Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“How do you do, gentlemen? Don’t move, please; don’t move.” He made no motion to shake hands with any of them, but Greenbaum came to him and held out his fat dexter resolutely and Sharpe took it. Then Greenbaum sat down and said, “We’re here,” and smiled, blandly.

Sharpe stood at the head of the polished, shining table, and glanced slowly down the double row of alert faces. His look rested a fraction of a minute on each man’s eyes—a sharp, half-contemptuous, almost menacing look that made the older men uncomfortable and the younger resentful.

“Greenbaum tells me you wish to pool your Turpentine stock and have me market it for you.”

All nodded; a few said “yes”; one—Lindheim, _aetat 27_—said, flippantly, “That’s what.”

“Very well. What will each man’s proportion be?”

“I have a list here, Sharpe,” put in Greenbaum. He intentionally omitted the “Mr.” for effect upon his colleagues. Sharpe noted it, but did not mind it.

Sharpe read aloud:

Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co 38,000 shares.
I. & S. Wechsler 14,000 shares.
Morris Steinfelder’s Sons 14,000 shares.
Reis & Stern 11,000 shares.
Kohn, Fischel & Co 10,000 shares.
Silberman & Lindheim 9,000 shares.
Rosenthal, Shaffran & Co 9,800 shares.
Zeman Bros 8,600 shares.
______________

Total 114,400 shares.

“Is that correct, gentlemen?” asked Sharpe.

Greenbaum nodded his head and smiled affably as befitted the holder of the biggest block. Some said “Yes”; others, “That is correct.” Young Lindheim said, “That’s what.” The founders of the firm—his uncle and his father—were dead, and he had inherited the entire business from the two. His flippancy was not inherited from either.

“It is understood,” said Sharpe, slowly, “that I am to have complete charge of the pool, and conduct operations as I see fit. I want no advice and no questions. If there is any asking to be done, I’ll do it. If my way does not suit you we’ll call the deal off right here, because it’s the only way I have. I know my business, and if you know yours you’ll keep your mouths shut in this office and out of it.”

No one said a word, not even Lindheim.

“Each of you will continue to carry the stock for which he has agreed to stand in the pool. You’ve had it a year and couldn’t sell it, and you might keep it a few weeks more, until I sell it for you. It must be subject to my call at one minute’s notice. I’ve looked into the company’s business, and I think the stock can easily sell at 75 or 80.”

Something like a gasp of astonishment came from those eight hardened speculators. Then Greenbaum smiled, knowingly, as if that were his programme, memorized and spoken by Sharpe.

“It is also understood,” went on Sharpe, very calmly, “that none of you has any other stock for sale at any price, excepting his proportion in this pool, and that proportion, of course, is not to be sold excepting by me.” No one said a word, and he continued:

“My profit will be 25 per cent of the pool’s winnings, figuring on the stock having been put in at 29. The remaining profits will be divided pro rata among you; the necessary expenses will be shared similarly. I think that’s all. And, gentlemen, no unloading on the sly—not one share.”

“I want you to understand, Mr. Sharpe, that we are not in the habit of—” began Greenbaum with perfunctory dignity. He felt it was his duty to remonstrate before his colleagues.

“Oh, that’s all right, Greenbaum. I know you. That’s why I’m particular. We’ve all been in Wall Street more than a month or two. I simply said, ‘No shenanigan.’ And, Greenbaum,” he added, very distinctly, while his eyes took on that curious, cold, menacing look, “I mean it, every d——d word of it. I want the numbers of all your stock-certificates. Excuse me, gentlemen. I am very busy. Good-afternoon.”

And that is how the famous bull pool in Turpentine came to be formed. They thought he might have been nicer, more diplomatic; but as they had sought him, not he them, they bore with his eccentricities. Each pool manager had his way, just as there are various kinds of pools.

“Sam is not half a bad fellow,” Greenbaum told them, as if apologizing for a dear friend’s weaknesses. “He wants to make out he is a devil of a cynic, but he’s all right. If you humor him you can make him do anything. _I_ always let him have his way.”

