A Man of Means Read online

  THE EPISODE OF THE FINANCIAL NAPOLEON

  Second of a Series of Six Stories [First published in _PictorialReview_, June 1916]

  Seated with his wife at breakfast on the veranda which overlooked therolling lawns and leafy woods of his charming Sussex home, GeoffreyWindlebird, the great financier, was enjoying the morning sun to thefull. His chubby features were relaxed in a smile of lazy contentment;and his wife, who liked to act sometimes as his secretary, found itdifficult to get him to pay any attention to his morning's mail.

  "There's a column in to-day's _Financial Argus_," she said, "of whichyou really must take notice. It's most abusive. It's about the WildcatReef. They assert that there never was any gold in the mine, and thatyou knew it when you floated the company."

  "They will have their little joke."

  "But you had the usual mining-expert's report."

  "Of course we had. And a capital report it was. I remember thinking atthe time what a neat turn of phrase the fellow had. I admit he dependedrather on his fine optimism than on any examination of the mine. As amatter of fact, he never went near it. And why should he? It's down inSouth America somewhere. Awful climate--snakes, mosquitoes, revolutions,fever."

  Mr. Windlebird spoke drowsily. His eyes closed.

  "Well, the Argus people say that they have sent a man of their own outthere to make inquiries, a well-known expert, and the report will be inwithin the next fortnight. They say they will publish it in their nextnumber but one. What are you going to do about it?"

  Mr. Windlebird yawned.

  "Not to put too fine a point on it, dearest, the game is up. TheNapoleon of Finance is about to meet his Waterloo. And all for twentythousand pounds. That is the really bitter part of it. To-morrow we sailfor the Argentine. I've got the tickets."

  "You're joking, Geoffrey. You must be able to raise twenty thousand.It's a flea-bite."

  "On paper--in the form of shares, script, bonds, promissory notes, itis a flea-bite. But when it has to be produced in the raw, in flat, hardlumps of gold or in crackling bank-notes, it's more like a bite from ahippopotamus. I can't raise it, and that's all about it. So--St. Helenafor Napoleon."

  Altho Geoffrey Windlebird described himself as a Napoleon of Finance, aCinquevalli or Chung Ling Soo of Finance would have been a more accuratetitle. As a juggler with other people's money he was at the head of hisclass. And yet, when one came to examine it, his method was delightfullysimple. Say, for instance, that the Home-grown Tobacco Trust, founded byGeoffrey in a moment of ennui, failed to yield those profits which theglowing prospectus had led the public to expect. Geoffrey would appeasethe excited shareholders by giving them Preference Shares (interestguaranteed) in the Sea-gold Extraction Company, hastily floated to meetthe emergency. When the interest became due, it would, as likely as not,be paid out of the capital just subscribed for the King Solomon's MinesExploitation Association, the little deficiency in the latter beingreplaced in its turn, when absolutely necessary and not a moment before,by the transfer of some portion of the capital just raised for yetanother company. And so on, ad infinitum. There were moments when itseemed to Mr. Windlebird that he had solved the problem of PerpetualPromotion.

  The only thing that can stop a triumphal progress like Mr. Windlebird'sis when some coarse person refuses to play to the rules, and demandsready money instead of shares in the next venture. This had happenednow, and it had flattened Mr. Windlebird like an avalanche.

  He was a philosopher, but he could not help feeling a little galled thatthe demand which had destroyed him had been so trivial. He had handledmillions--on paper, it was true, but still millions--and here he wasknocked out of time by a paltry twenty thousand pounds.

  "Are you absolutely sure that nothing can be done?" persisted Mrs.Windlebird. "Have you tried every one?"

  "Every one, dear moon-of-my-delight--the probables, the possibles, thehighly unlikelies, and the impossibles. Never an echo to the minstrel'swooing song. No, my dear, we have got to take to the boats this time.Unless, of course, some one possessed at one and the same time of twentythousand pounds and a very confiding nature happens to drop from theclouds."

  As he spoke, an aeroplane came sailing over the tops of the trees beyondthe tennis-lawn. Gracefully as a bird it settled on the smooth turf, nottwenty yards from where he was seated.

