Hearts of Three 61

Hearts of Three 61

Yet no one of these was more than a bagatelle compared with the biggest

thing of all——Tampico Petroleum. In this, beyond a paltry twenty

thousand shares bought on the open market, Regan owned nothing,

controlled nothing, though the time was growing ripe for him to sell and

deal and juggle in inordinate quantities. Tampico Petroleum was

practically Francis’ private preserve. A number of his friends were, for

them, deeply involved, Mrs. Carruthers even gravely so. She worried him,

and was not even above pestering him over the telephone. There were

others, like Johnny Pathmore, who never bothered him at all, and who,

when they met, talked carelessly and optimistically about the condition

of the market and financial things in general. All of which was harder

to bear than Mrs. Carruthers’ perpetual nervousness.

 

Northwestern Electric, thanks to Regan’s machinations, had actually

dropped thirty points and remained there. Those on the outside who

thought they knew, regarded it as positively shaky. Then there was the

little, old, solid-as-the-rock-of-Gibraltar Frisco Consolidated. The

nastiest of rumors were afloat, and the talk of a receivership was

growing emphatic. Montana Lode was still sickly under Mulhaney’s

unflattering and unmodified report, and Weston, the great expert sent

out by the English investors, had failed to report anything reassuring.

For six months, Imperial Tungsten, earning nothing, had been put to

disastrous expense in the great strike which seemed only just begun. Nor

did anybody, save the several labor leaders who knew, dream that it was

Regan’s gold that was at the bottom of the affair.

 

The secrecy and the deadliness of the attack was what unnerved Bascom.

All properties in which Francis was interested were being pressed down

as if by a slow-moving glacier. There was nothing spectacular about the

movement, merely a steady persistent decline that made Francis’ large

fortune shrink horribly. And, along with what he owned outright, what he

held on margin suffered even greater shrinkage.

 

Then had come rumors of war. Ambassadors were receiving their passports

right and left, and half the world seemed mobilizing. This was the

moment, with the market shaken and panicky, and with the world powers

delaying in declaring moratoriums, that Regan selected to strike. The

time was ripe for a bear raid, and with him were associated half a dozen

other big bears who tacitly accepted his leadership. But even they did

not know the full extent of his plans, nor guess at the specific

direction of them. They were in the raid for what they could make, and

thought he was in it for the same reason, in their simple directness of

pecuniary vision catching no glimpse of Francis Morgan nor of his

ghostly father at whom the big blow was being struck.

 

Regan’s rumor factory began working overtime, and the first to drop and

the fastest to drop in the dropping market were the stocks of Francis,

which had already done considerable dropping ere the bear market began.

Yet Regan was careful to bring no pressure on Tampico Petroleum. Proudly

it held up its head in the midst of the general slump, and eagerly Regan

waited for the moment of desperation when Francis would be forced to

dump it on the market to cover his shrunken margins in other lines.

 

* * * * *

 

“Lord! Lord!”

 

Bascom held the side of his face in the palm of one hand and grimaced as

if he had a jumping toothache.

 

“Lord! Lord!” he reiterated. “The market’s gone to smash and Tampico Pet

along with it. How she slumped! Who’d have dreamed it!”

 

Francis, puffing steadily away at a cigarette and quite oblivious that

it was unlighted, sat with Bascom in the latter’s private office.

 

“It looks like a fire-sale,” he vouchsafed.

 

“That won’t last longer than this time to-morrow morning——then you’ll be

sold out, and me with you,” his broker simplified, with a swift glance

at the clock.

 

It marked twelve, as Francis’ swiftly automatic glance verified.

 

“Dump in the rest of Tampico Pet,” he said wearily. “That ought to hold

back until to-morrow.”

 

“Then what to-morrow?” his broker demanded, “with the bottom out and

everybody including the office boys selling short.”

 

Francis shrugged his shoulders. “You know I’ve mortgaged the house,

Dreamwold, and the Adirondack Camp to the limit.”

 

“Have you any friends?”

 

“At such a time!” Francis countered bitterly.

