“Well, to-morrow’s the day,” Francis delivered to Bascom, as they parted that evening. “This time to-morrow I’ll be a perfectly nice scalped and skinned and sun-dried and smoke-cured specimen for Regan’s private collection. But who’d have believed the old skunk had it in for me! I never harmed him. On the contrary, I always considered him father’s best friend.——If Charley Tippery could only come through with some of the Tippery surplus coin....”
“Or if the United States would only declare a moratorium,” Bascom hoped equally hopelessly.
And Regan, at that moment, was saying to his assembled agents and rumor-factory specialists:
“Sell! Sell! Sell all you’ve got and then sell short. I see no bottom to this market!”
And Francis, on his way up town, buying the last extra, scanned the five-inch-lettered headline:
“I SEE NO BOTTOM TO THIS MARKET.—THOMAS REGAN.”
But Francis was not at his house at eight next morning to meet Charley Tippery. It had been a night in which official Washington had not slept, and the night-wires had carried the news out over the land that the United States, though not at war, had declared its moratorium. Wakened out of his bed at seven by Bascom in person, who brought the news, Francis had accompanied him down town. The moratorium had given them hope, and there was much to do.
Charles Tippery, however, was not the first to arrive at the Riverside Drive palace. A few minutes before eight, Parker was very much disturbed and perturbed when Henry and Leoncia, much the worse for sunburn and travel-stain, brushed past the second butler who had opened the door.
“It’s no use you’re coming in this way,” Parker assured them. “Mr. Morgan is not at home.”
“Where’s he gone?” Henry demanded, shifting the suit-case he carried to the other hand. “We’ve got to see him pronto, and I’ll have you know that pronto means quick. And who in hell are you?”