"Old Waterman's quite a spender, too, when it comes to that," the
Major went on. "He told me once that it cost him five thousand
dollars a day for his ordinary expenses. And that doesn't include a
million-dollar yacht, nor even the expenses of it.

"And think of another man I know of who spent a million dollars for
a granite pier, so that he could land and see his mistress!--It's a
fact, as sure as God made me! She was a well-known society woman,
but she was poor, and he didn't dare to make her rich for fear of
the scandal. So she had to live in a miserable fifty-thousand-dollar
villa; and when other people's children would sneer at her children
because they lived in a fifty-thousand-dollar villa, the answer
would be, 'But you haven't got any pier!' And if you don't believe
that--"

But here suddenly the Major turned, and observed a boy who had
brought him some cigars, and who was now standing near by,
pretending to straighten out some newspapers upon the table. "Here,
sir!" cried the Major, "what do you mean--listening to what I'm
saying! Out of the room with you now, you rascal!"






CHAPTER XIII





Another week-end came, and with it an invitation from the Lester
Todds to visit them at their country place in New Jersey. Montague
was buried in his books, but his brother routed him out with
strenuous protests. His case be damned--was he going to ruin his
career for one case? At all hazards, he must meet people--"people
who counted." And the Todds were such, a big money crowd, and a
power in the insurance world; if Montague were going to be an
insurance lawyer, he could not possibly decline their invitation.
Freddie Vandam would be a guest--and Montague smiled at the tidings
that Betty Wyman would be there also. He had observed that his
brother's week-end visits always happened at places where Betty was,
and where Betty's granddaddy was not.

So Montague's man packed his grips, and Alice's maid her trunks; and
they rode with a private-car party to a remote Jersey suburb, and
were whirled in an auto up a broad shell road to a palace upon the
top of a mountain. Here lived the haughty Lester Todds, and
scattered about on the neighbouring hills, a set of the
ultra-wealthy who had withdrawn to this seclusion. They were
exceedingly "classy"; they affected to regard all the Society of the
city with scorn, and had their own all-the-year-round diversions--an
open-air horse show in summer, and in the fall fox-hunting in fancy
uniforms.

The Lester Todds themselves were ardent pursuers of all varieties of
game, and in various clubs and private preserves they followed the
seasons, from Florida and North Carolina to Ontario, with occasional
side trips to Norway, and New Brunswick, and British Columbia. Here
at home they had a whole mountain of virgin forest, carefully
preserved; and in the Renaissance palace at the summit-which they
carelessly referred to as a "lodge"--you would find such articles de
vertu as a ten-thousand-dollar table with a set of
two-thousand-dollar chairs, and quite ordinary-looking rugs at ten
and twenty thousand dollars each.--All these prices you might
ascertain without any difficulty at all, because there were many
newspaper articles describing the house to be read in an album in
the hall. On Saturday afternoons Mrs. Todd welcomed the neighbours
in a pastel grey reception-gown, the front of which contained a
peacock embroidered in silk, with jewels in every feather, and a
diamond solitaire for an eye; and in the evening there was a dance,
and she appeared in a gown with several hundred diamonds sewn upon
it, and received her guests upon a rug set with jewels to match.

All together, Montague judged this the "fastest" set he had yet
encountered; they ate more and drank more and intrigued more openly.
He had been slowly acquiring the special lingo of Society, but these
people had so much more slang that he felt all lost again. A young
lady who was gossiping to him about those present remarked that a
certain youth was a "spasm"; and then, seeing the look of perplexity
upon his face, she laughed, "I don't believe you know what I mean!"
Montague replied that he had ventured to infer that she did not like
him.

And then there was Mrs. Harper, who came from Chicago by way of
London. Ten years ago Mrs. Harper had overwhelmed New York with the
millions brought from her great department-store; and had then moved
on, sighing for new worlds to conquer. When she had left Chicago,
her grammar had been unexceptionable; but since she had been in
England, she said "you ain't" and dropped all her g's; and when
Montague brought down a bird at long range, she exclaimed,
condescendingly, "Why, you're quite a dab at it!" He sat in the
front seat of an automobile, and heard the great lady behind him
referring to the sturdy Jersey farmers, whose ancestors had fought
the British and Hessians all over the state, as "your peasantry."

