The Call of the Street

by Louis Joseph Vance

STORIES OF WALL STREET

By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

The Call of the Street

AS the the taxicab whirled round the corner, and the rumble of the wheels upon the cobbles was replaced by the liquid swish of the tires upon Fifth Avenue's asphalt, Steele turned suddenly, looking at his wife.

He had an impression that she had spoken and that he, momentarily lost in the intricacies of the Interstate Tunnel deal, had neglected to answer her.

"What did you say, Sara?" he asked. But his words were drowned in the roar of a passing Forty-second street car.

"What was it, dear?" he asked. "What was it you said a while back?"

"I said?"—with rising inflection. She frowned in pretty perplexity, trying to remember.

"Just I closed the door," he helped. "I thought you asked a question. I was thinking of something else at the moment."

"Oh! Of course you were thinking of something else; you are always thinking of something else, Jim." There was a note of petulance in her voice that puzzled him. "And that was what asked. It was silly enough. I said, 'A penny for your thoughts.' Extravagance, for I knew you were thinking of business——"

He felt vaguely that he was being indicted and began clumsily to defend himself.

"Yes. You were right. Affairs in rather a mix up just now, little girl; they bother a chap. Important deal on——"

"Always, always," she commented, wearily—even a trifle bitterly.

While he fumbled with his keys, she shivered noticeably in the brisk air of the early morning hours.

"Cold, dear?" he asked, roused out of his affairs for the moment.

Smiling up at him, "A wee bit," she confessed, "but happy, Jim."

"Eh?" He stared. "Happy?"

"Happy," she repeated with a low laugh as the door swung open.

Steele gazed after her, bewildered, while he shot the bolts. Then he followed her upstairs, heavily. Ten minutes later, she looked up from her dressing table to see him standing in the doorway of her boudoir, glowering down upon her. He had exchanged his dress coat for a quilted smoking jacket, his shoes for slippers, and was smoking; she smiled, struck by the grotesque figure he made.

"Well?" she queried, archly, her hands busy with her hair.

"What made you say that, Sara?" he demanded, bluntly.

Her eyes widened. "Say what, Jim?"

"About being happy. What made you mention it? Why are you more happy to-night than any other? Aren't you generally happy, little girl?"

She rose, came over to him, kissed him. Then, fumbling with a frog on his jacket, "I was more happy than usually," she admitted. "I suppose generally I'm as happy as I've any right to be, dear."

"I don't understand." His face showed that plainly. "Why—to-night especially?"

"Because my husband was with me—don't you see? I wonder——" She paused. "I wonder if you realize how little, how very little of your time you give your wife, Jim."

"Why—I——" he stammered awkwardly, struggling with a totally new idea. This had never occurred to him before.

"You are away all day," she went on not complaining, but making a calm statement of fact—"and every right you are off to the club, or some one is here, closeted with you. It's business, I know, but—— Why, I hardly ever have you to myself, Jim. Tonight, the opera, the music, the lights, with you—why, it was like an oasis to me—an oasis in a weary, husbandless desert." She laughed nervously.

"But—but business——" he tried to object, realizing the justice of her finding.

"Is there nothing in life but Wall Street?" she pleaded softly. "Can't you give it up, Jim, before long, for my sake? Why should you keep on and on forever, wearing your life out—for what? You've made a comfortable fortune, dear; it's enough to last us the rest of our lives and give the boy a good start besides. Why need you keep it up, always, at the expense of your health and your family? You know that Dr. Dexter warned you to take a rest last month, and you laughed at him, and——"

"Oh, Dexter!" he derided. "He doesn't understand. Neither do you, little girl. Why, what'll I do, anyhow? No!" His mouth straightened into a firm hard line; he had settled the matter, man-like, forgetting the original issue—her happiness, not his own. "No, I can't give it up. It would be foolishness with—with my prospects, my career. No, you don't understand." He decided to comfort her with a platitude: "Men must work and women must weep, you know."

