“Yes. I’ve sold them impartially all over New England, here, and in London and Berlin. But the Governments—”
“Never mind those. The Government will make good, somehow. We’ll keep them to give us the right to agitate the matter later on. I am going to tell my brother George. I told him to come here to-day at—How do you do, George; I was just talking about you.”
George B. Mellen, who had entered, was a strongly-built man, white-haired and clean-shaven. His eyes were of a dean, turquoise blue, that contrasted pleasantly with the white of his eyebrows. He was the vice-president of the International Distributing Syndicate, and at least the sixth richest man in the world. He nodded to his brother, and shook hands with Dawson, who managed to convey the impression that he had risen in order to greet affectionately the new-comer. That having been done, the president returned to his desk.
“George,” said Mellen looking up from the ticker, “I’ve sold every bond I owned; or will have sold the last this afternoon.” He resumed his scrutiny of the tape, very calmly.
“Wh-a-at?” said his brother.
“No obligations payable in gold will be worth anything in a short time. There’s a man who has discovered the secret of making gold. And he’s making it.” He said it in an utterly unexcited voice.
“What are you talking about?” said George with an indecisive smile. His brother was bent over the glass dome of the ticker, and George, still smiling indecisively, looked at Dawson.
An office-boy entered with a note which he gave to the president. Dawson, as he saw the lad coming, instinctively picked up a dagger-like paper-cutter from his desk. But when he glanced at the handwriting, tore open the envelope with his fingers hurriedly, and read the slip it contained. He rose and gave the paper to William Mellen, saying: “That is the last of the bonds. They slaughtered prices, didn’t they? But,” with a jovially apologetic smile, “it was the best that could be done.”
Mellen read the memorandum of the bond sales and the prices received.
“Why, Richard,” he said it with a sort of polite regret that ended with a gentle sigh, “I should say they did slaughter them. It’s a loss of about two millions on this lot, from last week’s prices.” He shook his head several times as in sorrow over a fellow-Christian gone wrong: The stock-market had sinned. Then he studied the busy ticker once more.