Wall Street stories. Edwin Lefevre

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СКАЧАТЬ Mr. Colwell—but I really can’t help thinking it’s something like the poor people you read about, who mortgage their houses, and they go on, and the first thing you know some real-estate agent owns the house and you have nothing. I have a friend, Mrs. Stilwell, who lost hers that way,” she finished, corroboratively.

      “This is not a similar case, exactly. The reason why you use a margin is that you can do much more with the money that way than if you bought outright. It protects your broker against a depreciation in the security purchased, which is all he wants. In this case you theoretically owe us $61,000, but the bonds are in your name, and they are worth $96,000, so that if you want to pay us back, all you have to do is to order us to sell the bonds, return the money we have advanced, and keep the balance of your margin; that is, of your original sum.”

      “I don’t understand why I should owe the firm. I shouldn’t mind so much owing you, because I know you’d never take advantage of my ignorance of business matters. But I’ve never met Mr. Wilson nor Mr. Graves. I don’t even know how they look.”

      “But you know me,” said Mr. Colwell, with patient courtesy.

      “Oh, it isn’t that I’m afraid of being cheated, Mr. Colwell,” she said hastily and reassuringly; “but I don’t wish to be under obligations to any one, particularly utter strangers; though, of course, if you say it is all right, I am satisfied.”

      “My dear Mrs. Hunt, don’t worry about this matter. We bought these bonds at 96. If the price should advance to 110, as I think it will, then you can sell three fifths for $66,000, pay us back $61,000, and keep $5,000 for emergencies in savings banks drawing 4 per cent interest, and have in addition 40 bonds which will pay you $2,000 a year.”

      “That would be lovely. And the bonds are now 96?”

      “Yes; you will always find the price in the financial page of the newspapers, where it says BONDS. Look for Man. Elec. 5s,” and he showed her.

      “Oh, thanks, ever so much. Of course, I am a great bother, I know——”

      “You are nothing of the kind, Mrs. Hunt. I’m only too glad to be of the slightest use to you.”

      Mr. Colwell, busy with several important deals, did not follow closely the fluctuations in the price of Manhattan Electric Light, Heat & Power Company 5s. The fact that there had been any change at all was made clear to him by Mrs. Hunt. She called a few days after her first visit, with perturbation written large on her face. Also, she wore the semi-resolute look of a person who expects to hear unacceptable excuses.

      “Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

      “How do you do, Mrs. Hunt? Well, I hope.”

      “Oh, I am well enough. I wish I could say as much for my financial matters.” She had acquired the phrase from the financial reports which she had taken to reading religiously every day.

      “Why, how is that?”

      “They are 95 now,” she said, a trifle accusingly.

      “Who are they, pray, Mrs. Hunt?” in surprise.

      “The bonds. I saw it in last night’s paper.”

      Mr. Colwell smiled. Mrs. Hunt almost became indignant at his levity.

      “Don’t let that worry you, Mrs. Hunt. The bonds are all right. The market is a trifle dull; that’s all.”

      “A friend,” she said, very slowly, “who knows all about Wall Street, told me last night that it made a difference of $1,000 to me.”

      “So it does, in a way; that is, if you tried to sell your bonds. But as you are not going to do so until they show you a handsome profit, you need not worry. Don’t be concerned about the matter, I beg of you. When the time comes for you to sell the bonds I’ll let you know. Never mind if the price goes off a point or two. You are amply protected. Even if there should be a panic I’ll see that you are not sold out, no matter how low the price goes. You are not to worry about it; in fact, you are not to think about it at all.”

      “Oh, thanks, ever so much, Mr. Colwell. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. But I knew——”

      A clerk came in with some stock certificates and stopped short. He wanted Mr. Colwell’s signature in a hurry, and at the same time dared not interrupt. Mrs. Hunt thereupon rose and said: “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Good morning, Mr. Colwell. Thanks ever so much.”

      “Don’t mention it, Mrs. Hunt. Good morning. You are going to do very well with those bonds if you only have patience.”

      “Oh, I’ll be patient now that I know all about it; yes, indeed. And I hope your prophecy will be fulfilled. Good morning, Mr. Colwell.”

      Little by little the bonds continued to decline. The syndicate in charge was not ready to move them. But Mrs. Hunt’s unnamed friend—her Cousin Emily’s husband—who was employed in an up-town bank, did not know all the particulars of that deal. He knew the Street in the abstract, and had accordingly implanted the seed of insomnia in her quaking soul. Then, as he saw values decline, he did his best to make the seed grow, fertilizing a naturally rich soil with ominous hints and headshakings and with phrases that made her firmly believe he was gradually and considerately preparing her for the worst. On the third day of her agony Mrs. Hunt walked into Colwell’s office. Her face was pale and she looked distressed. Mr. Colwell sighed involuntarily—a scarcely perceptible and not very impolite sigh—and said: “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.”

      She nodded gravely and, with a little gasp, said, tremulously: “The bonds!”

      “Yes? What about them?”

      She gasped again, and said: “The p-p-papers!”

      “What do you mean, Mrs. Hunt?”

      She dropped into a chair nervelessly, as if exhausted. After a pause she said: “It’s in all the papers. I thought the Herald might be mistaken, so I bought the Tribune and the Times and the Sun. But no. It was the same in all. It was,” she added, tragically, “93!”

      “Yes?” he said, smilingly.

      The smile did not reassure her; it irritated her and aroused her suspicions. By him, of all men, should her insomnia be deemed no laughing matter.

      “Doesn’t that mean a loss of $3,000?” she asked. There was a deny-it-if-you-dare inflection in her voice of which she was not conscious. Her cousin’s husband had been a careful gardener.

      “No, because you are not going to sell your bonds at 93, but at 110, or thereabouts.”

      “But if I did want to sell the bonds now, wouldn’t I lose $3,000?” she queried, challengingly. Then she hastened to answer herself: “Of course I would, Mr. Colwell. Even I can tell that.”

      “You certainly would, Mrs. Hunt; but——”

      “I knew I was right,” with irrepressible triumph.

      “But you are not going to sell the bonds.”

      “Of course, I don’t want to, because I can’t afford to lose any money, much less $3,000. But I don’t see how I can help losing it. I was warned from the first,” СКАЧАТЬ