"Why?" she cried, rebelliously. "Why must we weep? Why must men work incessantly?"

"The law of life," he told her with portentous gravity. He began to enumerate her blessings, exclusive of himself "I don't think you've any reason to complain, Sara. You've the boy——"

He persisted: "You have household duties, your friends——"

"I'd like to have more of my husband," she contended, stubbornly.

From which attitude he failed to move her.

Naturally enough, perhaps, the element of the unforseen figures largely in the life of the Street. On the following afternoon, Steele's deal in Interstate Tunnel came to an unexpected end—to a successful culmination unexpectedly sudden. The clique of men who, desiring to obtain control of the Interstate Tunnel Company, had combined their interests and put Steele at their head, allowing him full discretion—thereby forming what is termed a "blind pool"—had calculated that his campaign would be one of weeks, if not of months, before their object was attained.

As it happened, however, another combination had been formed with precisely the same object, thereby creating an unusual demand for Tunnel Common—so unusual, in fact, that the market price went up by leaps and bounds, and the trading in Tunnel Common became the feature of the day.

But, about two o'clock in the afternoon, the ticker ceased to record transactions in Tunnel Common; the demand had outlasted the supply; a "natural corner" had resulted.

When he realized what had happened, Steele told himself that his work for the day was done. He could return to his office and count the gains and receive the congratulations of his associates.

As he was about to leave the floor, however, the staccato rapping of the gavel on the rostrum made him pause; he knew, or suspected, what was coming, and would not have missed it for much. A slight lull succeeding the frenzied uproar that had prevailed in the board room, he was able to hear the chairman's voice as it boomed out over the heads of the brokers, announcing the suspension of Belden & Tausig.

Steele smiled grimly under his mustache.

"Belden will think twice, I guess, before he monkeys with the buzz-saw again," he thought as he crossed Broad street to the Mills building.

At the same time he was both surprised and disappointed to find that he was experiencing nothing of elation.

Even his success in obtaining the control of Interstate Tunnel seemed a tawdry, futile thing. He found himself walking slowly, his step lacking its accustomed springiness, his head drooping and hot and heavy, his feet like leaden weights.

And when he found Belden, the obnoxious, humbly waiting him in the ante room, the keen edge of his gratification was blunted by that same, gray apathy.

It was not until Belden approached him with his insinuating whine that was colored with something of his one-time patronizing disdain—"I say, Jim, my boy"—that the change came. It was utterly without premeditation on Steele's part, something entirely outside of his calculations. When the hateful accents fell upon his ear, Steele seemed to lose control of himself; for the time the room swam before him, he was shaken by a little gust of febrile rage, which, he later considered, must have seemed childishly spiteful.

"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried whirling upon his heel to face Belden "You—you get out of my office—I'll have nothing to do with you!"

Instantly Steele began to regret; also he was somewhat scared; the passion which had gripped him so strongly that he had forgotten himself was a new thing in his experience. He had never made such an exhibition of himself—to his knowledge, at least—so causelessly. He glanced around the room, shame-faced, wondering who had witnessed his transport.

There were two witnesses; Hunt, office partner of the firm of C. D. Hunt & Wilder, through which Steele cleared his transactions, and in whose offices he was accorded a desk as a courtesy; and a stranger to Steele—a stout man, florid of complexion, thickset. Him Steele intuitively knew for Tausig, Belden's partner.

"Oh," he said, shortly, "you're Tausig?" The fellow nodded. "I've nothing against you personally, Tausig," Steele continued more calmly; "but Belden——! A damned scoundrel gives you a bad name, Tausig. But this is what I wanted to say: you tell Belden what I had intended to, that your firm will get just the same treatment from us as the rest of the shorts in this deal. And—and we're not disposed to be hard on the shorts."

Tausig nodded curtly "That's what we wanted to know, Mr. Steele," he replied. "If there's to be no discrimination, we may pull through. Good-day." And he left.

