My rage was exhausted, and then, heartbroken, I turned and plead, plead for fair treatment, for an honest deal for my friends and associates—plead for my good name in his keeping—plead as I never before plead to any man. I had lost control of myself—begged as no man should beg another even for life, though the things I sought were more than life. He calmly awaited the end of my feverish, broken petition; then he went to work as the expert diamond cutter goes at a crystal. He focussed my position, twisted and turned my arguments, chipped and split my reasoning, smoothed off the corners, and then polished up the subject so that it might retain its old-time lustre for the bedazzlement of the customer whose favorable decision he meant to have.
As ever, Mr. Rogers' arguments were plausible and intelligent. The subscriptions were coming in at such a rate it would be dangerous to allot as little as five millions; there might be talk, and an investigation which would so affect the market later that we could have no second section. Then where should we be with our millions of Butte, Montana, and other Boston stocks? And where would our friends be—and the public? On and on he spun, lulling my fagged brain with his specious arguments until the change of plan seemed robbed of its poison and I swallowed it.
"Lawson," he concluded, "every dollar of the additional five millions will be kept intact and, with the first five millions, will be at all times behind the price, and as you are going to have the handling of it how can there be any wrong or any more danger because of it than if it were only five millions?"
I gave in, agreed to go back to the Waldorf and take hold of the lever again. I left him, driving uptown by way of Broad and Wall streets so I might see the crowds outside the Stock Exchange and in front of James Stillman's money trap. By the time I reached the hotel I had recovered some of my optimism, and went to work to catch up with the mail and messages accumulated in my absence. At three o'clock I called up Mr. Rogers. He was very jubilant. At the stroke of twelve, he told me, it required four big policemen to close the bank doors in the faces of hundreds of belated subscribers; that it had been decided that those inside the building were legally entitled to pass in their subscriptions and at that moment they were still doing so. Sacks of mail still awaited opening; it would be well toward midnight before the last of the subscriptions were tabulated. Stillman was making a tremendous effort to get at an approximate statement in time for me to deal it out to the newspapers before they went to press at midnight.
"How does it look to Stillman now?" I asked.
"He cannot tell much about it yet," Mr. Rogers replied, "although he can see far enough ahead to be sure even your estimate was too low. It will be at least fifty millions."
"And about our big subscription—have you and Mr. Rockefeller put it in yet?" I asked, and how I strained for his answer! I well knew they had not done so, knew they would think it safe to wait until the final tally to see just how much they must put in to get their $65,000,000, which would thus leave the public $10,000,000.
"Not yet," he returned. "It's all right, but we can do nothing till Stillman gives us the total. He says there are millions and millions of such a nature that he can easily throw them out. At four o'clock we will have a meeting and figure out the best way to fix this matter up."
He saw no danger spot. I felt anyway his error was beyond correction now. I told him I would be at his office by five, so that we could arrange how much the press should have of our affair.