The Money Gods

by Ellery H. Clark

In spite of himself, Atherton shuddered. He felt weak, powerless, as if he were lying bound in the path of some huge engine of destruction.

"This system, of which you are cognizant," continued the financier, "really exists. It is our policy to deny it, but with you that would hardly serve. It exists. It has existed for forty years. It is international in its scope, and although vague rumors are occasionally heard regarding it, and it is periodically assailed upon suspicion, so far our secrets have been so well guarded, and the punishment meted out to those who have spied upon us, or even talked about us, have been so crushingly severe, that we have maintained an impregnable defence. The system is open to criticism; I do not deny that. To many men and women it has brought disaster, ruin, and even death. Yet people so constituted that they must gamble in the stock market would probably be unsuccessful in any event in whatever else they undertook; they are the world's weaklings, and their loss means little to the world. Moreover, somebody must rule this country; that is our real defence. Democracy is a farce, a failure, an idle dream. In any land, there must be an aristocracy of brains. Therefore we rule, and on the whole, I think, wisely. We permeate everywhere; we dominate everything; Politics, Commerce, the whole domain of Trade, they are all ours; we are the Country's uncrowned kings. Thus the market is only one source of our revenue, though our most important source. Without us, there would exist a state of chaos. For forty years, we have averted panics; steered the nation through crisis after crisis; our function is really that of a mighty balance wheel. In a word, we do evil that ultimate good may come. Do I make myself clear?"

Atherton had listened, spell-bound. At last doubt had changed to certainty; the picture was complete. "Yes," he answered, "I understand."

"And now," continued Hamilton, "as to your position. By all the rules of the game, you should have ceased to trouble us, two weeks ago. One thing has saved you. Unfortunately for me, it appears that my daughter cares for you. Though why," he added whimsically, "she could not have fallen in love with someone else, is more than I can see."

Atherton flushed. "I know," he began, "I'm not in the least worthy of her--" But the banker cut him short. "There, there," he said, "I wasn't really serious. I believe you are a clean and honorable young man--you have shown that in many ways--and I think I may offer you a choice. You may take a subordinate place in our organization. It will have many attractions. You will prosper; you will make money; you may rise, if you possess the ability, even to the greatest heights of all. But you will give your undivided allegiance. You will rid yourself of all emotions of pity. You will see the lambs led to the shearing; you will help to lead them there. But you will gain the pride of place, and glory in the eyes of men."

Before Atherton's eyes swept a vision of the seething brokerage offices, the eager crowds, the whirring, clicking tickers, the dreamers of dreams that were destined never to come true. And unhesitatingly he answered, "Mr. Hamilton, never again, as long as I live, do I wish to see the inside of a broker's office; never again do I wish to hear the opening bell, to see the tape begin to tell its lying story. Let me be a poor man all my life; but let me do some honest work, if it's no more than turning out bolts or nails on a machine. Anything in the world but what you offer me."

The banker regarded him, apparently not displeased. "I will not say," he answered, "that you are unwise. We play a great game, but a dangerous one. Our fortunes swell to the bursting point; labor watches and threatens; the people are not blind; it is a condition which may bring about its own cure. There may come revolution, death and destruction--no man can tell. Therefore, you are perhaps wise to choose the factory and the chance to rise through your own endeavors. And that, I take it, is your choice."

"There is nothing," Atherton answered, "that I should like better."

"Very well," the banker responded, "but remember this." And as he spoke, his voice became low and stern. "You have done me more than one favor; I do you one now. But I consider that by doing so we are quits, and more than quits. Forget what you have seen, what you have heard, what you know. Think of it as a dream, dissolving into air. For if ever in the future you breathe one word, one whisper, of what you have learned, you are that moment a dead man, and mine will be the first hand raised to strike you down."

Atherton, without flinching, returned his gaze, realizing as never before the power of this vast order which ruled with such an iron hand, and realizing, too, his own insignificance, his utter helplessness, his inability to do aught else than to comply. "I give you my word," he answered. "What I know is forgotten."