On the very next day began the historical advance in Turpentine. It opened up at 30. The specialists—brokers who made a specialty of dealing in it—took 16,000 shares, causing an advance to 32⅛. Everybody who had been “landed” with the shares at higher figures, and had bitterly regretted it ever since, now began to feel hopeful. As never before a stock had been manipulated, with intent to deceive and malice prepense, so did Sharpe manipulate Turpentine stock. The tape told the most wonderful stories in the world, not the less wonderful because utterly untrue. Thus, one day the leading commission houses in the Street were the buyers, which inevitably led to talk of “important developments”; and the next day brokers identified with certain prominent financiers took calmly, deliberately, nonchalantly, all the offerings; which clearly indicated that the aforementioned financiers had acquired a “controlling interest”—the majority of the stock—of the American Turpentine Company. And on another day there was a long string of purchases of “odd” lots—amounts less than 100 shares—by brokers that usually did business for the Greenbaum syndicate, meaning that friends of the syndicate had received a “tip” straight from “the inside” and were buying for investment.

Then, one fine, sunshiny day, when everybody felt very well and the general market was particularly firm, the loquacious tape told the watchful professional gamblers of Wall Street—oh, so plainly!—that there was “inside realizing”; said, almost articulately to them, that the people most familiar with the property were unloading. Sharpe was selling, with intentional clumsiness, stock he had been forced to accumulate during his bull manipulation—for in order to advance the price he had to buy much—and he was not averse to conveying such impressions as would lead to the creation of a short interest, large enough to make it profitable to “squeeze.” He had too much company on the bull side. And sure enough the professional gamblers said: “Aha! They are through with it. The movement is over!” and sold “Turp” short confidently, for a worthless stock had no business to be selling at $46 a share. The price yielded and they sold more the next day. But lo, on the day following, the Board member of a very conservative house went into the “Turp” crowd and bought it—he did not “bid up” the price at all, but bought and bought until he had accumulated 20,000 shares, and the bears became panic-stricken, and rumors of a nearby dividend began to circulate, and the bears covered their shorts at a loss and “went long”—bought in the hope of a further rise—and the stock closed at 52.

And Sharpe reduced very greatly the amount of “Turp” stock he had been obliged to take for manipulative purposes. So far he was buying more than he sold. Later he would sell more than he bought. When the demand exceeds the vendible supply, obviously the price rises; when the supply for sale exceeds the demand, a fall results. But the average selling price of a big line may be high enough to make the operation profitable, even though a decline occurs during the course of the selling.

For a week “Turp” rested; then it began to rise once more. At 56 and 58 it became the most active stock of the entire list. Everybody talked about it. The newspapers began to publish statements of the company’s wonderful earnings, and the Street began to think that, in common with other “trusts,” the American Turpentine Company must be a very prosperous concern. The company at this time developed a habit of advancing prices a fraction of a cent per gallon every week, so that the papers could talk of the boom in the turpentine trade.

At 60 the Street thought there really must be something behind the movement, for no mere manipulation could put up the price thirty points in a month’s time, which shows what a wonderful artist Sharpe was. And people began to look curiously and admiringly and enviously and in many other ways at “Jakey” Greenbaum and his accomplices, and to accuse them of having intentionally kept down the price of the stock for a year in order to “freeze out” the poor, unsophisticated stockholders, and to “tire out” some of the early buyers, because “Turp,” being “a good thing,” Greenbaum _et al._ wanted it all for themselves. And Greenbaum _et al._ smiled guiltily and said nothing, though Jakey winked from time to time when they spoke to him about it; and old Isidore Wechsler cultivated a Napoleon III. look of devilish astuteness; and “Bob” Lindheim became almost dignified; and myopic little Morris Steinfelder gained 15 pounds and Rosenthal stopped patting everybody on the back, and mutely invited everybody to pat him on the back.

