As a matter of fact, the situation in regard to American Match had reached such proportions as to be almost numbing. Aside from the fifteen thousand shares which Messrs. Hull and Stackpole had originally set aside for themselves, Hand, Arneel, Schryhart, and Merrill had purchased five thousand shares each at forty, but had since been compelled to sustain the market to the extent of over five thousand shares more each, at prices ranging from one-twenty to two-twenty, the largest blocks of shares having been bought at the latter figure. Actually Hand was caught for nearly one million five hundred thousand dollars, and his soul was as gray as a bat’s wing. At fifty-seven years of age men who are used only to the most successful financial calculations and the credit that goes with unerring judgment dread to be made a mark by chance or fate. It opens the way for comment on their possibly failing vitality or judgment. And so Mr. Hand sat on this hot August afternoon, ensconced in a large carved mahogany chair in the inner recesses of his inner offices, and brooded. Only this morning, in the face of a falling market, he would have sold out openly had he not been deterred by telephone messages from Arneel and Schryhart suggesting the advisability of a pool conference before any action was taken. Come what might on the morrow, he was determined to quit unless he saw some clear way out—to be shut of the whole thing unless the ingenuity of Stackpole and Hull should discover a way of sustaining the market without his aid. While he was meditating on how this was to be done Mr. Stackpole appeared, pale, gloomy, wet with perspiration.
“Well, Mr. Hand,” he exclaimed, wearily, “I’ve done all I can. Hull and I have kept the market fairly stable so far. You saw what happened between ten and eleven this morning. The jig’s up. We’ve borrowed our last dollar and hypothecated our last share. My personal fortune has gone into the balance, and so has Hull’s. Some one of the outside stockholders, or all of them, are cutting the ground from under us. Fourteen thousand shares since ten o’clock this morning! That tells the story. It can’t be done just now—not unless you gentlemen are prepared to go much further than you have yet gone. If we could organize a pool to take care of fifteen thousand more shares—”
Mr. Stackpole paused, for Mr. Hand was holding up a fat, pink digit.
“No more of that,” he was saying, solemnly. “It can’t be done. I, for one, won’t sink another dollar in this proposition at this time. I’d rather throw what I have on the market and take what I can get. I am sure the others feel the same way.”
Mr. Hand, to play safe, had hypothecated nearly all his shares with various banks in order to release his money for other purposes, and he knew he would not dare to throw over all his holdings, just as he knew he would have to make good at the figure at which they had been margined. But it was a fine threat to make.
Mr. Stackpole stared ox-like at Mr. Hand.
“Very well,” he said, “I might as well go back, then, and post a notice on our front door. We bought fourteen thousand shares and held the market where it is, but we haven’t a dollar to pay for them with. Unless the banks or some one will take them over for us we’re gone—we’re bankrupt.”
Mr. Hand, who knew that if Mr. Stackpole carried out this decision it meant the loss of his one million five hundred thousand, halted mentally. “Have you been to all the banks?” he asked. “What does Lawrence, of the Prairie National, have to say?”
“It’s the same with all of them,” replied Stackpole, now quite desperate, “as it is with you. They have all they can carry—every one. It’s this damned silver agitation—that’s it, and nothing else. There’s nothing the matter with this stock. It will right itself in a few months. It’s sure to.”
“Will it?” commented Mr. Hand, sourly. “That depends on what happens next November.” (He was referring to the coming national election.)