  * * * * *

  Roland Bleke stepped stiffly out onto the tennis-lawn. His progressrather resembled that of a landsman getting out of an open boat inwhich he has spent a long and perilous night at sea. He was feeling morewretched than he had ever felt in his life. He had a severe cold. He hada splitting headache. His hands and feet were frozen. His eyes smarted.He was hungry. He was thirsty. He hated cheerful M. Feriaud, who hadhopped out and was now busy tinkering the engine, a gay Provencal airupon his lips, as he had rarely hated any one, even Muriel Coppin'sbrother Frank.

  So absorbed was he in his troubles that he was not aware of Mr.Windlebird's approach until that pleasant, portly man's shadow fell onthe turf before him.

  "Not had an accident, I hope, Mr. Bleke?"

  Roland was too far gone in misery to speculate as to how this genialstranger came to know his name. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Windlebird,keen student of the illustrated press, had recognized Roland by hisphotograph in the Daily Mirror. In the course of the twenty yards' walkfrom house to tennis-lawn she had put her husband into possession ofthe more salient points in Roland's history. It was when Mr. Windlebirdheard that Roland had forty thousand pounds in the bank that he sat upand took notice.

  "Lead me to him," he said simply.

  Roland sneezed.

  "Doe accident, thag you," he replied miserably. "Somethig's gone wrongwith the worgs, but it's nothing serious, worse luck."

  M. Feriaud, having by this time adjusted the defect in his engine, roseto his feet, and bowed.

  "Excuse if we come down on your lawn. But not long do we trespass. See,_mon ami_," he said radiantly to Roland, "all now O. K. We go on."

  "No," said Roland decidedly.

  "No? What you mean--no?"

  A shade of alarm fell on M. Feriaud's weather-beaten features. Theeminent bird-man did not wish to part from Roland. Toward Roland hefelt like a brother, for Roland had notions about payment for littleaeroplane rides which bordered upon the princely.

  "But you say--take me to France with you----"

  "I know. But it's all off. I'm not feeling well."

  "But it's all wrong." M. Feriaud gesticulated to drive home his point."You give me one hundred pounds to take you away from Lexingham. Good.It is here." He slapped his breast pocket. "But the other two hundredpounds which also you promise me to pay me when I place you safe inFrance, where is that, my friend?"

  "I will give you two hundred and fifty," said Roland earnestly, "toleave me here, and go right away, and never let me see your beastlymachine again."

  A smile of brotherly forgiveness lit up M. Feriaud's face. The generousGallic nature asserted itself. He held out his arms affectionately toRoland.

  "Ah, now you talk. Now you say something," he cried in his impetuousway. "Embrace me. You are all right."

  Roland heaved a sigh of relief when, five minutes later, the aeroplanedisappeared over the brow of the hill. Then he began to sneeze again.

  "You're not well, you know," said Mr. Windlebird.

  "I've caught cold. We've been flying about all night--that French asslost his bearings--and my suit is thin. Can you direct me to a hotel?"

  "Hotel? Nonsense." Mr. Windlebird spoke in the bluff, breezy voice whichat many a stricken board-meeting had calmed frantic shareholders asif by magic. "You're coming right into my house and up to bed thisinstant."

  It was not till he was between the sheets with a hot-water bottle at histoes and a huge breakfast inside him that Roland learned the name of hisgood Samaritan. When he did, his first impulse was to struggle out ofbed and make his escape. Geoffrey Windlebird's was a name which he hadlearned, in the course o
f his mercantile career, to hold in somethingapproaching reverence as that of one of the mightiest business brains ofthe age.

  To have to meet so eminent a man in the capacity of invalid, a nuisanceabout the house, was almost too much for Roland's shrinking nature. Thekindness of the Windlebirds--and there seemed to be nothing that theywere not ready to do for him--distressed him beyond measure. To have areally great man like Geoffrey Windlebird sprawling genially overhis bed, chatting away as if he were an ordinary friend, was almosthorrible. Such condescension was too much.

  Gradually, as he became convalescent, Roland found this feeling replacedby something more comfortable. They were such a genuine, simple, kindlycouple, these Windlebirds, that he lost awe and retained only gratitude.He loved them both. He opened his heart to them. It was not long beforehe had told them the history of his career, skipping the earlier yearsand beginning with the entry of wealth into his life.