It was an extraordinary privilege to have Mrs. Harper for a guest;
"at home" she moved about in state recalling that of Queen Victoria,
with flags and bunting on the way, and crowds of school children
cheering. She kept up half a dozen establishments, and had a hundred
thousand acres of game preserves in Scotland. She made a speciality
of collecting jewels which had belonged to the romantic and
picturesque queens of history. She appeared at the dance in a
breastplate of diamonds covering the entire front of her bodice, so
that she was literally clothed in light; and with her was her
English friend, Mrs. Percy, who had accompanied her in her triumph
through the courts and camps of Europe, and displayed a famous
lorgnette-chain, containing one specimen of every rare and beautiful
jewel known. Mrs. Percy wore a gown of cloth of gold tissue, covered
with a fortune in Venetian lace, and made a tremendous
sensation--until the rumour spread that it was a rehash of the
costume which Mrs. Harper had worn at the Duchess of London's ball.
The Chicago lady herself never by any chance appeared in the same
costume twice.

Alice had a grand time at the Todds'; all the men fell in love with
her--one in particular, a young chap named Fayette, quite threw
himself at her feet. He was wealthy, but unfortunately he had made
his money by eloping with a rich girl (who was one of the present
party), and so, from a practical point of view, his attentions were
not desirable for Alice.

Montague was left with the task of finding these things out for
himself, for his brother devoted himself exclusively to Betty Wyman.
The way these two disappeared between meals was a jest of the whole
company; so that when they were on their way home, Montague felt
called upon to make paternal inquiries.

"We're as much engaged as we dare to be," Oliver answered him.

"And when do you expect to marry her?"

"God knows," said he, "I don't. The old man wouldn't give her a
cent."

"And you couldn't support her?"

"I? Good heavens, Allan--do you suppose Betty would consent to be
poor?"

"Have you asked her?" inquired Montague.

"I don't want to ask her, thank you! I've not the least desire to
live in a hovel with a girl who's been brought up in a palace."

"Then what do you expect to do?"

"Well, Betty has a rich aunt in a lunatic asylum. And then I'm
making money, you know--and the old boy will have to relent in the
end. And we're having a very good time in the meanwhile, you know."

"You can't be very much in love," said Montague--to which his
brother replied cheerfully that they were as much in love as they
felt like being.

This was on the train Monday morning. Oliver observed that his
brother relapsed into a brown study, and remarked, "I suppose you're
going back now to bury yourself in your books. You've got to give me
one evening this week for a dinner that's important."

"Where's that?" asked the other.

"Oh, it's a long story," said Oliver. "I'll explain it to you some
time. But first we must have an understanding about next week,
also--I suppose you've not overlooked the fact that it's Christmas
week. And you won't be permitted to do any work then."

"But that's impossible!" exclaimed the other.

"Nothing else is possible," said Oliver, firmly. "I've made an
engagement for you with the Eldridge Devons up the Hudson--"

"For the whole week?"

"The whole week. And it'll be the most important thing you've done.
Mrs. Winnie's going to take us all in her car, and you will make no
end of indispensable acquaintances."

"Oliver, I don't see how in the world I can do it!" the other
protested in dismay, and went on for several minutes arguing and
explaining what he had to do. But Oliver contented himself with the
assurance that where there's a will, there's a way. One could not
refuse an invitation to spend Christmas with the Eldridge Devons!

And sure enough, there was a way. Mr. Hasbrook had mentioned to him
that he had had considerable work done upon the case, and would have
the papers sent round. And when Montague reached his office that
morning, he found them there. There was a package of several
thousand pages; and upon examining them, he found to his utter
consternation that they contained a complete bill of complaint, with
all the necessary references and citations, and a preliminary
draught of a brief--in short, a complete and thoroughgoing
preparation of his case. There could not have been less than ten or
fifteen thousand dollars' worth of work in the papers; and Montague
sat quite aghast, turning over the neatly typewritten sheets. He
could indeed afford to attend Christmas house parties, if all his
clients were to treat him like this!

