And Dittenhoeffer was able to get an average of $86 per share for Greener’s 50,000 shares of Federal Telegraph Company stock, for the Street agreed, with many headshakings, that Dan was becoming too reckless and Greener was a slippery little cuss and the short interest must be simply enormous and the danger of a bad “squeeze” exceedingly great. Wherefore, they forebore to “whack” Telegraph. Indeed, many shrewd traders saw, in the seeming weakness of the stock, a trap of the wily little Napoleon and they “fooled” him by astutely buying Federal Telegraph!
With the $4,300,000 which he received from the sale of the big block of stock, Greener overcame his other troubles and carried out all his plans. It was a daring stroke, to trust to a stock broker’s professional honor. It made him the owner of a great railroad system. Dutch Dan’s attacks later did absolutely no harm. Greener had made an opportunity and Dittenhoeffer had lost one.
PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST
He was only seventeen, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked, with girlish blue eyes, when he applied for the vacancy in the office of Tracy & Middleton, Bankers and Brokers. His name was Willis N. Hayward, and he was a proud boy, indeed, when he was selected out of twenty “applicants” to be telephone-clerk for the firm.
From 10 A.M. until 3 P.M. he stood by Tracy & Middleton’s private telephone on the floor of the Stock Exchange—the Board Room—receiving messages from the office—chiefly orders to buy or sell stocks for customers—and transmitting the same messages to the “Board member” of the firm, Mr. Middleton; also telephoning Mr. Middleton’s reports to the office. He spoke with a soft, refined voice, and his blue eyes beamed so ingenuously upon the other telephone-boys in the same row of booths, that they said they had a Sally in their alley, and they immediately nicknamed him Sally.
It was all very wonderful to young Hayward, who had been out of boarding-school but a few months—the excited rushing hither and thither of worried-looking men, the frantic waving of hands, the maniacal yelling of the brokers executing their orders about the various “posts,” and their sudden relapse into semi-sanity as they jotted down the price at which they had sold or bought stocks. It was not surprising that he should fail to understand just how they did business; but what most impressed him was the fact, vouched for by his colleagues, that these same clamoring, gesticulating brokers were actually supposed to make a great deal of money. He heard of “Sam” Sharpe’s $100,000 winnings in Suburban Trolley, and of “Parson” Black’s famous million-dollar coup in Western Delaware—the little gray man even being pointed out to him in corroboration. But, then, he had also heard of Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp, and Jack the Giant Killer.
He learned the business, as nearly all boys must do in Wall Street, by absorption. If he asked questions he received replies, but no one volunteered any information for his guidance, and in self-defence he was forced to observe closely, to see how others did, and to remark what came of it. He heard nothing but speculate! speculate! in one guise or another, many words for the same meaning. It was all buying or selling of stocks—a concentrated and almost visible hope of making much money in the twinkling of an eye. Nobody talked of anything else on the Exchange. Bosom friends met at the opening of business and did not say “Good-morning,” but plunged without preamble into the only subject on earth—speculation. And if one of them arrived late he inevitably inquired forthwith, “How’s the market?”—asked it eagerly, anxiously, as if fearful that the market had taken advantage of his absence to misconduct itself. The air was almost unbreathable for the innumerable “tips” to buy or sell securities and insecurities of all kinds. The brokers, the customers, the clerks, the Exchange door-keepers, all Wall Street read the morning papers, not to ascertain the news, but to pick such items as would, should, or might, have some effect on stock values. There was no god but the ticker, and the brokers were its prophets!
All about Sally were hundreds of men who looked as if they took their thoughts home with them and dined with them and slept with them and dreamed of them—the look had become settled, immutable. And it was not a pleasant look, about the eyes and lips. He saw everywhere the feverishness of the “game.” Insensibly the atmosphere of the place affected him, colored his thoughts, induced certain fancies. As he became more familiar with the technique of the business he grew to believe, like thousands of youthful or superficial observers, that stock-market movements were comparable only to the gyrations of the little ivory ball about the roulette-wheel. The innumerable tricks of the trade, the uses of inside misinformation, the rationale of stock-market manipulation, were a sealed book to him. He heard only that his eighteen-year-old neighbor made $60 buying twenty shares of Blue Belt Line on Thursday and selling them on Saturday, 3⅜ points higher; or that Micky Welch, Stuart & Stern’s telephone-boy, had a “tip” from one of the big room traders which he bravely “played”—as you “play” horse or “play” the red or the black—and cleared $125 in less than a week; or that Watson, a “two-dollar” broker, made a “nice turn” selling Southern Shore. Or else he heard, punctuated with poignant oaths, how Charlie Miller, one of the New Street door-keepers, lost $230 buying Pennsylvania Central, after he accidentally overheard Archie Chase, who was “Sam” Sharpe’s principal broker, tell a friend that the “Old Man” said “Pa. Cent.” was due for a ten-point rise; instead of which there had been a seven-point decline. Always the boy heard about the apparently irresponsible “bulges” and “drops,” of the winnings of the men who happened to guess correctly, or of the losses of those who had failed to “call the turn.” Even the vernacular of the place savored of the technicalities of a gambling-house.
As time wore on the glamour of the game wore off; likewise his scruples. His employers and their customers—all gentlemanly, agreeable people—speculated every day, and nobody found fault with them. It was not a sin; it was a regular business. And so, whenever there was a “good thing,” he “chipped in” one dollar to a telephone-boys’ “pool” that later operated in a New Street bucket shop to the extent of ten shares. His means were small, his salary being only $8 a week; and very often he thought that if he only had a little more money he would speculate on a larger scale and profit proportionately. If each time he had bought one share he had held twenty instead, he figured that he would have made no less than $400 in three months.
The time is ripe for other things when a boy begins to reason that way. Having no scruples against speculating, the problem with him became not, “Is it wrong to speculate?” but rather, “What shall I do to raise money for margin purposes?” It took nearly four months for him to arrive at this stage of mind. With many boys the question is asked and satisfactorily solved within three weeks. But Hayward was an exceptionally nice chap.