The Financier by Theodore Dreiser

Newton Targool hurried to Cowperwood’s side.

“You’re up against it,” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t try to sell against this market. It’s no use. They’re cutting the ground from under you. The bottom’s out. Things are bound to turn in a few days. Can’t you hold out? Here’s more trouble.”

He raised his eyes to the announcer’s balcony.

“The Eastern and Western Fire Insurance Company of New York announces that it cannot meet its obligations.”

A low sound something like “Haw!” broke forth. The announcer’s gavel struck for order.

“The Erie Fire Insurance Company of Rochester announces that it cannot meet its obligations.”

Again that “H-a-a-a-w!”

Once more the gavel.

“The American Trust Company of New York has suspended payment.”

“H-a-a-a-w!”

The storm was on.

What do you think?” asked Targool. “You can’t brave this storm.

Can’t you quit selling and hold out for a few days? Why not sell short?”

“They ought to close this thing up,” Cowperwood said, shortly.

“It would be a splendid way out. Then nothing could be done.”

He hurried to consult with those who, finding themselves in a similar predicament with himself, might use their influence to bring it about. It was a sharp trick to play on those who, now finding the market favorable to their designs in its falling condition, were harvesting a fortune. But what was that to him?

Business was business. There was no use selling at ruinous figures, and he gave his lieutenants orders to stop. Unless the bankers favored him heavily, or the stock exchange was closed, or Stener could be induced to deposit an additional three hundred thousand with him at once, he was ruined. He hurried down the street to various bankers and brokers suggesting that they do this—close the exchange. At a few minutes before twelve o’clock he drove rapidly to the station to meet Stener; but to his great disappointment the latter did not arrive. It looked as though he had missed his train. Cowperwood sensed something, some trick; and decided to go to the city hall and also to Stener’s house. Perhaps he had returned and was trying to avoid him.

Not finding him at his office, he drove direct to his house. Here he was not surprised to meet Stener just coming out, looking very pale and distraught. At the sight of Cowperwood he actually blanched.

“Why, hello, Frank,” he exclaimed, sheepishly, “where do you come from?”

“What’s up, George?” asked Cowperwood. “I thought you were coming into Broad Street.”

“So I was,” returned Stener, foolishly, “but I thought I would get off at West Philadelphia and change my clothes. I’ve a lot of things to ‘tend to yet this afternoon. I was coming in to see you.” After Cowperwood’s urgent telegram this was silly, but the young banker let it pass.

“Jump in, George,” he said. “I have something very important to talk to you about. I told you in my telegram about the likelihood of a panic. It’s on. There isn’t a moment to lose. Stocks are ‘way down, and most of my loans are being called. I want to know if you won’t let me have three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a few days at four or five per cent. I’ll pay it all back to you. I need it very badly. If I don’t get it I’m likely to fail.

You know what that means, George. It will tie up every dollar I have. Those streetcar holdings of yours will be tied up with me.

I won’t be able to let you realize on them, and that will put those loans of mine from the treasury in bad shape. You won’t be able to put the money back, and you know what that means. We’re in this thing together. I want to see you through safely, but I can’t do it without your help. I had to go to Butler last night to see about a loan of his, and I’m doing my best to get money from other sources. But I can’t see my way through on this, I’m afraid, unless you’re willing to help me.” Cowperwood paused. He wanted to put the whole case clearly and succinctly to him before he had a chance to refuse—to make him realize it as his own predicament.

As a matter of fact, what Cowperwood had keenly suspected was literally true. Stener had been reached. The moment Butler and Simpson had left him the night before, Mollenhauer had sent for his very able secretary, Abner Sengstack, and despatched him to learn the truth about Stener’s whereabouts. Sengstack had then sent a long wire to Strobik, who was with Stener, urging him to caution the latter against Cowperwood. The state of the treasury was known. Stener and Strobik were to be met by Sengstack at Wilmington (this to forefend against the possibility of Cowperwood’s reaching Stener first)—and the whole state of affairs made perfectly plain. No more money was to be used under penalty of prosecution. If Stener wanted to see any one he must see Mollenhauer. Sengstack, having received a telegram from Strobik informing him of their proposed arrival at noon the next day, had proceeded to Wilmington to meet them. The result was that Stener did not come direct into the business heart of the city, but instead got off at West Philadelphia, proposing to go first to his house to change his clothes and then to see Mollenhauer before meeting Cowperwood. He was very badly frightened and wanted time to think.

“I can’t do it, Frank,” he pleaded, piteously. “I’m in pretty bad in this matter. Mollenhauer’s secretary met the train out at Wilmington just now to warn me against this situation, and Strobik is against it. They know how much money I’ve got outstanding.

You or somebody has told them. I can’t go against Mollenhauer.

I owe everything I’ve got to him, in a way. He got me this place.”

“Listen, George. Whatever you do at this time, don’t let this political loyalty stuff cloud your judgment. You’re in a very serious position and so am I. If you don’t act for yourself with me now no one is going to act for you—now or later—no one. And later will be too late. I proved that last night when I went to Butler to get help for the two of us. They all know about this business of our street-railway holdings and they want to shake us out and that’s the big and little of it—nothing more and nothing less. It’s a case of dog eat dog in this game and this particular situation and it’s up to us to save ourselves against everybody or go down together, and that’s just what I’m here to tell you.

Mollenhauer doesn’t care any more for you to-day than he does for that lamp-post. It isn’t that money you’ve paid out to me that’s worrying him, but who’s getting something for it and what. Well they know that you and I are getting street-railways, don’t you see, and they don’t want us to have them. Once they get those out of our hands they won’t waste another day on you or me. Can’t you see that? Once we’ve lost all we’ve invested, you’re down and so am I—and no one is going to turn a hand for you or me politically or in any other way. I want you to understand that, George, because it’s true. And before you say you won’t or you will do anything because Mollenhauer says so, you want to think over what I have to tell you.”

He was in front of Stener now, looking him directly in the eye and by the kinetic force of his mental way attempting to make Stener take the one step that might save him—Cowperwood—however little in the long run it might do for Stener. And, more interesting still, he did not care. Stener, as he saw him now, was a pawn in whosoever’s hands he happened to be at the time, and despite Mr. Mollenhauer and Mr. Simpson and Mr. Butler he proposed to attempt to keep him in his own hands if possible. And so he stood there looking at him as might a snake at a bird determined to galvanize him into selfish self-interest if possible. But Stener was so frightened that at the moment it looked as though there was little to be done with him. His face was a grayish-blue: his eyelids and eye rings puffy and his hands and lips moist. God, what a hole he was in now!

“Say that’s all right, Frank,” he exclaimed desperately. “I know what you say is true. But look at me and my position, if I do give you this money. What can’t they do to me, and won’t. If you only look at it from my point of view. If only you hadn’t gone to Butler before you saw me.”

“As though I could see you, George, when you were off duck shooting and when I was wiring everywhere I knew to try to get in touch with you. How could I? The situation had to be met. Besides, I thought Butler was more friendly to me than he proved. But there’s no use being angry with me now, George, for going to Butler as I did, and anyhow you can’t afford to be now. We’re in this thing together.