But a strange, a very strange thing happened: Erie stock, according to the doctor’s daily perusal of the dry financial pages, had been fluctuating between 65 and 67. On the following Tuesday, to his intense surprise, the stock table recorded: “Highest, 65¾; lowest, 62; last, 62⅝.” On Wednesday the table read: “Highest, 62½; lowest, 58; last 58.” On Thursday, there was a ray of hope—the stock sold as high as 60 and closed at 59½. But on Friday there was a bad break and Erie touched 54⅛, just 11⅛ points below what the Bolivian Missionary Fund’s stock had cost. And, on Saturday, the stock declined to 50, closing at 51¼. That Sunday the Reverend Doctor Henry W. Ramsdell preached to the gloomiest congregation in Gotham. Wherever he turned his gaze he met reproachful looks—accusing eyes, full of bitterness or of anger or of sadness. An exception was Mr. Silas Shaw, who had come, as he often did, to hear his friend, Dr. Ramsdell, preach. His eyes beamed benignantly on the pastor throughout the long sermon. He looked as if he felt, Dr. Ramsdell thought, inexplicably contented. Had he forgotten his promise—the promise from which benighted Bolivia expected so much? The two men met after the service. Dr. Ramsdell’s manner was constrained; Mr. Shaw’s affable. “Good-morning, Doctor,” said the grizzled old operator. “I’ve carried a small piece of paper in my pocket for some days, in the hope of meeting you. Here it is.” And he handed a check for $5,000 to the clergyman. “Why—er—I—er—I—didn’t—the stock—er—go down?” “Sure!” “How is it then that——” “Oh, that’s all right. It came out just as I expected. That’s why you get the check.” “But—ahem!—didn’t you buy 500 shares for me?” “Yes; but after you left I sold 10,000 shares between 65 and 67. Your congregation, Doctor, developed a remarkable bullishness on Erie.” He chuckled gleefully. “It was to them that I sold the stock!” “But my—ahem!—impression was that you said the stock would go up.” “Oh, no. I never said that. I merely told you we’d come out O.K. And I guess we have.” He laughed joyously. “It’s all right, Doctor; those pesky Bolivians will be enlightened, you bet.” “But,” said the doctor, with a very red face, fingering the check, hesitatingly, “I don’t know whether to accept it or not.” “Oh, you’re not robbing me,” the old stock gambler assured him, gaily. “I made out quite well; quite well, thank you.” “I—I—mean—” stammered the clergyman, “I don’t know whether it is right to——” Shaw frowned. “Put that check in your pocket,” he said, sharply. “You earned it.” THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------ RECENT PUBLICATIONS _of_ McClure, Phillips & Co. ❦ _New York_ 1901–1902