He felt a little piqued about it--for he had noted some of these
points for himself, and felt a little proud about them. Apparently
he was to be nothing but a figure-head in the case! And he turned to
the phone and called up Mr. Hasbrook, and asked him what he expected
him to do with these papers. There was the whole case here; and was
he simply to take them as they stood?

No one could have replied more considerately than did Mr. Hasbrook.
The papers were for Montague's benefit--he would do exactly as he
pleased with them. He might use them as they stood, or reject them
altogether, or make them the basis for his own work--anything that
appealed to his judgment would be satisfactory. And so Montague
turned about and wrote an acceptance to the formal invitation which
had come from the Eldridge Devons.

Later on in the day Oliver called up, and said that he was to go out
to dinner the following evening, and that he would call for him at
eight. "It's with the Jack Evanses," Oliver added. "Do you know
them?"

Montague had heard the name, as that of the president of a chain of
Western railroads. "Do you mean him?" he asked.

"Yes," said the other. "They're a rum crowd, but there's money in
it. I'll call early and explain it to you."

But it was explained sooner than that. During the next afternoon
Montague had a caller--none other than Mrs. Winnie Duval. Some one
had left Mrs. Winnie some more money, it appeared; and there was a
lot of red tape attached to it, which she wanted the new lawyer to
attend to. Also, she said, she hoped that he would charge her a lot
of money by way of encouraging himself. It was a mere bagatelle of a
hundred thousand or so, from some forgotten aunt in the West.

The business was soon disposed of, and then Mrs. Winnie asked
Montague if he had any place to go to for dinner that evening: which
was the occasion of his mentioning the Jack Evanses. "O dear me!"
said Mrs. Winnie, with a laugh. "Is Ollie going to take you there?
What a funny time you'll have!"

"Do you know them?" asked the other.

"Heavens, no!" was the answer. "Nobody knows them; but everybody
knows about them. My husband meets old Evans in business, of course,
and thinks he's a good sort. But the family--dear me!"

"How much of it is there?"

"Why, there's the old lady, and two grown daughters and a son. The
son's a fine chap, they say--the old man took him in hand and put
him at work in the shops. But I suppose he thought that daughters
were too much of a proposition for him, and so he sent them to a
fancy school--and, I tell you, they're the most highly polished
human specimens that ever you encountered!"

It sounded entertaining. "But what does Oliver want with them?"
asked Montague, wonderingly.

"It isn't that he wants them--they want him. They're cumbers, you
know--perfectly frantic. They've come to town to get into Society."

"Then you mean that they pay Oliver?" asked Montague.

"I don't know that," said the other, with a laugh. "You'll have to
ask Ollie. They've a number of the little brothers of the rich
hanging round them, picking up whatever plunder's in sight."

A look of pain crossed Montague's face; and she saw it, and put out
her hand with a sudden gesture. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I've offended
you!"

"No," said he, "it's not that exactly--I wouldn't be offended. But
I'm worried about my brother."

"How do you mean?"

"He gets a lot of money somehow, and I don't know what it means."

The woman sat for a few moments in silence, watching him. "Didn't he
have any when he came here?" she asked.

"Not very much," said he.

"Because," she went on, "if he didn't, he certainly managed it very
cleverly--we all thought he had."

Again there was a pause; then suddenly Mrs. Winnie said: "Do you
know, you feel differently about money from the way we do in New
York. Do you realize it?"

"I'm not sure," said he. "How do you mean?"

"You look at it in an old-fashioned sort of way--a person has to
earn it--it's a sign of something he's done. It came to me just now,
all in a flash--we don't feel that way about money. We haven't any
of us earned ours; we've just got it. And it never occurs to us to
expect other people to earn it--all we want to know is if they have
it."

Montague did not tell his companion how very profound a remark he
considered that; he was afraid it would not be delicate to agree
with her. He had heard a story of a negro occupant of the "mourners'
bench," who was voluble in confession of his sins, but took
exception to the fervour with which the congregation said "Amen!"

"The Evanses used to be a lot funnier than they are now," continued
Mrs. Winnie, after a while. "When they came here last year, they
were really frightful. They had an English chap for social
secretary--a younger son of some broken-down old family. My brother
knew a man who had been one of their intimates in the West, and he
said it was perfectly excruciating--this fellow used to sit at the
table and give orders to the whole crowd: 'Your ice-cream fork
should be at your right hand, Miss Mary.--One never asks for more
soup, Master Robert.--And Miss Anna, always move your soup-spoon
from you--that's better!'"

