He bent his head and gazed very severely at Mr. Redell over the rims of his spectacles. For reply Mr. Redell took from his pocket thirteen sheaves of paper and handed them to Cappy, who investigated and discovered them to be thirteen forty-eight-hour options on thirteen sailing vessels bound to Australian ports with lumber, and not as yet provided with a return cargo to the United States.
“By to-morrow morning I shall have exercised those options and closed for thirteen cargoes of wheat,” Redell explained. “You have five vessels bound to Australia also. Give me an option on them for their return cargo and that will make eighteen.”
“Yes, yes. Then what?”
“I will charter all of the eighteen to Ford grain of it, in order to protect themselves against a falling market.”
“Naturally. And the market is—”
“December wheat closed in the Chicago Pit yesterday at $1.89 1/2, and the market has been very stiff for quite a while. The bulls are right on the job.”
“Will not the advent of all this Australian wheat depress the market?” Cappy shrilled excitedly.
“Not unless the bears happen to find it out, Cappy,” Redell retorted gently. “It is our job to bring the matter to their attention, for it so happens that Alden P. Ricks and J. Augustus Redell are the only two people in the United States who happen to know about it. Ford bulls will get panicky; the bears will take heart of hope, and with Number One white Australian wheat they'll beat the brains out of the market and in all probability kick it down to $1.85, at which figure we promptly buy as much wheat as we have previously sold. Thus we cover our shorts, and the difference between $1.89 1/2 and $1.85, less brokerage and interest—if any—will be, roughly speaking, four cents. Four cents on a quarter of a million bushels is ten thousand dollars—not a great deal, truly, in these days of swollen fortunes, but, nevertheless, a nice piece of velvet—eh, Cappy, you sporty boy?”
“It isn't so much the money we make,” Cappy replied sagely. “It's the fun we have making it, my boy; the joy of putting over a winner. The instant a man begins to love money for money's sake he's a knave and a fool. Kill him! But—er—ahem—as you say, my dear young friend, ten thousand each is not to be—er—sneezed at.”
“Then you're coming in on the deal?”