Hunt watched the door close before speaking. Then he laughed shortly.

"If Belden's looks go for anything, Steele," he commented, "you'll pay high for that."

Steele stared at him dully under heavy eyelids.

"Oh, Belden," he said, after a while, slowly; "he be damn. Anyhow, his power in the street is broken."

"Yes," he heard Hunt say, "but this isn't the first time that Belden's been broken. Maybe it isn't to be the last, either."

"To tell the truth," said Steele, very carefully, "I didn't mean to flare up that way. Something seemed to snap. I wonder——"

"Reaction, perhaps," suggested Hunt, coolly philosophical in the consideration of another's troubles. "You've kept yourself keyed up to the fever pitch for several weeks, and a reaction's bound to come——"

Steele did not directly reply. He sat down, with his hands in his pockets, and stared gloomily at the carpet.

"Anyhow," he said, rising again after an interval, "I'm—tired, tired I'm going home—now. Take care o' things——"

He reached blindly for his hat and staggered a pace or two toward the door. Hunt jumped up, alarmed.

"Here, old man!" he said.

Steele fell, like a column pushed from its base; he fell, to lie inert, supine, breathing heavily.

It was three months later, almost to a day, before the Street again knew Jim Steele's footsteps.

Following his discharge from a sanitarium as convalescent—a discharge accompanied by a warning that he would return to business life within three years at his peril—a few weeks had been put in at Palm Beach. Now Steele and his wife were to spend a few weeks in town until their son's spring term at school should be ended, when the three of them were to go abroad.

As for Mrs Steele she was radiantly happy; for the first time in their twelve years of married life she had what she most desired in all the world—first place in the thoughts of her husband. For it was an understood thing that Steele had given up the Street and all its work—"for better or worse," Steele had laughed when he promised.

Yet it was with a distinct shiver of foreboding that the woman looked up from her breakfast plate, on the morning following their return to the city, to find Steele eyeing her with a gaze halt doubtful, half deprecating.

She put down her fork deliberately, her eyes upon the letter which he had been reading, and still held in his hand. Steele fancied that she lost a shade of color, and he could not ignore the anxiety in her eyes.

"What is it?" she demanded, almost breathlessly.

He laughed lightly to reassure her.

"Why, nothing of any great importance, Sara, only that I'm going down town for an hour or two to-day." He saw her little hands clinch until the knuckles stood out white and hard against the firm pink of her flesh, and hurried to explain: "Hunt writes me that he wants to buy my seat on the Exchange.

"You're—you're not——" the faltered.

"No, no; I'm not going to go into the market at all. I'm through with all that; it's behind me. I'm merely going to sever the last tie that binds me to the Street."

"You promised, you know," she reminded him, dubiously, for she knew his weakness—being the man's wife—

"I promised, sweetheart," he assented, again laughing, and I give you my word again."

And with that pledge sealed warm upon his lips, she let him go; not, however, without misgivings stirring deep in her heart.

But once in the elevated train, bound down-town, he forgot that in the interest aroused by a prominent article on the financial page of his newspaper. It was one of those rare, infrequent accounts which sometimes see the light, written by an "insider," an expert, detailing with fine insight just what motives were then actuating the bear element in the furious raid it was making upon industrial securities. In particular, Steele gathered that the clique headed by Tom West, his dearest rival of the old days, was hammering Tennessee Rope & Twine. Steele considered such action unmoral; West, he allowed was a natural-born pessimist in regard to stock values, but that was no excuse for his making T. R. & T. his shining mark. Steele happened to know a good deal concerning that stock and the concern which fathered it, and he was quite convinced that it was sound—worth all of par.

Steele went downstairs from Hunt's office, feeling, he proclaimed glumly, "like a loose tooth."

