In Bolters, oldest and noblest of clubs, the young ignoble Algernon piped out, “I say, Breeches, is it true this millionaire fellah....” But him also Breeches, irreverently so called, a man of much acquaintance and worldly sense, rapidly led aside, and, far out of earshot of all others, said in a low grumble: “You have the sense to keep quiet about that, about him, and you won’t regret it. Don’t you remember what happened to poor Harry?” At which Algernon marched off dazed but obedient.
Minatory but Patient Admonishment of the Ignoble Algernon by Breeches of Bolter’s Club, St. James’ (S.W.1).
CHAPTER IV
Mr. petre, settled in that country inn, felt for the first time in those days a relief from tension. He began to realize how intolerable that tension had been, and a plan vaguely formed itself in his mind to bury himself altogether; perhaps even to go off abroad, take another name, and be free of worries which were growing intolerable, and of a problem that could not be solved. It was even a comfort to him to believe, as he had come to believe, that he could never recover himself, his name, or his past. Some deeply-rooted but no longer conscious habit of mind made him take for granted that his livelihood would necessarily be provided. It was well for him that he had not to put that illusion to the test!
He enjoyed a deep night’s rest, and by the next morning had already determined to look up a train for Southampton and the hours of the boats, when the morning paper, which waited upon his table, turned his mind suddenly into another channel. For on the last page, where he had casually opened it, he saw a violent headline: “Blazing Touaregs,” and read the astonishing series of prices soaring up, in the course of the day before, the morrow of his leaving town: 2⅝-⅞, 3, 3½, 3, 3⅛, 3, 3¼, 3¾, 3½. He read the comment of the City Editor—the comment of a man ignorant, puzzled, and pretending in his style omniscience. Some one had got early news of a new French surrender; a new pocket of the deposits had been found—it was said. It was better to await confirmation. The sudden rise seemed hardly justified—and so on. The City Editor was groping. Yet what had happened was simple enough. First had come a few little heaves. Every one in that luncheon-room—except the banker—had given their orders. Even the kind old Cabinet Minister, who, driving away with his niece, the banker’s wife, had with difficulty grasped what was toward, was dragged in. For that excellent woman had bawled at him as they spun away from Mrs. Cyril’s door, “Uncle Tom, buy Touaregs!”—and Uncle Tom, with his gentle, futile smile had said, “Eh, what?” The lady had repeated in a scream, “Buy Touaregs!” and the word “buy” had penetrated the passage of that senile ear. A younger gleam had illumined the statesman’s eye; he had said almost briskly, “Eh, what? Buy what?” His niece sinking back pettishly on the cushion had muttered, “Silly old ass!” Then, remembering a common interest, she had braced herself to a supreme effort and roared, “TOUAREGS!” and seeing ineptitude spreading once more over her uncle’s finely inherited features, had taken a little gold pencil and a diary from her bag, had scribbled in shaky letters to the bumping of the machine, “TOUAREGS”—torn off the page, and thrust it into his hand. He nodded. At last he understood. And she dropped him at his door just in time to get the order through.
Charlie Terrard had done better. Better than the banker’s wife, better than the kindly old Cabinet Minister, better than the two ex-Lord Chancellors, better than Mrs. Cyril herself; better even than Marjorie Kayle; better, far better, than the solid banker himself, who as he trudged manfully back to his office had turned the thing over in his mind and had determined with sound business sense that when a man like John K. Petre said publicly that he was buying it meant quite certainly that he was unloading. Therefore had that banker shrewdly refrained from touching the affair and thereby missed a pile.
The stock, still sticking, had taken its first lift in that last hour of Wednesday, and next morning the public came tumbling in. Touaregs went soaring up at once like a happy soul released from the bonds of flesh. They grew strong and winged, they stormed heaven. The week-end passed in a fever. With the first bids of Monday they were shooting out of sight. Four and one-eighth to one-fourth at the opening, four and one-half, four and three-fourths—my word, Five! Five and a quarter? Six ... could they have touched Six? Yes,—and passed it.
Charlie Terrard before that Monday’s business closed was alarmed. They got quite out of hand; at any moment there might be trouble. He blamed himself for not selling; but the fever had touched even him, and he waited another night. With Tuesday the curve was still slightly on the rise, though now and then wobbly. Rather late, on a falling market, Charlie Terrard sold. What he himself made I have never discovered; it was very pretty. But for Mr. John K. Petre’s account there was a clear profit of £73,729, 16s. 3d. Then came the very full reaction, with which these pages have nothing to do; and in many a lonely parsonage, in many a quiet country cottage of the purest Drury Lane, gentlemen and ladies who had bought at anything between 5 and 6¼ were hastening to cut losses in time—and by their eagerness and multitude hastening those losses—as Touaregs dropped down again to something near their true, their original, their humbler level.