  "It makes you feel funny," he confided to Mr. Windlebird's sympatheticear, "suddenly coming into a pot of money like that. You don't seemhardly able to realize it. I don't know what to do with it."

  Mr. Windlebird smiled paternally.

  "The advice of an older man who has had, if I may say so, some littleexperience of finance, might be useful to you there. Perhaps if youwould allow me to recommend some sound investment----"

  Roland glowed with gratitude.

  "There's just one thing I'd like to do before I start putting my moneyinto anything. It's like this."

  He briefly related the story of his unfortunate affair with MurielCoppin. Within an hour of his departure in the aeroplane, his consciencehad begun to trouble him on this point. He felt that he had not actedwell toward Muriel. True, he was practically certain that she didn'tcare a bit about him and was in love with Albert, the silent mechanic,but there was just the chance that she was mourning over his loss; and,anyhow, his conscience was sore.

  "I'd like to give her something," he said. "How much do you think?"

  Mr. Windlebird perpended.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send my own lawyer to her with--say,a thousand pounds--not a check, you understand, but one thousand goldensovereigns that he can show her--roll about on the table in front of hereyes. That'll console her. It's wonderful, the effect money in the rawhas on people."

  "I'd rather make it two thousand," said Roland. He had never reallyloved Muriel, and the idea of marrying her had been a nightmare to him;but he wanted to retreat with honor.

  "Very well, make it two thousand, if you like. Tho I don't quite knowhow old Harrison is going to carry all that money."

  As a matter of fact, old Harrison never had to try. On thinking itover, after he had cashed Roland's check, Mr. Windlebird came to theconclusion that seven hundred pounds would be quite as much money as itwould be good for Miss Coppin to have all at once.

  Mr. Windlebird's knowledge of human nature was not at fault. Murieljumped at the money, and a letter in her handwriting informed Rolandnext morning that his slate was clean. His gratitude to Mr. Windlebirdredoubled.

  "And now," said Mr. Windlebird genially, "we can talk about that moneyof yours, and the best way of investing it. What you want is somethingwhich, without being in any way what is called speculative, neverthelessreturns a fair and reasonable amount of interest. What you want issomething sound, something solid, yet something with a bit of a kick toit, something which can't go down and may go soaring like a rocket."

  Roland quietly announced that was just what he did want, and lit anothercigar.

  "Now, look here, Bleke, my boy, as a general rule I don't give tips--ButI've taken a great fancy to you, Bleke, and I'm going to break my rule.Put your money--" he sank his voice to a compelling whisper, "put everypenny you can afford into Wildcat Reefs."

  He leaned back with the benign air of the Alchemist who has justimparted to a favorite disciple the recently discovered secret of thephilosopher's stone.

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Windlebird," said Roland gratefully. "I will."

  The Napoleonic features were lightened by that rare, indulgent smile.

  "Not so fast, young man," laughed Mr. Windlebird. "Getting into WildcatReefs isn't quite so easy as you seem to think. Shall we say that youpropose to invest thirty thousand pounds? Yes? Very well, then. Thirtythousand pounds! Why, if it got about that you were going to buy WildcatReefs on that scale the market would be convulsed."

  Which was perfectly true. If it had got about that any one was going toinvest thirty thousand pounds--or pence--in Wildcat Reefs, the marketwould certainly have been convulsed. The House would have rocked withlaughter. Wildcat Reefs were a standing joke--except to the unfortunatefew who still held any of the shares.

  "The thing will have to be done very cautiously. No one must know. But Ithink--I say I think--I can manage it for you."

  "You're awfully kind, Mr. Windlebird."

  "Not at all, my dear boy, not at all. As a matter of fact, I shall bedoing a very good turn to another pal of mine at the same time." Hefilled his glass. "This--" he paused to sip--"this pal of mine has alarge holding of Wildcats. He wants to realize in order to put the moneyinto something else, in which he is more personally interested." Mr.Windlebird paused. His mind dwelt for a moment on his overdrawn currentaccount at the bank. "In which he is more personally interested," herepeated dreamily. "But of course you couldn't unload thirty pounds'worth of Wildcats in the public market."

  "I quite see that," assented Roland.