He arrived at a critical moment. The West clique was undoubtedly pounding the industrial more than it merited. Several points had already been lopped off the day's opening price. Steele discovered the fact, frowning stern disapproval. There seemed to be little or no buying, although a reaction was bound to come. West's crowd was selling short and would have to buy in to cover before very long, thereby causing a rally; a man would seize upon this opportunity.

Hollwedel, board member of West's firm, plunging back from a consultation with his partner by telephone, spied Steele. The latter's hat was suddenly smashed down over his ears. He pushed it up, laughing, to see Hollwedel standing before him, offering a welcome hand.

"Howdy, Steele," he panted. "You back? Glad to see you. Sell you a thousand Rope and Twine at 65," he added, almost in jest.

"Done!" cried Steele, mechanically, as though he had suddenly wakened from a dream.

A whisper stole around the room: "Steele's back—buying Rope & Twine. Must have an inside tip." Others, so believing, began to buy. West's associates became alarmed; they had anticipated a reaction, but not so early in the day. They launched ten thousand shares at the market, which soaked them up as greedily as a sponge. They decided that it would be policy to cover without delay, at a loss if necessary, and the consequent buying orders caused the rally to become an irresistible upward surge. Announcing to Belden in their private office: "I hear Steele's back on the floor."

"He is, eh?" Belden licked his thin lips, glancing furtively at his partner.

Tausig did not doubt his sincerity.

To Steele's relief his prolonged of the day before had passed unnoticed; at least, Mrs. Steele made no comment. But, as he rose from the breakfast table he felt that the moment for an explanation was at hand. Her eye was upon him, and he was fain to avoid it.

"I am sorry, dear," he said, uneasily, "but I must go downtown again to-day. I—I have to consult with Morton." He named his lawyer. It was not strictly untrue; he did mean to see Morton, for a minute or two, if he found time.

"You have sold your seat?" she asked, abruptly.

"I—er—Hunt was not ready yesterday. It'll be settled in a day or so."

As yet he shrank from the lie direct, but the following day a new subterfuge must be invented; he dared not tell her the truth.

"I find," he said glibly having thought it out beforehand, during a sleepless portion of the night—"that I will have to spend several days—perhaps a week—at the office. A matter has cropped up requiring my attention."

A week passed. The issue grew, became as a wall between the man and the woman. Finally it might no longer be evaded.

"I'm involved in the market," he told her, {SIC|}}, with a dogged air.

"Jim!"

He cringed

"I—I can't help it, Sara—it's beyond helping now. I'm sorry, but I saw the chance, I thought, to make a few thousands and—"

"But Jim!" He looked quickly away from the pain in her eyes. "But, Jim, you—you gave me your word!"

"I know, I—" He floundered miserably under her accusing gaze. "But it can't be helped. In a few days—a week, at the outside—I hope to have it all fixed. And that will be the end, Sara!"

She did not answer; Steele's primal impression was that she was refusing to listen. Then he saw that she was, for the instant, unable to give him her attention.

She had pushed back her chair, as though intending to rise; on the contrary, she seemed held down, as though by an invisible hand—struggling vainly. She had turned from him averting her face; Steele could see no more than the full curve of her cheek; and that whitened to a pallor beneath his gaze. Unconsciously her left hand went toward the region of her heart, clutching at the folds of her morning gown.

Steele hurried toward her.

"Sara!" he cried a second time "Is—is it your heart, dear the old trouble?"

"Yes," she said faintly. "It—it's gone now. I am all right."

"I'll send for Dr. Dexter, at once," he proposed.

"It is unnecessary' " She rose, coldly ignoring his proffered arm. He followed her toward the door. "He was here yesterday. I tell you—it is nothing. Now, go on—go to the office. I am all right."

"But—"

"Go," she insisted, drearily. "Don't pretend to worry about me. I—"

"But I will not got" he cried. "At least, until I know—"

"It is getting late," she reminded him, quietly. "The exchange opens within an hour. You had best go at once. Don't think of me—think of the money you have involved."

