was a rebuke to the agitated thoughts of treason
which assailed him. But the mere papers had no voice to make that rebuke
pointed.
Mr. Fogg did have a voice. “Five thousand dollars in your fist, my boy,
as soon as I can work the wire to New York--and there's no piker about
the man who can have five thousand flashed in here when he asks for it.
You can see what kind of men are behind me. What do you care about old
man Vose and his crowd?”
“There's Mr. Franklin! I'll be doing a mighty mean trick, Mr. Fogg. No,
I'll not do it.”
Mr. Fogg did not bluster. He was silent for some time. He pursed his
lips and stared at Boyne, and then he shifted his gaze to the ceiling.
“It's too bad--too bad for a young fellow to turn down such an
opportunity,” he sighed. “It can be done without you, Boyne, in another
way. The same result will happen. But you might as well be in on it.
Now let me tell you a few instances of how some of the big men in this
country got their start.”
Mr. Fogg was an excellent raconteur with a vivid imagination, and it did