  "It might, however, be done by private negotiation," he said. "Imust act very cautiously. Give me your check for the thirty thousandto-night, and I will run up to town to-morrow morning, and see what Ican do."

  * * * * *

  He did it. What hidden strings he pulled, what levers he used, Rolanddid not know. All Roland knew was that somehow, by some subtle means,Mr. Windlebird brought it off. Two days later his host handed him twentythousand one-pound shares in the Wildcat Reef Gold-mine.

  "There, my boy," he said.

  "It's awfully kind of you, Mr. Windlebird."

  "My dear boy, don't mention it. If you're satisfied, I'm sure I am."

  Mr. Windlebird always spoke the truth when he could. He spoke it now.

  It seemed to Roland, as the days went by, that nothing could mar thepleasant, easy course of life at the Windlebirds. The fine weather, thebeautiful garden, the pleasant company--all these things combined tomake this sojourn an epoch in his life.

  He discovered his mistake one lovely afternoon as he sat smoking idlyon the terrace. Mrs. Windlebird came to him, and a glance was enough toshow Roland that something was seriously wrong. Her face was drawn andtired.

  A moment before, Roland had been thinking life perfect. The onlycrumpled rose-leaf had been the absence of an evening paper. Mr.Windlebird would bring one back with him when he returned from the city,but Roland wanted one now. He was a great follower of county cricket,and he wanted to know how Surrey was faring against Yorkshire. But eventhis crumpled rose-leaf had been smoothed out, for Johnson, the groom,who happened to be riding into the nearest town on an errand, hadpromised to bring one back with him. He might appear at any moment now.

  The sight of his hostess drove all thoughts of sport out of his mind.She was looking terribly troubled.

  It flashed across Roland that both his host and hostess had beenunusually silent at dinner the night before; and later, passing Mr.Windlebird's room on his way to bed, he had heard their voices, low andagitated. Could they have had some bad news?

  "Mr. Bleke, I want to speak to you."

  Roland moved like a sympathetic cow, and waited to hear more.

  "You were not up when my husband left for the city this morning, or hewould have told you himself. Mr. Bleke, I hardly know how to break it toyou."

  "Break it to me!"

  "My husband advised you to put a very large sum of money in a minecalled Wildcat Reefs."

  "Yes. Thirty thousand pounds."

  "As m
uch as that! Oh, Mr. Bleke!"

  She began to cry softly. She pressed his hand. Roland gaped at her.

  "Mr. Bleke, there has been a terrible slump in Wildcat Reefs. To-day,they may be absolutely worthless."

  Roland felt as if a cold hand had been laid on his spine.

  "Wor-worthless!" he stammered.

  Mrs. Windlebird looked at him with moist eyes.

  "You can imagine how my husband feels about this. It was on his advicethat you invested your money. He holds himself directly responsible. Heis in a terrible state of mind. He is frantic. He has grown so fond ofyou, Mr. Bleke, that he can hardly face the thought that he has been theinnocent instrument of your trouble."

  * * * * *

  Roland felt that it was an admirable comparison. His sensations wereprecisely those of a leading actor in an earthquake. The solid earthseemed to melt under him.

  "We talked it over last night after you had gone to bed, and we came tothe conclusion that there was only one honorable step to take. We mustmake good your losses. We must buy back those shares."

  A ray of hope began to steal over Roland's horizon.

  "But----" he began.

  "There are no buts, really, Mr. Bleke. We should neither of us know aminute's peace if we didn't do it. Now, you paid thirty thousand poundsfor the shares, you said? Well"--she held out a pink slip of paper tohim--"this will make everything all right."

  Roland looked at the check.

  "But--but this is signed by you," he said.

  "Yes. You see, if Geoffrey had to sign a check for that amount, it wouldmean selling out some of his stock, and in his position, with everymovement watched by enemies, he can not afford to do it. It might ruinthe plans of years. But I have some money of my own. My selling outstock doesn't matter, you see. I have post-dated the check a week,to give me time to realize on the securities in which my money isinvested."

  Roland's whole nature rose in revolt at this sacrifice. If it hadbeen his host who had made this offer, he would have accepted it.But chivalry forbade his taking this money from a woman. A glow ofself-sacrifice warmed him. After all, what was this money of his? He hadnever had any fun out of it. He had had so little acquaintance with itthat for all practical purposes it might never have been his.

