An enormous conceit was bred in him and he fed it upon his dreams,—dreams of power. The Chicago broker sent him prognostications and forecasts which the old man threw away in disgust. They were fools, all of them. He asked no man’s suggestions; they were afraid of him, he assured himself, when the reports were contrary to his own ideas; and when they coincided with his own notions he flattered himself that they proved his own wisdom. He made good his margins as fast as called on, but continued to buy October corn, basing his purchases on a short crop. Always it was corn, corn, corn!
He waited patiently for Balcomb to report, for if he could get fifty thousand dollars more to put into corn his triumph would be all the greater. He waited feverishly for the hour which the promoter had set and when Balcomb appeared he could scarcely conceal his impatience. He had just learned by consulting the files of old newspapers at the public library that there was a certain periodicity in the fall of frosts. There seemed to him every reason for thinking that early frosts were to be expected and he was anxious to increase his investment in October contracts. It was the greatest opportunity of a lifetime; to lose it was to miss a chance that a wise Providence would hardly again put into his hands.
There was a gleam of excitement in the old man’s eyes which Balcomb did not fail to note. He found a pleasure in playing with Ezra Dameron, the hard old reprobate who had always exacted the last ounce of flesh. He quoted again from Doctor Bridges, imputing to that gentleman sentiments that were original in Balcomb’s fertile brain, though none the less noble for being purely fictitious. Balcomb enjoyed his own skill at lying, and it was a high testimony to the promoter’s powers that Ezra Dameron believed a good deal that Balcomb told him. When Balcomb mentioned casually that he had been president of the Y. M. C. A. at college the old man’s heart warmed to him.
“Well, sir,” said Balcomb, presently, after he had given a résumé of one of Doctor Bridges’ Easter sermons, “I’ve been thinking over your proposition about the lots, and I’m sorry—”
The old man’s face fell and Balcomb inwardly rejoiced that his victim was so easily played upon.
“—sorry,” Balcomb continued, “that I can’t do anything in the matter—”
He paused and made a feint of dropping his hat to continue the suspense as long as possible.
“—along the lines you indicated the other day.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure! I remember that it was rather a large proposition,” said Dameron, recovering himself and smiling in tolerance of Balcomb’s failure.
“Yes; the sale of those lots means time and work, and, as I understood you, you wished to avoid both. Well, I don’t blame you. I feel myself that I should prefer to have some other fellow tackle the job. These mechanics can’t pay more than a hundred or so dollars a year on property. I have friends who went through that in the building associations of blessed memory.”