Capitalists and financiers -- Fiction; Psychological fiction
Third Street, by the time he reached there, was stirring with other
bankers and brokers called forth by the exigencies of the occasion.
There was a suspicious hurrying of feet—that intensity which makes all
the difference in the world between a hundred people placid and a
hundred people disturbed. At the exchange, the atmosphere was feverish.
At the sound of the gong, the staccato uproar began. Its metallic
vibrations were still in the air when the two hundred men who composed
this local organization at its utmost stress of calculation, threw
themselves upon each other in a gibbering struggle to dispose of or
seize bargains of the hour. The interests were so varied that it was
impossible to say at which pole it was best to sell or buy.
Targool and Rivers had been delegated to stay at the center of things,
Joseph and Edward to hover around on the outside and to pick up such
opportunities of selling as might offer a reasonable return on the
stock. The “bears” were determined to jam things down, and it all
depended on how well the agents of Mollenhauer, Simpson, Butler, and
others supported things in the street-railway world whether those
stocks retained any strength or not. The last thing Butler had said the
night before was that they would do the best they could. They would buy
up to a certain point. Whether they would support the market
indefinitely he would not say. He could not vouch for Mollenhauer and
Simpson. Nor did he know the condition of their affairs.
While the excitement was at its highest Cowperwood came in. As he stood
in the door looking to catch the eye of Rivers, the ’change gong
sounded, and trading stopped. All the brokers and traders faced about
to the little balcony, where the secretary of the ’change made his
announcements; and there he stood, the door open behind him, a small,
dark, clerkly man of thirty-eight or forty, whose spare figure and pale
face bespoke the methodic mind that knows no venturous thought. In his
right hand he held a slip of white paper.
“The American Fire Insurance Company of Boston announces its inability
to meet its obligations.” The gong sounded again.
Immediately the storm broke anew, more voluble than before, because, if
after one hour of investigation on this Monday morning one insurance
company had gone down, what would four or five hours or a day or two
bring forth? It meant that men who had been burned out in Chicago would
not be able to resume business. It meant that all loans connected with
this concern had been, or would be called now. And the cries of
frightened “bulls” offering thousand and five thousand lot holdings in
Northern Pacific, Illinois Central, Reading, Lake Shore, Wabash; in all
the local streetcar lines; and in Cowperwood’s city loans at constantly
falling prices was sufficient to take the heart out of all concerned.
He hurried to Arthur Rivers’s side in the lull; but there was little he
could say.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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