Joan and Co.
“But how in thunder did you do it?” questioned Dicky with interest.
“That isn’t important,” returned Forsythe. “The important thing is to
have a certified check ready.”
“That ought to be easy—if you’re sure of yourself.”
“Do you think I’d go through what I’ve been through if I wasn’t sure?”
“I don’t get you.”
Forsythe took out his watch.
“It’s now quarter of ten. Shall I see Mr. Burnett or leave it to you?”
“Leave it to me,” answered Dicky. “I’ll go in now.”
Forsythe handed him the sample and several letters.
“Show him these,” he advised.
Dicky took them, and feeling, on the whole, rather important with the
weight of business now on his shoulders, hurried into his father’s
office. Half a minute later he was back again to Forsythe.
“That’s darned curious,” he said. “Dad isn’t there. His hat and coat
are gone too.”
Forsythe sprang to his feet.
“Call a taxi,” he ordered. “Get down to the offices of Toole as fast as
you can make it. ’Phone me from there.”
Burnett senior had hardly swung his swivel chair up to his desk that
morning before he received a message from Toole. It was brief.
“There’s going to be something doing in steel this morning. You’d
better be here.”
“You mean—”
“Come down and I’ll explain. It’s important.”
So Burnett had put on his hat and coat again and tiptoed out with his
heart beating faster than it should. He was quite sure his physician
would have advised against any such excitement. But if all went well,
this would be the last time. It was to this end that he had taken on
yesterday a heavier load than he ever had intended. It was to this end
that he had broken his rule about margin trading. It was Toole who had
suggested this. He reminded him that the five thousand he had made
before on an outright purchase might just as easily have been fifty
thousand with the same amount of capital invested on a ten-point
margin. After all, this was not much different from the ordinary
real-estate transaction where one paid a per cent down and mortgaged
the property for the balance. The method, too, saved time. One was able
to condense a year’s transactions into a day. And time was important.
Dicky had bothered him a good deal in the last few days. How much he
suspected and how much he knew it was difficult to say, but it was
certain that in the end Dicky would find out everything and put a
stop to it. He had been around the office more than usual, ever since
he came back from the South. Whatever was to be accomplished must be
accomplished soon.
And in the last month he had dreamed larger and larger dreams for the
boy. At first he had been content to double his four hundred thousand,
but no sooner had the latter figures become established in his mind
than he wanted to double those. After all, when one was about it one
might as well. It appeared childishly easy. It only took a little
nerve. There was the tangible evidence of all his speculations so far.
He had made five thousand dollars which might just as well have been
fifty thousand.
Dicky was troubled. He saw it in a dozen little ways. Once or twice he
had tried to draw him out, but without much success. The lad was not
the kind to whine over what could not be helped. There was no doubt,
however, but what it had to do with this girl—the girl he had spoken of
as a princess. If as the last big act of his life Burnett could make
her a real princess—that was worth a risk. Dicky himself did not know
how. He had had no training. That was not his fault. The father was
beginning to realize that now. He had made his son what he was—had led
him on to expect every wish to be gratified—up to this latest wish, the
biggest one of all.
Perhaps this new reasoning was only born of the need of further
justification of the course he was pursuing. If so, he did not realize
it. He was honest with himself.
And, after all, it was something to have one’s heart pounding a bit
faster. It took him back twenty years to the days when it pounded like
this naturally. He called a taxi and leaned back with his thoughts
racing off at all sorts of angles.
His mood was a form of intoxication. All his senses were for the moment
sharpened. The sunlight appeared more golden; the sky bluer. He was
like a young man upon an adventure. Strictly speaking, it was Dicky’s
adventure and he was taking it for him. He was daring for him what he
would not dare for himself. By three o’clock it might be concluded and
the day won.
So he speeded to the offices of Toole & Co.—magnificent offices
presided over by Toole the magnificent. He passed through the crowd
beginning to gather in the outer rooms and went direct to the sacred
inner room. Toole, big and optimistic, rose to greet him.
“Good-morning, Mr. Burnett.”
The first quotations were already coming over the private ticker and
Burnett picked up the tape.
“How is she opening?”
“Steel is off a fraction,” replied Toole. “If I were you I’d follow it
down.”
“Eh? I’m in pretty heavy now.”
“I know it, but—well, I’ve been informed the bears are going to raid
the stock to-day.”
“Supposing I sit tight?”
“You can do that, but—of course you have enough on hand to bolster up
your margin account?”
The ticker reported a sale of six thousand shares—off a half. A second
sale of two thousand followed—off another eight.
“What the deuce does that mean?” demanded Burnett.
Toole shrugged his shoulders.
“The big ones are up to something,” he answered.
“I’ve a good mind to get out from under,” scowled Burnett.
“Then you’d better be quick about it,” advised Toole.
The next quotation was off a full point and the sales on that doubled.
If he sold now it meant a loss of five thousand—all he had made up to
date. It came like a challenge.
“Buy five hundred at the market,” he ordered.
Toole pressed a button on his desk and a boy jumped in.
“Five hundred steel at the market,” he repeated. “Better come back here
and stand by, Mr. Burnett.”