He had no answer. It was true—he had no choice but to consider the money; his presence upon the floor at the opening was an imperative necessity. While he hesitated, considering that phase of the case, she brushed past him and left the room.

Where before he had gone to the market as a man desiring a stimulant, now he plunged into the turmoil on the floor as he would have swallowed an opiate; it would deaden his sensibilities, help him to forget her face as she had last looked upon him.

And the market received him with open arms. He was indeed deeply concerned by now; more than half the fortune upon which he had thought to retire was at stake. Sometimes a doubt assailed him; had his old, sure judgment failed him at the last? Was this his final throw upon the table, to prove the ruin of the once successful gamester?

Since that first day, when he had turned the flurry in Tennessee Rope & Twine into a rise, he had been drawn more and more deeply into the toils. West's combination, finding that they had but one man to fight, had recovered their lost confidence and renewed renewed their raid upon the security; Steele had attempted to peg the price against a further drop, and had all but succeeded when West received unexpected support from Belden; under the impact of the thirty thousand shares which Belden hurled bodily at the market, T. R & T. had broken sharply, closing at the end of Steele's second day at 62—three points below the price at which he had purchased.

Since that, despite Steele's utmost efforts, the decline had been slow but steady. On this last day he held thirty-five thousand shares, bought at an average price of 60; and T. R. & T. was quoted at 51.

And Belden, in his office, smiled grimly at the reports brought him by his lieutenants, smiled yet more heartlessly as he thought of the final blow he was preparing to deal.

And then, just as he began to realize that the tide was turning, some one thrust a telegram in his face. He never knew who it was. At first he refused to notice it, but it was thrust at him persistently. Finally he was forced to comprehend that the message was for him. He seized it, and somehow the envelope was torn away from it. He backed up against the post and held it up before his eyes, trying to steady himself. The words danced madly; it was some time before he grasped their import.

 

"Your wife is dying Come home at once. ⁠ Dexter."

 

His fortune stood at stake. But what did it matter? What was money to him—life even without her? Men pressed about him like a wall—determined men without understanding. But he lowered his head, sprang at them, bucked a way through them by main strength and carelessness of consequence, fighting like a madman.

She was reading, or had been, when he staggered into her room. She arose suddenly from her chair, and the book crashed on the floor; she gave a little, startled cry, and one hand went tentatively toward her heart. Her face was very white and apparently drawn, and Steele saw that she had been crying.

"Why, Jim!" she said.

"You're—you're all right?" he gasped, incredulously.

"Yes," she told him, wondering.

She came towards him slowly, hesitating, bewildered.

"Then," he said, after an interval, "what does this mean?"

He extended his hand, opening his fingers; a little ball of yellow paper rested in his palm, damp with its moisture.

"Read it," he said impatiently.

"At present, not in the least."

He pondered the problem, scowling.

"Thank God," he whispered, once or twice. And finally he straightened up, with a single cry "Belden!" He had fathomed the mystery.

"An enemy sent it to me," he explained, sitting down heavily. "It was handed to me on the floor of the Exchange So I came—at once." He attempted a smile, but without signal success. "At once," he repeated, drearily. "Thank God!"

"You did that for me, Jim?" she said, softly. "For me? And I did not think you cared so much!"

"I did not know how much I cared," he replied, "until—that—— There is nothing without you," he stated with conviction; "I did not know."

"Dear heart!" And, after a little while: "Did it do great harm, dear? Have you lost much?"

"About half of what I had," he calculated. "It is no matter. Let them keep it. There will still be enough with you to share it"

"There will be enough," she whispered, happily.

"I am done with the Street," he stated, and this time his pledge convinced her, for he himself was convinced. "The Street has taken back half of that which it gave me," he added. "I'm content—with you. The Street can keep it."

But it was not so bad as he believed.

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Copyrighted, 1912, Century Syndicate