Friday, the Thirteenth: A Novel
souls that are supposed to haunt the treacherous bogs and quicksands of
the great Exchange, where lie their earthly hopes, must have prayed with
renewed earnestness for its destruction before the morrow. Never had the
Stock Exchange folded its tents with surer confidence of continuing its
victorious march. Sugar advanced with record-breaking total sales to
207½ and in the final half-hour carried the whole list of stocks up
with it. In that time some of the railroads jumped ten points. Sugar
closed at the very top amid great excitement, with Barry Conant taking all
offered. During the last thirty minutes it had become evident to all that
the boardroom traders and plungers, together with many of the
semi-professional gamblers, who operated through commission houses, were
selling out their long stock and going short over the opening of the Wall
Street hoodoo-day, Friday, the thirteenth of the month. But it was also
evident, with the heavy selling at the close and the stiffness of the
price, which had never wavered as block after block was thrown on the
market, that some powerful interest as well had taken cognisance of the
fact that the morrow was hoodoo-day. At the close, most of the sellers,
had they been granted another five minutes, would have repurchased, even
at a loss, what they had sold, for it looked as though they had sold
themselves into a trap. Their anxiety was intensified by the publication,
a few minutes later, of this item:
“Barry Conant in coming from the Sugar crowd after the close remarked
to a fellow broker, ‘By three o’clock to-morrow, Friday, the 13th, will
have a new meaning to Wall Street.’ This was interpreted as pointing to
a terrific jump in Sugar to-morrow.”
“The Street” knew that the news bureau that sent out this item was
friendly to Barry Conant and the “System,” and that it would print nothing
displeasing to them. Therefore, this must be, a foreword of the coming
harvest of the bulls and the slaughter of the bears.
Others than Ike Bloomstein remarked upon the fact that Bob Brownley had
hung close to the Sugar-pole all day, but when the close had come and gone
without his having anything to do with the Sugar skyrockets, he dropped
out of his fellow-brokers’ minds. Wall Street has no use for any but the
“doer.” The poet and the mooner would be no more secure from interruption
in the centre of the Sahara than in Wall Street between ten and three
o’clock. Some sage has said that the human mind, like the well-bucket, can
carry only its fill. The Wall Street mind always has its fill of budding
dollars. In consequence, there is never room for those other interests
that enter the normal mind.
Friday, the 13th of November, drifted over Manhattan Island in a drear
drizzle of marrow-chilling haze, which just missed being rain—one of
those New York days that give a hesitating suicide renewed courage to cut
the mortal coil. By ten o’clock it had settled down on the Stock Exchange
and its surrounding infernos with a clamminess that damped the spirits of
the most rampant bulls. No class in the world is so susceptible to
atmospheric conditions as stock-gamblers. Many a stout-hearted one has
been known to postpone the inauguration of a long-planned coup merely
because the air filled his blood with the dank chill of superstition.
Because of the expected Sugar pyrotechnics, Stock Exchange members had
gathered early; the brokers’ offices were crowded to overflowing before
ten; the morning papers, not only in New York but in Boston, Philadelphia,
and other centres, were filled with stories of the big rise that was to
take place in Sugar. The knowing ones saw the ear-marks of the “System’s”
press-agent in these stories; and they knew that this industrious
institution had not sat up the night before because of insomnia. All the
signs pointed to a killing, and a terrific one—pointed so plainly that
the bears and Sugar shorts found no hope in the atmosphere or the date.
Bob had not been near the office the afternoon before, and as he had not
come in by five minutes to ten I decided to go over to the Exchange and
see if he were going to mix up in the baiting of the Sugar bears. I had no
specific reasons for thinking he was interested except his recent queer
actions, particularly his hanging to the Sugar-pole, yet doing nothing,
the day before. But it is one of the best-established traditions of
stock-gambledom that when an operator has been bitten by a rabid
stock he is invariably attracted to it every time afterward that it
shows signs of frothing. More than all, I had one of those strong
nowhere-born-nowhere-cradled intuitions common to those living in the
stock-gambling world, which made me feel the creepy shadow of coming
events.
As on that day a few weeks before, the crowd was at the Sugar-pole, but
its alignment was different. There in the centre were Barry Conant and his
trusted lieutenants, but no opposing rival. None of those hundreds of
brokers showed that desperate resolve to do or die that is born of a
necessity. They were there to buy or sell, but not to put up a life or
death, on-me-depends-the-result fight. Those who were long of stock could
easily be distinguished by their expressions of joy from the shorts, who
had seen the handwriting on the wall and were filled with uncertainty,
fear, terror. The demeanour of Barry Conant and his lieutenants expressed
confidence: they were going to do what they were there to do. They showed
by their tight-buttoned coats, and squared shoulders that they expected
lots of rush, push, and haul work, but apparently they anticipated no
last-ditch fighting. The gong pealed and the crowd of brokers sprang at
one another, but only for blood, not flesh, bone, heart, and soul; just
blood. The first price on Sugar was 211 for 3,000 shares. Someone sold it
in a block. Barry Conant bought it. It did not require three eyes to see
that the seller was one of his lieutenants. This meant what is known as a
“wash” sale, a fictitious one arranged in advance between two brokers to
establish the basis for the trades that are to follow—one of those minor
frauds of stock-gambling by which the public is deceived and the traders
and plungers are handicapped with loaded dice. In principle, it is a
device older than stock exchanges themselves, and is put to use elsewhere
than on the floor. For instance, four genuine buyers want a particular
animal worth $200 at a horse auction. Its owner’s pal starts the bidding
at $400, and the four, not being up in horse values, are thereby induced
to reach for it at between $400 to $500. But human nature, whether at
horse sales or at stock-gambling, loves to be “hinky-dinked” as much as
the moth loves to play tag with the candle flame. In five minutes Sugar
was selling at 221, and the frantic shorts were grabbing for it as though
there never was to be another share put on sale, while Barry Conant and
his lieutenants were most industriously pushing it just beyond their
reaching finger-tips, either by buying it as fast as it was offered by
genuine sellers or by taking what their own pals threw in the air.