Burnett signed the order slip and the boy went out.
That was the beginning of the Big Hour—the hour when Burnett condensed
into sixty minutes almost a lifetime. Steel continued down, and he
followed it while Toole studied him, making, casually, little figures
on a pad in front of him. At the end of half that time he called for
more margin, and Burnett signed a check and sent a messenger to the
bank with it. At the end of another ten minutes he called for still
more, and Burnett in a daze did what Toole asked of him. Steel went
down three points, six points, ten points. Still, it could not go down
forever. There must come soon a point where it would stop and start the
other way. Then—
In the meanwhile a young man had stepped into the outer office of
Toole & Co. He wandered around the board room a few moments, looking
over the crowd as though seeking some one. These were all strange
faces. He stepped up to a clerk and asked if Mr. Burnett was here.
“Don’t know him,” replied the clerk.
He was very busy. Every one was very busy. There appeared to be a great
deal of excitement hereabouts.
He finally stopped another clerk.
“I’d like to see Mr. Toole,” he said.
He handed him a card and the boy went off. He returned in a moment with
the report that Mr. Toole was very sorry, but he could not see him
to-day.
Dicky considered a moment. There was something about the atmosphere of
this place he did not like. There was something about the name of Toole
and the fact that he was too busy to be seen that he did not like.
He drew from his pocket another card and scribbled across it this:
“I understand my father is here. I must see him on a very important
matter.”
He called the clerk again and sent this in to Mr. Toole. He waited five
minutes. This time Mr. Toole himself appeared—Toole the magnificent. He
was smiling.
“This is Mr. Burnett?” he inquired as he extended his hand.
Dicky hesitated somehow about accepting the hand. It was large and soft
and white.
“Yes. I came to see my father.”
“Just so,” answered Toole; “don’t you find him?”
He looked about the room as though joining in the search.
“He isn’t here,” said Dicky, “but I suppose you have private offices?”
“Why, yes, we have private offices, but—well, they are private.”
“Is Mr. Burnett in one of them?”
“He may be or he may not be,” replied Toole. “At any rate, it is the
policy of this firm not to interrupt our customers.”
“You understand he is my father?”
“I have your word for it,” smiled Toole.
“You understand I want to see him on an important matter?”
“I have your word for that, too.”
“Then,” said Dicky, his face hardening, “take my word for it I’m going
to see him.”
“That is assuming he is here.”
“Is he here?”
“I refuse to answer.”
“Then—”
Toole leaned closer to the young man’s ear.
“I wouldn’t make a scene. This is a private, not a public office. If
your father is here, you may be sure he received your message and
exercised his right to see you or not.”
Dicky glanced at his watch. It was half-past ten. After all, Forsythe
might have made a mistake. At any rate, the safe thing to do was to go
out and telephone and make sure.
“Thanks,” replied Dicky; “I’ll see if Mr. Burnett has returned to his
office. If he hasn’t I’ll be back.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” replied Toole.
Dicky hurried to the nearest telephone and got Forsythe on the wire.
The man sounded excited.
“I know he’s there. Insist on seeing him. Good God, you must see him!”
“Right,” answered Dicky; “if you don’t hear from me in half an hour
ring up police headquarters because there may be a good-sized row
develop in the office of Toole & Co.”
So Dicky went down with his face set this time and his eyes grown hard.
It was almost eleven! He called the clerk once again. This time he
scribbled on a card this message for Toole; “I’ve come back to see my
father. If I don’t get to him in five minutes, I’m going to start a
first-class rough house.”
As the clerk went across the board room and toward the inner office,
Dicky followed him. He waited just outside for his reply. Once again
Toole came out smiling.
“I’m sorry—” he began.
Dicky lowered his head a little as for a line plunge and bolted past
him. His shoulder took Toole in the pit of his rotund stomach, which
was perhaps why the man made no immediate reply. He saw his father
slumped down in a chair near the ticker, his head in his hand.
Burnett senior made his feet unsteadily.
“Dicky,” he trembled, “Dicky, they’ve got me. They’ve cleaned me out.”
“So?” answered Dicky. “Then take my arm. I guess it’s time to get out
of here.”
CHAPTER XXIX
A STRAIGHT TIP
Joan obeyed the message she had received at the office from Devons to
the extent of going back home and waiting there two hours for him.
She spent most of this time in her room within arm’s reach of the
telephone, expecting every second the jangling bell to summon her. But
the thing remained silent—ominously silent. Then, unable to control
herself further, she ventured to ring up the office. It was Miss
Manning who answered with the businesslike announcement, “The Devons
Manufacturing Company.”
“Has Mr. Devons come in yet?”
“No,” was the curt reply. “Do you wish to leave any message?”
“I think not,” replied Joan.
She replaced the receiver on its hook with a snap.
It was foolish of her to be irritated. For the last few days she had
struggled with a correspondence that had served her fair notice that
it was getting beyond her mediocre ability. Down deep in her heart
she had anticipated the necessity of turning over part of the work to
more experienced hands. But not the whole of it. An assistant was the