Then Sharpe sent for “Jakey,” and on the next day young “Eddie” Lazarus swaggeringly offered to wager $10,000 against $5,000 that a dividend on “Turp” stock would be declared during the year. Whereupon the newspapers of their own accord began to guess how great a dividend would be paid, and when; and various figures were mentioned in the Board room by brokers who confided to their hearers that they “got it on the dead q. t., _straight from the inside_.” And two days later Sharpe’s unsuspected brokers offered to pay 1¾ per cent for the dividend on 100,000 shares, said dividend to be declared within sixty days or the money forfeited. And the stock sold up to 66¾, and the public wanted it. A big, broad market had been established, in which one could buy or sell the stock with ease by the tens of thousands of shares. The 114,400 shares, which at the inception of the movement at the unsalable price of $30 a share represented a theoretical $3,432,000, now readily vendible at $65 a share, meant $7,422,000; not half bad for a few weeks’ work.

And still Sharpe, wonderful man that he was, gave no sign that he was about to begin unloading. Whereupon the other members of the pool began to wish he were not quite so greedy. They were satisfied to quit, they said. The presence of the pool’s stock in their offices began to irritate them. They knew the vicissitudes of life, the uncertainties of politics, and of the stock market. Supposing some crazy anarchist blew up the President of the United States, or the Emperor of Germany were to insult his grandmother, the market would “break” to pieces, and their $4,000,000 of paper profits would disappear. They implored, individually and collectively, Mr. Jacob Greenbaum to call on Sharpe; and Greenbaum, disregarding a still, small voice that warned him against it, went to Sharpe’s office, and came out of it, two minutes later, somewhat flushed, and assured his colleagues one by one that Sharpe was all right, and that he seemed to know his business. Also, that he was cranky that day. He always was, added Greenbaum forgivingly, when one of his horses lost a race.

The stock fluctuated between 60 and 65. It seemed to be having a resting spell. But as it had enjoyed these periods of repose on three several occasions during the rise—at 40 and 48 and 56–-the public became all the more eager to buy it whenever it fell to 60 or 59, for the Street was now full of tips that “Turp” would go to par. And such was the public’s speculative temper and Mr. Sharpe’s good work that disinterested observers were convinced the stock would surely sell above 90 at the very least. Mr. Sharpe still bought and sold, but he sold twice as much as he bought, and the big block he had been obliged to take in the course of his manipulation diminished. On the next day he hoped to begin selling the pool stock.

That very day Mr. Greenbaum, as he returned to his office from his luncheon, felt well pleased with the meal and therefore with himself and therefore with everything. He scanned a yard or two of the tape and smiled. “Turp” was certainly very active and very strong.

“In such a market,” thought Mr. Greenbaum, “Sharpe can’t possibly tell he’s getting stock from me. In order to be on the safe side I’m going to let him have a couple of thousand. Then, should anything happen, I’d be that much ahead. Ike!” he called to a clerk.

“Yes, sir.”

“Sell two—wait; make it 3,000–-no, never mind. Send for Mr. Ed Lazarus.” And he muttered to himself, with a sub-thrill of pleasure: “I can just as well as not make it 5,000 shares.”

“Eddie,” he said to his partner’s son, “give an order to some of the room traders, say to Willie Schiff, to sell five—er—six—tell him to sell 7,000 shares of Turpentine and to borrow the stock. I am not selling a share, see?” with a wink. “It’s short selling by him, do you understand?”

“Do I? Well, I guess. I’ll fix that part O.K.,” said young Lazarus, complacently. He thought he would cover Greenbaum’s tracks so well as to deceive everybody, including that highly disagreeable man, Samuel Wimbleton Sharpe. He felt so confident, so elated, did the young man, that when he gave the order to his friend and club-mate, Willie Schiff, he raised it to 10,000 shares. Greenbaum’s breach of faith had grown from the relatively small lot of 2,000 shares to five times that amount. It was to all appearances short stock, and it was duly “borrowed” by young Schiff. It was advisable that it should so appear. In the first place no member of the pool could supply the stock which he held, because Sharpe could trace the selling to the office, as he had the numbers of the stock certificates. And, again, short selling does not have the weakening effect that long selling has. When stock is sold short it is evident that sooner or later the seller will have to buy it back; that is, a future demand for the stock is assured from this source, if from no other. Whereas, long stock is that actually held by some one.

