"No. Can I do anything for you?"
"The W., T., and G. have called their annual meeting for election of officers on Friday the sixth. How about ten-thirty? Is that all right with Mr. Murch?"
"Wait a minute. Ten-thirty, you said? No, Mr. Murch has the International Corkscrew meeting at ten. Can't they push W., T., and G. into the afternoon?"
"I'll let you know later. Good-by."
And later it was arranged to suit Mr. Murch. If there were a pie in Mr. Murch's vicinity which Mr. Murch's finger was not in, it was, if not proof positive, strong circumstantial evidence that the pie was of a most inferior order of succulence; and Mr. Murch was a fairly good judge, being himself chairman of the finance committee of the United States Pie Company. He was a director in two banks, three trust companies, several railroads, at least four mining companies of the immensely profitable kind whose stock is never offered to the general public, besides innumerable industrial and general commercial concerns of every sort, color, and description, the sole similarity between them being their translucent money-making attributes. He was, on the other hand, a trustee of an art museum which was liberally assisted by contributors other than Mr. Murch, whose assistance was administrative rather than pecuniary; and he was on the executive committee of a charity organization society which under his astute management bade fair to be more than self-supporting, and there was really no valid reason to the contrary, for it transacted a very considerable business in sawed and split wood which it sold at current prices after paying each of its unfortunate employees twenty-two cents and an indescribably bad dinner for eight hours' hard work in the wood yard. Mr. Murch was also interested in a chain of blue-front restaurants, and a line of South American freighters, and last but not least, he was the heaviest stockholder and most potent factor in the management of the Salamander Fire Insurance Company.
The Salamander was as exactly the antithesis of the Guardian as it was possible to conceive. Where the Guardian was conservative, the Salamander was ultra-radical; where the Guardian wrote a million and three quarters yearly in premiums, the Salamander, though its surplus was rather less than that of the other company, wrote nearly two millions and a half. In short the Salamander gambled, and played to win, and as a matter of fact it usually did win by sheer audacity. It had never made any money out of its underwriting, that real test of company efficiency; but four years out of five the daring manipulation of its assets in Wall Street—politely termed the slight rearrangement of some of its investments—yielded it a handsome profit. Its dividend rate was more than twice that of the Guardian, and in some years, when losses were heavy, it failed to earn its dividend and was obliged to take the money for its payment out of its already narrow surplus.
The President of the Salamander was an obliging, disingenuous, rather weak individual of Mr. Murch's own selection. His name was Wellwood, and the less said of his character and attainments the better. Mr. Wellwood's mastery of the conditions of his business had never been especially deep, and during the past year a swelling penchant for fast horses, and indeed for acceleration of all kinds, had rather gotten the better of him. And Mr. Murch, concernedly going over the figures which showed the present condition of the Salamander's finances, felt a chill of doubt striking into his usually impassive veins.
"You've been losing money for the company faster than I can make it," he said coldly to Wellwood.
"Well, it's been an awfully bad year—losses have been terrific," stammered the underwriting executive, anxious to placate the god of his car.
"They're all bad years with you. Leave these papers with me; I want to go over them again."