CHAPTER V
Macgowan swung into Armstrong's office one morning, bringing with him a keen breath of late November.
"Well, how goes the sales company?" he exclaimed breezily, flinging down his hat and coat. "Too busy to talk?"
"Not yet." Armstrong dismissed his secretary and set forth cigars. "Everything fine."
"Sure, but let's have details. I need 'em this morning." Macgowan chuckled as he surveyed his friend. "You're looking fit. How's the country estate?"
"Fine. What do you want details on—winter gardens or sales campaign?"
"Food Products, mostly. I'm curious to know what's going on."
Armstrong opened a drawer of his desk and brought forth some typed sheets.
Consolidated Securities occupied the three top floors of a building in the late thirties, but was cramped for room. Already Armstrong was planning the lease of an entire building in the forties—a lease to become ownership later. The New Year would be time enough to take that up. For the present, he wanted to get upon absolutely solid ground, financially. He had no ambition to be the center of a wild selling drive which would go smash upon the rocks of inflation.
His own office was quietly handsome without being ornate. Just as he wanted the business to be out of Wall Street and well uptown, so he wanted everything around him to be of the best without ostentation. The looks of a business, like the dress of a man, have a certain definite value; Armstrong did not make the error of either over- or under-estimating that value.
"Food Products," he responded, "is sold. The campaign is going well, and it'll be a profitable campaign for the Armstrong Company if it ends as well as it has begun. By the way, I'm going to merge the company into Consolidated later on. It's a bit loose; too much my own affair. I want everything in Consolidated."
"Isn't it merged enough now to suit you?"
"No. At present, I could draw the Armstrong Company out bodily, and I'm going to change that—say, next spring, after the annual meeting of Consolidated. But never mind that now. I have another and more immediate change afoot. I've determined to keep Food Products in the hands of our own original investors in this part of the country. The stock-selling organization is spread too far out."
"Isn't it doing the work?" Macgowan frowned slightly.
"Yes. But, Mac, do you realize that we had to dig deep in writing off those worthless assets? I want to save money."
"Yes, and that hurt." Macgowan chuckled. "Findlater was moaning about it the other day. Asked why we hadn't let those assets ride for a while."
Armstrong's eyes chilled, as they usually did at mention of Findlater.
"You told him?"
"That we were too cursed honest; or rather, you. If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have been tempted to do otherwise."
"Yes, you would!" Armstrong laughed. "You old rascal, you'd have been the first one to come clean! But see here, Mac. I'm cutting down my organization. I'm going to eliminate all the Pacific Coast, everything west of the Mississippi, in fact."
The broad, finely chiseled features of Macgowan underwent a certain change at this information—so decided a change that Armstrong wondered. For an instant he fancied that those piercingly aggressive eyes bored into him with a look bordering on suspicion.
"What the devil!" ejaculated the lawyer. "Why, only last week you spoke of branching out farther!"
Armstrong leaned back and drew at his cigar.
"Yes, but that was last week. Most of our old investors are here in the East, scattered between here and Chicago. Over fifteen thousand of 'em. Our schedule of operation is airtight. Consolidated, for example, owns Food Products, pockets some of the commission for selling the stock, profits by the operation of the company—and it all comes back to the investors. And our corporate funds are growing fast."
"Then what's to hinder the spread?" asked Macgowan, teeth clamped on cigar.
"Too much expense." Armstrong puffed thoughtfully. "We don't want to splurge, to go after the whole country and over-reach ourselves. I don't want to be classed with these birds who flood the country with stock not worth half its price. For next year, we'll play safe with what we have. We can lay out a big program, but hold back with it."
"You're selling stock on the coast now," argued Macgowan.
"Yes, but only a small allotment of Food Products is being handled there." Armstrong became crisp, decisive, closed to all protest. "I'm writing our men out there to-day, calling them in by the first of the year. The less they sell of Food Products out there, the better pleased I'll be; but if they can get rid of their allotment next month, all right."
Behind his veil of gray smoke, Macgowan's brilliant, arrogant eyes narrowed in reflection. One would have thought that this change of program on Armstrong's part, instead of being a mere detail of organization, was something that affected him vitally. Even Armstrong was mildly surprised that Macgowan should be so interested in this detail.
"You see, Mac," he explained, "I'm going to cut down all expenses. Food Products is the biggest thing we've taken over, and I'm getting stingy. The time to retrench is before the pinch comes. Some day, trouble will hit us; when it hits, I want the organization as compact and impervious as possible, and funds all in shape. We have competitors and—"
The lawyer threw up his hands.