Isidore Wechsler, who held 14,000 shares, was suffering from a bad liver the same day that Greenbaum was suffering from nothing at all, not even a conscience. A famous art collection would be sold at auction that week, and he felt sure his vulgar friend, “Abe” Wolff, would buy a couple of exceptionally fine Troyons and a world-famous Corot, merely to get his name in the papers.

“‘Turp,’ 62⅞,” said his nephew, who was standing by the ticker.

Then old Wechsler had an idea. If he sold 2,000 shares of Turpentine at 62 or 63, he would have enough to buy the best ten canvases of the collection. His name—and the amounts paid—would grace the columns of the papers. What was 3,000 shares, or even 4,000, when Sharpe had made such a big, broad market for the stock?

“Why, I might as well make it 5,000 shares while I’m about it, for there’s no telling what may happen if Sharpe should overstay his market. I’ll build a new stable at Westhurst”—his country place—“and call it,” said old Wechsler to himself, in his peculiar, facetious way so renowned in Wall Street, “the Turpentine Horse Hotel, in honor of Sharpe.” And so his 5,000 shares were sold by E. Halford, who had the order from Herzog, Wertheim & Co., who received it from Wechsler. It was short selling, of course.

Total breach of faith, 15,000 shares.

Now that very evening Bob Lindheim’s extremely handsome wife wanted a necklace, and wanted it at once; also she wanted it of filbert-sized diamonds. She had heard her husband speak highly of Sam Sharpe’s masterly manipulation of Turpentine, and she knew he was “in on the ground floor.” She read the newspapers, and she always followed the stock market diligently, for Bob, being young and loving, used to give her a share in his stock deals from time to time, and she learned to figure for herself her “paper” or theoretical profits, when there were any, so that Bob couldn’t have “welched” if he had wished. On this particular evening she had statistics ready for him, showing how much money he had made; and she wanted that necklace. She had longed for it for months. It cost only $17,000. But there was also a lovely bracelet, diamonds and rubies, and——

Lindheim, to his everlasting credit, remonstrated and told her: “Wait until the pool realizes, sweetheart. I don’t know at what price that will be, for Sharpe says nothing. But I know we’ll all make something handsome, and so will you. I’ll give you 500 shares at 30. There!”

“But I want it now!” she protested, pouting. She was certainly beautiful, and when she pouted, with her rich, red lips——

“Wait a week, dear,” he urged nevertheless.

“Lend me the money now, and I’ll pay it back to you when you give me what I make on the deal,” she said, with fine finality. And seeing hesitation in Bob’s face, she added, solemnly: “Honest, I will, Bob. I’ll pay you back every cent, this time.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Bob. He always said it when he had capitulated, and she knew it, and so she said, magnanimously: “Very well, dear.”

Lindheim thought 1,000 shares would do it, so he decided to sell a thousand the next day, for you can never tell what may happen, and accidents seldom help the bulls. But as he thought of it in his office more calmly, more deliberately, away from his wife and from the influence she exercised over him, it struck him forcibly that it was wrong to sell 1,000 shares of Turpentine stock. He might as well as not make it 2,500; and he did. He was really a modest fellow, and very young. His wife’s cousin sold the stock for him, apparently short.

Total breach of faith, 17,500 shares. The market stood it well. Sharpe was certainly a wonderful chap.

Unfortunately, Morris Steinfelder, Jr., decided to sell 1,500 “Turp,” and did so. The stock actually rose a half point on his sales. So he sold another 1,500, and, as a sort of parting shot, 500 shares more. All this through an unsuspected broker.

Total breach of faith, 21,000 shares. The market was but slightly affected.

Then Louis Reis of Reis & Stern, “Andy” Fischel of Kohn, Fischel & Co., Hugo Zeman of Zeman Bros., and “Joe” Shaffran of Rosenthal, Shaffran & Co., all thought they could break their pledges to Sharpe with impunity, and each sold, to be on the safe side. This last lump figured up as follows:

─────────────┬─────────────┬─────────────┬─────────────
│ Sales First │ Period of │Actual Sales.
│Contemplated.│ Hesitancy. │
─────────────┼─────────────┼─────────────┼─────────────
│ Shares. │ Minutes. │ Shares.
Louis Reis │ 1,500│ 3 │ 2,600
Andy Fischel │ 2,000│ 15 │ 5,000
Hugo Zeman │ 1,000│ 0 │ 1,000
Joe Shaffran │ 500│ 1¾ │ 1,800
─────────────┴─────────────┴─────────────┴─────────────

Total breach of faith, 31,400 shares.

