An incident shortly after my arrival served to illustrate in a pleasant way my relations with W. C. Ralston at that time. I was asked to call at the Oriental Bank, the agency for the Bank of California, and going there the following day, was ushered into the presence of the president, an impressive looking man of affairs. “I have here,” he said, “a cable from W. C. Ralston, president of the Bank of California, advising us to give Mr. A. Harpending credit for any sum he wants. This is an unlimited order and as you probably intend to make heavy drafts on us, I thought it advisable to inquire beforehand how much you were likely to want.” I laughed and told him I had all the money I needed, but if I happened to want accommodation I would certainly call for more. The story is immaterial in itself, except as an illustration of Ralston’s offhand way of doing business, and his confidence in me as his friend.
Another pleasant incident was the renewing of my acquaintance with Alfred Rubery, who again becomes a leading figure in this story. He was the same old Rubery of the “Chapman days.” John Bright, his illustrious uncle, was at the height of his prestige and power, and Rubery himself was in the swim with the biggest kind of social and political fish.
And still another incident was that I came in personal contact with the famous Baron Grant, the overlord of financial London.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Baron Grant Demonstrates His Talent for Exploitation by Putting Over a Deal That Nets $1,500,000.
Happy Directors Decide That Occasion Calls for Generous Cash Souvenirs, But Stockholders Object.
Those who are familiar with the staid, conservative, even-paced London of to-day can hardly realize what that same London was in 1871, the period of my first visit there. It was the year of the great Franco-Prussian war. The pleasure capital of the world was transferred from the River Seine to the River Thames. Male and female adventurers of every nation thronged the British capital; speculators eager to tap the great reservoirs of English wealth, gentlemen who lived by their wits, chevaliers d’industrie in general, made London a common trysting place. And the life was to correspond. It was notable for undisguised and shameless intemperance, a primitive, savage, heathenish pursuit of women and a fevered spirit of gambling speculation that cut loose from all moorings of common sense. I could compare it only to the recklessness and abandon of a Western mining camp in the orgy of flush times.
The speculative world was ruled and controlled by a strange character, for many years one of the famous figures in London, Baron Grant, the same man I mentioned in the last chapter. He was half Hebrew, half Irish, and it has been my experience that wherever you find that combination you can look out for something different from the common run. His real name was Gottheimer, but he had it changed by act of Parliament to Alfred Grant. He came by his title in a curious way. When the nascent kingdom of Italy, years before, had attempted to raise a considerable sum and had been turned down in the money marts of Europe, Grant, then in the height of his prestige, offered his services and floated triumphantly the discarded securities, for which service the grateful Italian government honored him with the title of baron.
When I first met him Baron Grant was past his zenith. Some of his transactions had been disapproved by the great financiers, but he was still a potent factor in the domain of speculation and a promoter without a peer.
Personally, he had the magnetic temperament more highly developed than any man I ever knew. His manners were engaging, he was simply a wonder in conversation, and as he spoke his handsome face was lighted with candid smiles that no one could resist. Whoever came within the sphere of Baron Grant’s influence felt the intoxication of his power to charm.