"You're right, Reese, dead right! I suppose I'm like the others; a bit hypnotized by our success and the size of the bankroll. Then you'll not draw in your horns before the first of the year?"
"No."
Macgowan puffed for a moment in silence, nodding thoughtfully. Then he glanced up.
"You know there's a meeting of the Consolidated directors next week. Instruct me about that note of yours—whether to renew or take it up."
"What note?"
"Covered by the twenty-five thousand in Food Products' paper. You borrowed ten thousand from Consolidated, if you remember, on behalf of the Armstrong Company, and turned the money over to Deming."
"Oh, that!" Armstrong thought for a moment. "Why, I'll renew the loan to Food Products for another three months—to pay me now would rather handicap them. No use taking up the paper from Consolidated until Food Products can make good. Suppose you renew for three months—or better make it four months. Then Food Products will be on its feet."
Macgowan nodded.
"I'll tell Jimmy Wren, and if Findlater objects we'll show him who runs the voting Trust. By the way, you people going to be in town over Christmas, or not?"
"No, we'll be in Evansville. Dorothy's folks are going to Europe right after the holidays, and we'll spend Christmas with them, then bring 'em East. Christmas in Evansville listens good, Mac!" Armstrong's rare smile leaped out. "Real juleps, remember 'em? And the kind of turkey that isn't grown around here. And 'possum. And ladies with the Kentucky slur to their tongues—the soft slur that leaves mighty few bachelors in those parts! Better come along with us, old man. What say?"
Macgowan shook his head.
"Thanks, but I can't. Deming isn't doing anything?"
"No, he's definitely out of business. By the way, we had a caller at the house the other evening—that chap from Evansville who's a relative of yours. Ried Williams."
Macgowan glanced up in astonishment.
"Williams! Is he in town? Hope he doesn't look me up."
Armstrong laughed. "Why? Aren't you on good terms?"
"I suppose so." Macgowan shrugged lightly. "I never had much use for that chap; he's no good. Look how he cut up when we threw him out of Food Products!"
"While I never claimed to love him, I'd hate to insult your relatives, Mac," and Armstrong laughed cheerily. "His injured dignity has recovered; at least, he appeared very amiable. He's an old friend of Dorothy's; not a dear friend, but he forms a link with her home town, you know."
Macgowan stirred uneasily. "He isn't locating here, is he?"
"No." Armstrong leaned back. "He's in the brokerage business in Indianapolis, I gather. You recall that other man on the Food Products board, the one who looked like a dissipated Adonis, and who aspired to Dorothy? Pete Slosson?"
"Yep," grunted Macgowan. His eyes, under veiling lids, were very bright and keen.
"The two are in partnership and doing well, according to Williams. I always thought they both hated me like sin for dumping them out of Food Products, but they've gotten over it. Williams showed up pretty well, though I'd not trust him very far."
"Hope he leaves me alone in my glory," said Macgowan. Then his face cleared. "Say, one reason I dropped in was about Findlater. I think our merry little president is going to spring a motion at next week's meeting for salaried directors."
Armstrong's face tightened ominously.
"So he wants a cut of the melon?"
"Probably. He has some of the others with him, and figures that by springing a good argument he can get away with it. Judge Holcomb is dead against him, of course."
"Naturally; Holcomb's square. What's your advice?"
Macgowan's gaze searched Armstrong with a steady and appraising scrutiny.
"If it was my affair, Reese, I'd throw 'em out. Bounce them hard, get rid of them for good! They're under contract to serve for three years, without salary, in return for stock allotted them; we're where we can do without 'em, and we owe them no debt of gratitude for getting Consolidated under way. A bunch of real live men on the board would help us tremendously just now. I say, if they start any fuss, bounce them and begin over!"
Armstrong settled back in his chair, and shook his head slightly.
"Well, why not?" demanded Macgowan.
"For the very reasons you name." Armstrong stared out the window and puffed silently. This immobility irritated Macgowan.
"What reasons?" he exclaimed harshly.
"I do owe them a certain gratitude for backing me. They did it selfishly, but they did it. And I'm too darned human to forget that they did it."
"Too darned inhuman, you mean," interjected Macgowan cynically.
Armstrong shrugged. "I'm not an automatic machine, and don't want the reputation of being one. It's because I'm human, Mac, that we've got nearly sixteen thousand investors on our books, letting us handle their money. Next year, twenty thousand. I don't believe in using a man for what you can get out of him, then kicking him off the pedestal. Findlater may be a fool and a crook, but he helped us. I don't care to be known as a business machine; can't afford it. The business of to-day and to-morrow isn't being run that way."