The market did not take it well. Sharpe, endeavoring to realize on the remainder of his manipulative purchases, found that “some one had been there before him.”

An accurate list of the buyers and sellers was sent in every day by his lieutenants, for all but the most skilful operators invariably betray themselves when they attempt to sell a big block of stock. He scanned it very carefully now, and put two and two together; and he made certain inquiries and put four and four together—four names and four other names. He saw through the time-worn device of the fictitious short selling. He knew the only people who would dare sell such a large amount must be his colleagues. He also was convinced that their breach of faith was not a concerted effort, because if they had discussed the matter they would have sold a smaller quantity. He knew where nearly every share of the stock was. It was his business to know everything about it.

“Two,” he said to his secretary, “may play at that game.” And he began to play.

By seemingly reckless, plunging purchases he started the stock rushing upward with a vengeance-–63, 64, 65, 66, four points in as many minutes. The floor of the Stock Exchange was the scene of the wildest excitement. The market—why, the market was simply Turpentine. Everybody was buying it, and everybody was wondering how high it would go, Greenbaum and the other seven included. It looked as if the stock had resumed its triumphant march to par.

Then Sharpe called in all the stock his brokers were loaning to the shorts, and he himself began to borrow it. This, together with the legitimate requirements of the big short interest, created a demand so greatly in excess of the supply that Turpentine loaned at a sixty-fourth, at a thirty-second, at an eighth, and finally at a quarter premium over night. It meant that the shorts had either to cover or to pay $25 per diem for the use of each 100 shares of stock they borrowed. On the 31,400 shares that the syndicate was borrowing it meant an expense of nearly $8,000 a day; and in addition the stock was rising in price. The shorts were losing at the rate of many thousands a minute. There was no telling where the end would be, but it certainly looked stormy for both the real and the fictitious shorts.

Mr. Sharpe sent a peremptory message to Greenbaum, Lazarus & Co.; I. & M. Wechsler; Morris Steinfelder’s Sons; Reis & Stern; Kohn, Fischel & Co.; Silberman & Lindheim; Rosenthal, Shaffran & Co.; and Zeman Bros. It was the same message to all:

“_Send me at once all your Turpentine stock!_”

There was consternation and dismay, also admiration and self-congratulation, among the recipients of the message. They would have to buy back in the open market the stock they had sold a few days before. It would mean losses on the treasonable transactions of fully a quarter of a million, but the pool “stood to win” simply fabulous sums, if Mr. Sharpe did his duty.

There were some large blocks of stock for sale at 66, but Sharpe’s brokers cleared the figures with a fierce, irresistible rush, whooping exultantly. The genuine short interest was simply panic-stricken, and atop it all there came orders to buy an aggregate of 31,400 shares—orders from Messrs. Greenbaum, Wechsler, Lindheim, Steinfelder, Reis, Fischel, Shaffran, and Zeman. The stock rose grandly on their buying: 4,000 shares at 66; 2,200 at 66⅜; 700 at 67⅝; 1,200 at 68; 3,200 at 69½; 2,000 at 70; 5,700 at 70½; 1,200 at 72. Total, 31,400 shares bought in by the “Skindicate.” Total, 31,400 shares sold by Samuel Wimbleton Sharpe to his own associates in the great Turpentine pool. In all he found buyers for 41,700 shares that day, but it had taken purchases of exactly 21,100 to “stampede the shorts” earlier in the day, and in addition he held 17,800 shares acquired in the course of his bull manipulation, which had not been disposed of when he discovered the breach of faith, so that at the day’s close he found himself not only without a share of stock manipulatively purchased, but “short” for his personal account of 2,800 shares.