I was not surprised to see Bob’s tall form wedged in the crowd about
two-thirds of the way from the centre. Every other active floor member was
there too. Even Ike Bloomstein and Joe Barnes, who seldom went into the
big crowds, were on hand, perhaps to catch a flier for their Thanksgiving
turkey money, perhaps to get as near the killing as possible. Bob was not
trading, although, as on the day before, he never took his eye off Barry
Conant. I said to myself, “He is trying to fathom Barry Conant’s
movements,” but for what purpose puzzled me. The hands of the big clock on
the wall showed that trading had been thirty minutes under way and still
Barry Conant was pushing up the price. His voice had just rung out “25 for
any part of 5,000” when, like an echo, sounded through the hall, “Sold.”
It was Bob. He had worked his way to the centre of the crowd and stood in
front of Barry Conant. He was not the Bob who had taken Barry Conant’s
gaff that afternoon a few weeks before. I never saw him cooler, calmer,
more self-possessed. He was the incarnation of confident power. A cold,
cynical smile played around the corners of his mouth as he looked down
upon his opponent.
The effect upon Barry Conant was different from that of Bob’s last bid on
the day when Beulah Sands’s hopes went skyward in dust. It did not rouse
him to the wild, furious desire for the onslaught that he showed then, but
seemed to quicken his alert, prolific mind to exercise all its cunning. I
think that in that one moment Barry Conant recalled his suspicions of the
day before, when he had wondered what Bob’s presence in the crowd meant,
and that he saw again the picture of Bob on the day when he himself had
ditched Bob’s treasure-train. He hesitated for just the fraction of a
second, while he waved with lightning-like rapidity a set of finger
signals to his lieutenants. Then he squared himself for the encounter. “25
for 5,000,” Cold, cold as the voice of a condemning judge rang Bob’s
“Sold.” “25 for 5,000.” “Sold.” “25 for 5,000.” “Sold.” Their eyes were
fixed upon each other, in Barry’s a defiant glare, in Bob’s mingled pity
and contempt. The rest of the brokers hushed their own bids and offers
until it could have truthfully been said that the floor of the Stock
Exchange was quiet, an almost unheard-of thing in like circumstances.
Again Barry Conant’s voice, “25 for 5,000.” “Sold.” “25 for 5,000.”
“Sold.” Barry Conant had met his master. Whether it was that for the first
time in all his wonderful career he realised that the “System” was to meet
its Nemesis, or what the cause, none could tell, perhaps not even Barry
Conant himself, but some emotion caused his olive face for an instant to
turn pale, and gave his voice a tell-tale quiver. Once more pealed forth
“25 for 5,000.” That Bob saw the pallor, that he caught the quiver, was
evident to all, for the instant his “Sold” rang out, he followed it with
“5,000 at 24, 23, 22, 20.” Neither Barry Conant nor any of his lieutenants
got in a “Take it”; although whether they wanted to or not was an open
question until Bob allowed his voice to dwell just a pendulum swing of
time on the 20. It was as if he were tantalising them into sticking by
their guns. By the time he paused, Barry Conant’s nerve was back, for his
piercing “Take it” had linked to it “20 for any part of 10,000.” The bid
was yet on his lips when Bob’s deep voice rang out “Sold.” “Any part of
25,000 at 19, 18, 15, 10.” Hell was now loose. Back and forth, up against
the rail, around the room and back and around again, the crowd surged for
fifteen of the wildest, craziest minutes in the history of the New York
Stock Exchange, a history replete with records of wild and crazy scenes.
At last from sheer exhaustion there came a ten minutes’ lull, which was
used in comparing trades. At the beginning of the respite Sugar was
selling at 155, for in that quarter-hour of madness it had broken from 210
to 155, but when the ten minutes had elapsed, the stock had worked back to
167. Barry Conant had again taken the centre of the crowd after hastily
scanning the brief notes handed him by messenger-boys and giving orders to
his lieutenants. He had evidently received reinforcements in the form of
renewed orders from his principals. Many of the faces that fringed the
inner circle of that crowd were frightful to look upon, some white as
though just lifted from hospital pillows, others red to the verge of
apoplexy—all strained as though awaiting the coming of the jury with a
life or death verdict. They all knew that Bob had sold more than a hundred
thousand shares of Sugar upon which the profits must be more than four