"Chivalric balderdash!" Macgowan growled and mouthed his cigar. "Ever hear of Don Quixote?"
Armstrong, eyeing his friend, burst suddenly into a laugh.
"What's got into you, Mac? Are you talking what you believe, or what you think is for my good?"
"For your own good, Reese! Damn it, I know this game better than you!" Macgowan's burst of words came with the fury of repressed energy. Now appeared the hitherto unguessed side of the man, the angry, passionate arrogance of his mind which was usually so well covered from sight. "Those fellows would kick you out this minute if they could—you and me both! That shyster Findlater would knife you in the back if he had a chance. The very thought of our earnings, of our funds, makes 'em sweat to get their paws on the money! You fool, you're in business! Why don't you realize it?"
Armstrong surveyed him with cheerful good humor, refusing to take this outburst seriously.
"Regular line of Old Testament bunk, Mac! And you don't mean a word of it. As you know very well, we're in business with a New Testament; a covenant of success to all, not merely to those who have the quickest gun."
Macgowan uttered a savage oath.
"You fool, I mean it, every word of it! Throw Findlater out or you'll be thrown out!"
"Nothing doing." Armstrong shrugged, but eyed his friend curiously. "You handle him with the voting trust, and avoid trouble. Be a diplomat."
"Diplomat, hell!" Macgowan leaped up, faced Armstrong with a bitter snarl. "Wake up! Are you a dursed weak-kneed idealist, blind to everything but your ideals? Can't you see that at times you have to be something else? Are you one of these temperamental cusses, strong one minute and up in the clouds the next? Cut out this drivel! I tell you, Findlater is a danger spot! Want to wake up and find you and your sentiment landed in the gutter, do you?"
Armstrong was stung. He leaned forward, suddenly tense, concentrated.
"Mac, are you trying to tempt me—trying to see if you can shake me? Don't try it. You know I brought a new creed into this investment game, and I'm here to play the game square and fair. Once I falter in that creed, once I begin to cheat at the game—good night! Now, quit calling me a fool. Look at it through the eyes of our investors. If they see me kick out Findlater, they'll think that it looks queer; you can't blame them! I'd think so too. It isn't time yet for fireworks. Wait until the annual meeting next April. Then we'll start the slate with a new crowd and go in for big things—honest things with honest men."
Macgowan drew a quick breath.
"Reese, you have a brain somewhere on the premises. I concede it. You're right, as usual. Say, do you sit up nights thinking of those investors?"
"Nope; daytimes only." Armstrong was too deeply stirred up to call a halt now. He went on with a growing earnestness and conviction. "It's those investors who have put Consolidated on its feet. Not a bunch of spoilers sitting around a directors' table, but those little investors. Their confidence in me is a terrible thing, Mac; it frightens me sometimes, it humbles me—why, Mac, it's their very faith which puts me over, makes me make good! This mass psychology is nothing new, even in business. We started out to get that very thing behind us. Now that we've got it, sometimes it frightens me by its very force. They talk about prayer and its effect—here's the same thing, man! When every investor in our lists is behind me, when I'm the apex of a triangle with every atom of force at my back, shoving me forward—do you think I can fail? Do you think anybody can rise up and whip me? Not much!"
Macgowan sat in spellbound silence. As he listened, a singular awe and wonder crept into his face. His eyes, fascinated by Armstrong's swordlike gaze, began to waver; an indefinite something showed there that might have gripped Armstrong's attention, had he only seen it. One never sees such expressions, however, when they are foreign to all that one is expecting to see. Armstrong went on rapidly, fired by his thought.
"That's what put Napoleon over—the knowledge that every man in his army knew he would win; and, damn it, he had to win! Same with me, Mac. You've made Consolidated airtight, you've left me nothing to fear at my back. I can look squarely ahead and can meet anything that comes. With the faith and will-power of sixteen thousand people at my back, what can beat me? Nothing! Nothing! It's not self-confidence; it's confidence in the power behind me, the power instilled into me! Can't you see that?"
Macgowan shifted his pose restlessly, before he came to his feet, jabbing at Armstrong with his cigar, an oath of admiration breaking on his lips. He seemed swept away, enthused beyond words, almost.
"Reese—oh, what's the use!" He made a despairing gesture. "I'm proud to have a share in your vision, proud to take orders from you. Now, if Findlater starts any fuss, you want him soft-pedaled. Is that it?"