 

“Well, it’s the very time,” Bascom retorted. “Look here, Morgan. I know

the set you ran with at college. There’s Johnny Pathmore——”

 

“And he’s up to his eyes already. When I smash he smashes. And Dave

Donaldson will have to readjust his life to about one hundred and sixty

a month. And as for Chris Westhouse, he’ll have to take to the movies

for a livelihood. He always was good at theatricals, and I happen to

know he’s got the ideal ‘film’ face.”

 

“There’s Charley Tippery,” Bascom suggested, though it was patent that

he was hopeless about it.

 

“Yes,” Francis agreed with equal hopelessness. “There’s only one thing

the matter with him——his father still lives.”

 

“The old cuss never took a flyer in his life,” Bascom supplemented.

“There’s never a time he can’t put his hand on millions. And he still

lives, worse luck.”

 

“Charley could get him to do it, and would, except the one thing that’s

the matter with me.”

 

“No securities left?” his broker queried.

 

Francis nodded.

 

“Catch the old man parting with a dollar without due security.”

 

* * * * *

 

Nevertheless, a few minutes later, hoping to find Charley Tippery in his

office during the noon hour, Francis was sending in his card. Of all

jewelers and gem merchants in New York, the Tippery establishment was

the greatest. Not only that. It was esteemed the greatest in the world.

More of the elder Tippery’s money was invested in the great Diamond

Corner, than even those in the know of most things knew of this

particular thing.

 

The interview was as Francis had forecast. The old man still held tight

reins on practically everything, and the son had little hope of winning

his assistance.

 

“I know him,” he told Francis. “And though I’m going to wrestle with

him, don’t pin an iota of faith on the outcome. I’ll go to the mat with

him, but that will be about all. The worst of it is that he has the

ready cash, to say nothing of oodles and oodles of safe securities and

United States bonds. But you see, Grandfather Tippery, when he was young

and struggling and founding the business, once loaned a friend a

thousand. He never got it back, and he never got over it. Nor did Father

Tippery ever get over it either. The experience seared both of them.

Why, father wouldn’t lend a penny on the North Pole unless he got the

Pole for security after having had it expertly appraised. And you

haven’t any security, you see. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll wrestle with

the old man to-night after dinner. That’s his most amiable mood of the

day,. And I’ll hustle around on my own and see what I can do. Oh, I know

a few hundred thousand won’t mean anything, and I’ll do my darnedest for

something big. Whatever happens, I’ll be at your house at nine

to-morrow——”

 

“Which will be my busy day,” Francis smiled wanly, as they shook hands.

“I’ll be out of the house by eight.”

 

“And I’ll be there by eight then,” Charley Tippery responded, again

wringing his hand heartily. “And in the meantime I’ll get busy. There

are ideas already beginning to sprout....”

 

* * * * *

 

Another interview Francis had that afternoon. Arrived back at his

broker’s office, Bascom told him that Regan had called up and wanted to

see Francis, saying that he had some interesting information for him.

 

“I’ll run around right away,” Francis said, reaching for his hat, while

his face lighted up with hope. “He was an old friend of father’s, and if

anybody could pull me through, he could.”

 

“Don’t be too sure,” Bascom shook his head, and paused reluctantly a

moment before making confession. “I called him up just before you

returned from Panama. I was very frank. I told him of your absence and

of your perilous situation here, and——oh, yes, flatly and flat

out——asked him if I could rely on him in case of need. And he baffled.

You know anybody can baffle when asked a favor. That was all right. But

I thought I sensed more ... no, I won’t dare to say enmity; but I will

say that I was impressed ... how shall I say?—well, that he struck me as

being particularly and peculiarly cold-blooded and non-committal.”

 

“Nonsense,” Francis laughed. “He was too good a friend of my father’s.”

 

“Ever heard of the Conmopolitan Railways Merger?” Bascom queried with

significant irrelevance.

 

Francis nodded promptly, then said:

 

“But that was before my time. I merely have heard of it, that’s all.

Shoot. Tell me about it. Give me the weight of your mind.”

 

“Too long a story, but take this one word of advice. If you see Regan,

don’t put your cards on the table. Let him play first, and, if he

offers, let him offer without solicitation from you. Of course, I may be

all wrong, but it won’t damage you to hold up your hand and get his play

first.”