  With a gesture which had once impressed him very favorably whenexhibited on the stage by the hero of the number two company of "ThePrice of Honor," which had paid a six days' visit to Bury St. Edwards afew months before, he tore the check into little pieces.

  "I couldn't accept it, Mrs. Windlebird," he said. "I can't tell you howdeeply I appreciate your wonderful kindness, but I really couldn't. Ibought the shares with my eyes open. The whole thing is nobody's fault,and I can't let you suffer for it. After the way you have treated mehere, it would be impossible. I can't take your money. It's noble andgenerous of you in the extreme, but I can't accept it. I've still got alittle money left, and I've always been used to working for my living,anyway, so--so it's all right."

  "Mr. Bleke, I implore you."

  Roland was hideously embarrassed. He looked right and left for a way ofescape. He could hardly take to his heels, and yet there seemed no otherway of ending the interview. Then, with a start of relief, he perceivedJohnson the groom coming toward him with the evening paper.

  "Johnson said he was going into the town," said Roland apologetically,"so I asked him to get me an evening paper. I wanted to see the lunchscores."

  If he had been looking at his hostess then, an action which he wasstrenuously avoiding, he might have seen a curious spasm pass over herface. Mrs. Windlebird turned very pale and sat down suddenly in thechair which Roland had vacated at the beginning of their conversation.She lay back in it with her eyes closed. She looked tired and defeated.

  Roland took the paper mechanically. He wanted it as a diversion tothe conversation merely, for his interest in the doings of Surrey andYorkshire had waned to the point of complete indifference in competitionwith Mrs. Windlebird's news.

  Equally mechanically he unfolded it and glanced at front page; and, ashe did do, a flaring explosion of headlines smote his eye.

  Out of the explosion emerged the word "WILD-CATS".

  "Why!" he exclaimed. "There's columns about Wild-cats on the front pagehere!"

  "Yes?" Mrs. Windlebird's voice sounded strangely dull and toneless. Hereyes were still closed.

  Roland took in the headlines with starting eyes.

  THE WILD-CAT REEF GOLD-MINE

  ANOTHER KLONDIKE

  FRENZIED SCENES ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE

  BROKERS FIGHT FOR SHARES

  RECORD BOOM

  UNPRECEDENTED RISE IN PRICES

  Shorn of all superfluous adjectives and general journalistic exuberance,what the paper had to announce to its readers was this:

  The "special commissioner" sent out by The _Financial Argus_ to make an exhaustive examination of the Wild-cat Reef Mine--with the amiable view, no doubt, of exploding Mr. Geoffrey Windlebird once and for all with the confiding British public--has found, to his unbounded astonishment, that there are vast quantities of gold in the mine.

  The discovery of the new reef, the largest and richest, it is stated, since the famous Mount Morgan, occurred with dramatic appropriateness on the very day of his arrival. We need scarcely remind our readers that, until that moment, Wild-cat Reef shares had reached a very low figure, and only a few optimists retained their faith in the mine. As the largest holder, Mr. Windlebird is to be heartily congratulated on this new addition to his fortune.

  The publication of the expert's report in The _Financial Argus_ has resulted in a boom in Wild-cats, the like of which can seldom have been seen on the Stock Exchange. From something like one shilling and sixpence per bundle the one pound shares have gone up to nearly ten pounds a share, and even at this latter figure people were literally fighting to secure them.

  The world swam about Roland. He was stupefied and even terrified. Thevery atmosphere seemed foggy. So far as his reeling brain was capableof thought, he figured that he was now worth about two hundred thousandpounds.

  "Oh, Mrs. Windlebird," he cried, "It's all right after all."

  Mrs. Windlebird sat back in her chair without answering.

  "It's all right for every one," screamed Roland joyfully. "Why, if I'vemade a couple of hundred thousand, what must Mr. Windlebird have netted.It says here that he is the largest holder. He must have pulled off thebiggest thing of his life."

  He thought for a moment.

  "The chap I'm sorry for," he said meditatively, "is Mr. Windlebird'spal. You know. The fellow whom Mr. Windlebird persuaded to sell all hisshares to me."

  A faint moan escaped from his hostess's pale lips. Roland did not hearit. He was reading the cricket news.