Armstrong relaxed, nodding, a bit self-conscious and ashamed of his outburst.
"Yes. That's what you and Jimmy Wren have the voting trust for!"
"Oh! That reminds me—"
Macgowan was picking up his coat and hat and stick. He turned and came back to the desk, looking thoughtfully down at Armstrong.
"I nearly forgot something. About Wren."
Armstrong glanced up inquiringly. Wren was not only his right-hand man in the Armstrong Company, but was secretary of Consolidated. Although not so young in years, Jimmy Wren possessed that eternal buoyancy, that youthfulness of spirit, which older men envy. His imagination and impulsiveness added to his ability; he was all or nothing.
"What about Jimmy?"
Macgowan looked serious. "It may not be true. I just heard that, before Wren came to us, he was mixed up in a nasty affair back in Ohio. A small country bank, which went bust. Wren was cashier, and squeaked through, but it was close. Know anything about it?"
Armstrong squared himself in his chair.
"I know all about it."
"Good. Then I've no more to say."
"Hold on!" Armstrong's voice cracked out suddenly. "You have something more to say, Mac. I want to know where this report came from."
Macgowan met those clear, angry eyes with unruffled mien.
"From a federal man. You know, I've a good many friends in Washington. One of them, in the revenue service, was going over some income tax returns with me. We got to talking about the company, and he mentioned this about young Wren. He knew few details."
"Then it was simply a friendly tip?"
"Sure."
Armstrong nodded. His face cleared.
"Then forget it, Mac. I'll go to the mat for Jimmy any day! That bank affair was no fault of his; the bonding company exonerated him absolutely. He came to me with the whole business when I sent for him to join me. I've known him for years, and he's true blue. By the way, Mac, who's the lady he's been shining up to lately? He keeps unusually mum on the subject, I notice. Weren't you in on the party the other day at the Biltmore?"
Macgowan chuckled, and shrugged.
"I saw your eagle eye fastened on us from across the room. Good lord, don't ask me! I just wandered in on that party, and we lunched together. Don't even recall her name—from the South, I think. She wasn't a bad sort at all. Well, I'll drift along. See you later!"
Macgowan departed.
Armstrong felt very glad of this conversation; he felt that it had cleared the air for him, had left him more cheerfully disposed, in better control of himself. When Findlater entered his office ten minutes later, Armstrong glanced up and nodded amiably.
"Good morning, Mr. President! What's on your mind?"
"This report." Findlater tapped the paper in his hand. "Have you examined it?"
Armstrong smiled. "My dear chap, I wrote it!"
Findlater, a New Yorker by birth, tried very hard to live up to the fact that his immediate ancestors had come from Boston. His grooming was perfect. A clipped red mustache, firm lips set in eternal repression, a coldly challenging gaze from a pink and chubby face—all went to make up an air of aggressive importance. Findlater studiously cultivated an aloof manner. One gathered that his fingers touched only supremely great things.
Armstrong, who detested this affectation, perhaps made the mistake of under-estimating the qualities which lay beneath it.
"What's wrong with the report?" he asked.
"I'm afraid it will give our investors a wrong impression," said Findlater, with his best judicial air. "We have poured a good deal of money into this Food Products concern. Instead of spreading our money among various enterprises, we are plunging on one or two things. The heavy surplus and corporate funds should be retained more carefully against a rainy day, and more carefully spread out."
Armstrong nodded. "We make money work for us," he said in perfect good humor. "We can't afford to have it lie idle, you know. As for Food Products, everything that we put in will come back with heavy interest; it'll be our finest property in course of time. You speak of spreading out our money. Have you some enterprise in mind?"
"Well," Findlater showed a bit of hesitation, "a very promising affair has been brought to my attention—a new process for refining and producing turpentine—"
"A going enterprise?" asked Armstrong quietly.
"Not exactly. A most promising invention—a friend of mine—"
Armstrong leaned back and regarded the other man amusedly.
"Too clumsy, Findlater; I'm really surprised! Of course, you'd like us to build a plant and experiment with your friend's invention. Perhaps we might buy the invention outright, eh? I'm afraid it won't do, Findlater. We're not a get-rich-quick concern at all. If you want to do any juggling with the funds of Consolidated, you'll do it when I'm no longer connected with the company. That's all."
Findlater's pink-and-white face grew very red; without a word, he turned and left the room. Armstrong smiled to himself and resumed his interrupted work.