No sooner had the ground-glass door closed on the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell than Cranston rushed to the telephone and put in an order to buy 1,000 shares of Erie at the best possible price. By doing this before he notified his friends he proved that he himself firmly believed in Erie; also, he bought his stock ahead of theirs and thereby, in all likelihood, bought it cheaper. He then rushed into the customers’ room and yelled: “Hi, there! Everybody get aboard Erie! Silas Shaw is bullish as Old Nick on it. I get this absolutely straight. I’ve thought all along the old rascal was quietly picking it up. It’s his movement and no mistake. There ought to be ten points in it if you buy now.”
The firm of Cranston & Melville bought in all, that day, for themselves and their customers, 6,200 shares of Erie, doing as much as anyone else to advance the price to 66½.
All that week the reverend doctor was busy collecting subscriptions for the Bolivian Missionary Fund. He was a good soul and an enthusiast on the subject of that particular subscription list.
So, he told his parishioners how Brother Cranston had given $100 and Brother Baker, another Wall Street man, $250, and Brother Shaw had promised—he told this with an amused smile, as if at the incongruity of it—to make the stock market contribute to the fund! Brother Shaw had done this by buying some stock for him and had assured him, in his picturesque way, that it would come out O.K. in a week or two. Everybody to whom he told that fact developed curiosity regarding the name of the stock itself. They showed it in divers ways, according to their various temperaments. And as he had told some he felt that he should not discriminate against others; so, he told to all, impartially, the name of the stock. It would not harm Brother Shaw, he supposed—and he supposed rightly. He experienced, in a gentle, benevolent, half-unconscious sort of way, something akin to the great Wall Street delight—that of “giving a straight tip” to appreciative friends. The Bolivian Missionary Fund grew even beyond the good man’s optimistic expectations.
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!”