Steele himself was not particularly frightened at the outlook, but neither was he extremely pleased. He was sorry that Fate had brought him into opposition with Peter Berrington, but he had learned that fact too late to withdraw. When he met Nicholson, and became aware that the Great Bear was Amalgamated Soap, he was already committed too deeply for half measures to aid him. He had acted at once, decisively and successfully, and would have been relieved had he merely got out even. It was his usual luck that he came away with large profits, and for that he thanked Fate, because he knew his enemy was ruthless. Success did not turn his head in the least. He was a cool thinker and detested all this newspaper notoriety. He knew fortunes were not made by the beating of drums, and he kept very quiet until the hubbub was over, refusing to see reporters or say anything about the matter, save to his most intimate friends. He hoped that some fresh sensation would speedily drive his name from the columns of the Press, and until that time came he sought shelter, doing nothing. He comforted himself with the thought that Peter Berrington, while merciless to an opponent, was merciless merely to acquire that opponent’s business. He believed the great man to be entirely without sentiment, and therefore surmised he would not seek revenge when an act was once completed and done with. Nevertheless, he resolved to keep his weather eye open, which was wise.
The new celebrity he had attained brought all sorts and conditions of men to his offices. He began to think that every wild-cat scheme in the country was placed before him. Letters poured in from various parts of the world, and he was offered gold mines, patents, railways, steamship lines, industrial enterprises and what not. He took larger offices and protected himself from intrusion. He became a much more difficult man to see than even the President of the United States—or perhaps it would be more fitting to say than Mr. Peter Berrington, for Peter allowed no outsider to penetrate to his den.
There was one man, however, who succeeded in reaching the inner room of John Steele, and his card bore the name of William Metcalfe. This card had been preceded, however, by some excellent letters of introduction, and so John Steele made an appointment with him. He was favourably impressed by the appearance of Mr. Metcalfe, who did not look like a city man, but rather a cross between a bluff farmer and a shrewd manufacturer—which, indeed, he turned out to be. After seating himself, William Metcalfe plunged directly into the heart of his business, without preliminary, which also pleased John Steele.
“I know your time is valuable,” he said; “so is mine. I have undertaken an operation that proves too big for me, and I want you to help me carry it out.”
“I have three rules, Mr. Metcalfe, which I rarely break. In the first place, I never finance anything. If, for instance, you wish to build a factory, or to exploit a patent, it is useless coming to me expecting help.”
“I have no factory to build and no patent to exploit,” said Metcalfe.
“My second rule is that the man with whom I go in, must be prepared to put up dollar for dollar with me in hard cash, and not in future prospects.”
“I am prepared to do that,” rejoined Metcalfe.
“My third rule is that I must see for myself and understand the business offered. I do not give a hang for the opinions of experts. If the proposal is complicated beyond my comprehension, I don’t go in.”
“Quite right,” commended Metcalfe. “None of your three rules will be in the least infringed by me. Do you know anything of the beet-sugar business?”