The newspapers published picturesque accounts of the “Great Day in Turpentine.” A powerful clique, they said, owned so much of the stock—had “cornered” it—that they could easily mark up the price to any figure. They called it a “memorable squeeze.” It was hinted also that Mr. Sharpe had been on the wrong side of the market, and one paper gave a wealth of details and statistics in bold, bad type to prove that the wily bear leader had been caught short of 75,000 shares, and had covered at a loss of $1,500,000. A newspaper man whose relations with Sharpe were intimate asked him, very carelessly: “What the deuce caused the rise in Turpentine?” and Sharpe drawled: “I don’t know for a certainty, but I rather imagine it was inside buying!”

On the next day came the second chapter of the big Turpentine deal. Mr. Sharpe, having received the pool’s 114,400 shares, divided it into three lots, 40,000 shares, 50,000 shares, and 24,400 shares. The market had held fairly strong, but the lynx-eyed room traders failed to perceive the usual “support” in “Turp” and began to sell it in order to make sure. There was enough commission-house buying and belated short-covering to keep it moderately steady. Then the room traders redoubled their efforts to depress it, by selling more than there were buying orders for; also by selling it cheaper than was warranted by the legitimate demand for the stock. It was a favorite trick to offer to sell thousands of shares lower than people were willing to pay, in order to frighten the timid holders and make them sell; which in turn would make still others sell, until the movement became general enough to cause a substantial fall.

Slowly the price began to yield. All that was needed was a leader. Whereupon Mr. Sharpe took the first lot of pool stock, 40,000 shares, and hurled it full at the market. The impact was terrible; the execution appalling. The market reeled crazily. The stock, which after selling up to 72¾ had “closed” on the previous day at 71⅞, dropped twenty points and closed at 54. The newspapers said that the corner was “busted”; that the “squeeze” was over. Hundreds of people slept ill that night. Scores did not sleep at all.

On the next day he fired by volleys 50,000 shares more at the market. The stock sank to 41¼. Such a break was almost unprecedented.

The Street asked itself if it were not on the eve of a crash that would become historic in a district whose chronology is reckoned by big market movements.

Greenbaum rushed to Sharpe’s office. The terrible break gave him courage to do anything. A Wall Street worm will turn when the market misbehaves itself.

“What’s the matter?” he asked angrily. “What are you doing to Turpentine?”

Sharpe looked him full in the face, but his voice was even and emotionless as he replied: “Somebody has been selling on us. I don’t know who. I wish I did. I was afraid I might have to take 100,000 shares more, so I just sold as much as I could. I’ve marketed most of the pool’s stock. If it had not been for the jag of stock I struck around 60 and 62, Turpentine would be selling at 85 or 90 to-day. Come again next week, Greenbaum; and keep cool. Did you ever know me to fail? Good-by, Greenbaum; and don’t raise your voice when you speak to me.”

“This has gone too far,” said Greenbaum, hotly. “You must give me an explanation or by Heaven I’ll——”

“Greenbaum,” said Mr. Sharpe, in a listless voice, “don’t get excited. Good-by, Greenbaum. Be virtuous and you will be happy.” And he resumed his caged-tiger pacing up and down his office. As by magic, Mr. Sharpe’s burly private secretary appeared, and said: “This way, Mr. Greenbaum,” and led the dazed Trust-maker from the office. On his return Sharpe told him: “There is no need to accuse those fellows of breach of faith. They’d deny it.”

The next day Mr. Sharpe simply poured the remaining 25,000 shares of the pool’s stock on the market as one pours water from a pitcher into a cup. The bears had it all their own way. The loquacious tape said, ever so plainly: “This is nothing but inside liquidation, all the more dangerous and ominous since it is at such low figures and is so urgent in its character. Heaven alone can tell where it will end; and there is no telephone communication thither.”

Everybody was selling because somebody had started a rumor that the courts had dissolved the company for gross violation of the Anti-Trust law, and that a receiver had been appointed. Having sold out the last of the pool’s stock, Mr. Sharpe “took in” at $22 a share the 2,800 shares which he had put out at $72, a total profit on his small “line” of $140,000.

Turpentine stock had declined fifty points in fifteen business hours. It meant a shrinkage in the market value of the company’s capital stock of $15,000,000. The shrinkage in the self-esteem of some of the pool was measurable only in billions.

Sharpe notified his associates that the pool had completely realized—_i.e._, had sold out—and that he would be pleased to meet them at his office on Monday—this was Thursday—at eleven A.M., when he would have checks and an accounting ready for them. He refused himself to Greenbaum, Wechsler, Zeman, Shaffran, and others who called to see what could be done to save their reputations from the wreck of Turpentine. The stalwart private secretary told them that Mr. Sharpe was out of town. He was a very polite man, was the secretary; and an amateur boxer of great proficiency.

Failing to find Sharpe, they hastily organized a new pool, of a self-protective character, and sent in “supporting” orders. They were obliged to take large quantities of stock that day and the next in order to prevent a worse smash, which would hurt them in other directions. They found themselves with more than 50,000 shares on their hands, and the price was only 26 @ 28. And merely to try to sell the stock at that time threatened to start a fresh Turpentine panic.

They met Sharpe on Monday. His speech was not so short as usual. He had previously sent to each man an envelope containing a check and a statement, and now he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“Gentlemen and Greenbaum, you all know what I did for Turpentine on the up-tack. Around 62 I began to strike some stock which I couldn’t account for. I knew none of you had any for sale, of course, as you had pledged me your honorable words not to sell, save through me. But the stock kept coming out, even though the sellers borrowed against it, as if it were short stock, and I began to fear I had met an inexhaustible supply. It is always best on such occasions to act promptly, and so, after driving in the real shorts, I sold out our stock. The average selling price was 40. If it had not been for that mysterious selling it would have been 80. After commissions and other legitimate pool expenses, I find we have made nine points net, or $1,029,600, of which 25 per cent., or $250,000, come to me according to the agreement. It is too bad some people didn’t know enough to hold their stock for 90. But I find Wall Street is full of uncertainties—there is so much stupidity in the district. I trust you are satisfied. In view of the circumstances, I am. Yes, indeed. Good-day, gentlemen; and you too, Greenbaum, good-day.”

There was nothing tigerish about him. He was affable and polished; they could see that he seemed pleased to the purring point. He nodded to them and went into his inner office.

They blustered and fumed among themselves and gained courage thereby and tried Sharpe’s door and found it locked. They knocked thereon, vehemently, and the ubiquitous private secretary came out and told them that Mr. Sharpe had an important engagement and could not be disturbed, but that he was authorized to discuss any item of the statement, and he had charge of all the vouchers, in the shape of brokers’ reports, etc. So they expressed their opinions of the private secretary and of his master rather mildly, and went out, crestfallen. Outside they compared notes, and in a burst of honesty they confessed. Then, illogically enough, they cursed Sharpe. The pool was not “ahead of the game.” They had so much more stock on their hands than they desired, that in reality they were heavy losers!

And as time wore on they had to buy more “Turp”; and more “Turp”; and still more “Turp.” They thought they could emulate Sharpe and rush the price up irresistibly, at any rate up to 50. They declared a dividend of 2 per cent on the stock. But they could not market Turpentine. Again and again they tried, and again and again they failed. And each time the failure was worse because they had to take more stock.

It is now quoted at 16 @ 18. But it is not readily vendible at that figure; nor, indeed, at any price. Opposition distilleries are starting up in all the turpentine districts, and the trade outlook is gloomy. And the principal owners of the stock of the American Turpentine Company, holding among them not less than 140,000 out of the entire issue of 300,000 unvendible shares, are the famous “Greenbaum Skindicate.”

THE TIPSTER

Gilmartin was still laughing professionally at the prospective buyer’s funny story when the telephone on his desk buzzed. He said: “Excuse me for a minute, old man,” to the customer—Hopkins, the Connecticut manufacturer.

“Hello; who is this?” he spoke into the transmitter. “Oh, how are you?—Yes—I was out—Is that so?—Too bad—Too bad—Yes; just my luck to be out. I might have known it!—Do you think so?—Well, then, sell the 200 Occidental common—You know best—What about Trolley?—Hold on?—All right; just as you say—I hope so—I don’t like to lose, and—Ha! Ha!—I guess so—Good-by.”

“It’s from my brokers,” explained Gilmartin, hanging up the receiver. “I’d have saved five hundred dollars if I had been here at half-past ten. They called me up to advise me to sell out, and the price is off over three points. I could have got out at a profit, this morning; but, no sir; not I. I had to be away, trying to buy some camphor.”

Hopkins was impressed. Gilmartin perceived it and went on, with an air of comical wrath which he thought was preferable to indifference: “It isn’t the money I mind so much as the tough luck of it. I didn’t make my trade in camphor after all and I lost in stocks, when if I’d only waited five minutes more in the office I’d have got the message from my brokers and saved my five hundred. Expensive, my time is, eh?” with a woful shake of the head.

“But you’re ahead of the game, aren’t you?” asked the customer, interestedly.

“Well, I guess yes. Just about twelve thousand.”

That was more than Gilmartin had made; but having exaggerated, he immediately felt very kindly disposed toward the Connecticut man.

“Whew!” whistled Hopkins, admiringly. Gilmartin experienced a great tenderness toward him. The lie was made stingless by the customer’s credulity. This brought a smile of subtle relief to Gilmartin’s lips. He was a pleasant-faced, pleasant-voiced man of three-and-thirty. He exhaled health, contentment, neatness, and an easy conscience. Honesty and good-nature shone in his eyes. People liked to shake hands with him. It made his friends talk of his lucky star; and they envied him.

“I bought this yesterday for my wife; took it out of a little deal in Trolley,” he told Hopkins, taking a small jewel-box from one of the desk’s drawers. It contained a diamond ring, somewhat showy but obviously quite expensive. Hopkins’ semi-envious admiration made Gilmartin add, genially: “What do you say to lunch? I feel I am entitled to a glass of ‘fizz’ to forget my bad luck of this morning.” Then, in an exaggeratedly apologetic tone: “Nobody likes to lose five hundred dollars on an empty stomach!”

“She’ll be delighted, of course,” said Hopkins, thinking of Mrs. Gilmartin. Mrs. Hopkins loved jewelry.

“She’s the nicest little woman that ever lived. Whatever is mine, is hers; and what’s hers is her own. Ha! Ha! But,” becoming nicely serious, “all that I’ll make out of the stock market I’m going to put away for her, in her name. She can take better care of it than I; and, besides, she’s entitled to it, anyhow, for being so nice to me.”

That is how he told what a good husband he was. He felt so pleased over it, that he went on, sincerely regretful: “She’s visiting friends in Pennsylvania or I’d ask you to dine with us.” And they went to a fashionable restaurant together.

Day after day Gilmartin thought persistently that Maiden Lane was too far from Wall Street. There came a week in which he could have made four very handsome “turns” had he but been in the brokers’ office. He was out on business for his firm and when he returned the opportunity had gone, leaving behind it vivid visions of what might have been; also the conviction that time, tide and the ticker wait for no man. Instead of buying and selling quinine and balsams and essential oils for Maxwell & Kip, drug brokers and importers, he decided to make the buying and selling of stocks and bonds his exclusive business. The hours were easy; the profits would be great. He would make enough to live on. He would not let the Street take away what it had given. That was the great secret: to know when to quit! He would be content with a moderate amount, wisely invested in gilt-edged bonds. And then he would bid the Street good-by forever.

Force of long business custom and the indefinable fear of new ventures for a time fought successfully his increasing ticker-fever. But one day his brokers wished to speak to him, to urge him to sell out his entire holdings, having been advised of an epoch-making resolution by Congress. They had received the news in advance from a Washington customer. Other brokers had important connections in the Capital and therefore there was no time to lose. They dared not assume the responsibility of selling him out without his permission. Five minutes—five eternities!—passed before they could talk by telephone with him; and when he gave his order to sell, the market had broken five or six points. The news was “out.” The news-agencies’ slips were in the brokers’ offices and half of Wall Street knew. Instead of being among the first ten sellers Gilmartin was among the second hundred.