"I fancy I shall feel sorry for them," said Montague.

"Oh, you needn't," said the other, promptly. "They'll get what they
want."

"Do you think so?"

"Why, certainly they will. They've got the money; and they've been
abroad--they're learning the game. And they'll keep at it until they
succeed--what else is there for them to do? And then my husband says
that old Evans is making himself a power here in the East; so that
pretty soon they won't dare offend him."

"Does that count?" asked the man.

"Well, I guess it counts!" laughed Mrs. Winnie. "It has of late."
And she went on to tell him of the Society leader who had dared to
offend the daughters of a great magnate, and how the magnate had
retaliated by turning the woman's husband out of his high office.
That was often the way in the business world; the struggles were
supposed to be affairs of men, but oftener than not the moving power
was a woman's intrigue. You would see a great upheaval in Wall
Street, and it would be two of the big men quarrelling over a
mistress; you would see some man rush suddenly into a high
office--and that would be because his wife had sold herself to
advance him.

Mrs. Winnie took him up town in her auto, and he dressed for dinner;
and then came Oliver, and his brother asked, "Are you trying to put
the Evanses into Society?"

"Who's been telling you about them?" asked the other.

"Mrs. Winnie," said Montague.

"What did she tell you?"

Montague went over her recital, which his brother apparently found
satisfactory. "It's not as serious as that," he said, answering the
earlier question. "I help them a little now and then."

"What do you do?"

"Oh, advise them, mostly--tell them where to go and what to wear.
When they first came to New York, they were dressed like paraquets,
you know. And"--here Oliver broke into a laugh--"I refrain from
making jokes about them. And when I hear other people abusing them,
I point out that they are sure to land in the end, and will be
dangerous enemies. I've got one or two wedges started for them."

"And do they pay you for doing it?"

"You'd call it paying me, I suppose," replied the other. "The old
man carries a few shares of stock for me now and then."

"Carries a few shares?" echoed Montague, and Oliver explained the
procedure. This was one of the customs which had grown up in a
community where people did not have to earn their money. The
recipient of the favour put up nothing and took no risks; but the
other person was supposed to buy some stock for him, and then, when
the stock went up, he would send a cheque for the "profits." Many a
man who would have resented a direct offer of money, would assent
pleasantly when a powerful friend offered to "carry a hundred shares
for him." This was the way one offered a tip in the big world; it
was useful in the case of newspaper men, whose good opinion of a
stock was desired, or of politicians and legislators, whose votes
might help its fortunes. When one expected to get into Society, one
must be prepared to strew such tips about him.

"Of course," added Oliver, "what the family would really like me to
do is to get the Robbie Wallings to take them up. I suppose I could
get round half a million of them if I could manage that."

To all of which Montague replied, "I see."

A great light had dawned upon him. So that was the way it was
managed! That was why one paid thirty thousand a year for one's
apartments, and thirty thousand more for a girl's clothes! No wonder
it was better to spend Christmas week at the Eldridge Devons than to
labour at one's law books!

"One more question," Montague went on. "Why are you introducing me
to them?"

"Well," his brother answered, "it won't hurt you; you'll find it
amusing. You see, they'd heard I had a brother; and they asked me to
bring you. I couldn't keep you hidden for ever, could I?"

All this was while they were driving up town. The Evanses' place was
on Riverside Drive; and when Montague got out of the cab and saw it
looming up in the semi-darkness, he emitted an exclamation of
wonder. It was as big as a jail!

"Oh, yes, they've got room enough," said Oliver, with a laugh. "I
put this deal through for them--it's the old Lamson palace, you
know."

They had the room; and likewise they had all the trappings of
snobbery--Montague took that fact in at a glance. There were
knee-breeches and scarlet facings and gold braid--marble balconies
and fireplaces and fountains--French masters and real Flemish
tapestry. The staircase of their palace was a winding one, and there
was a white velvet carpet which had been specially woven for it, and
had to be changed frequently; at the top of it was a white cashmere
rug which had a pedigree of six centuries--and so on.

And then came the family: this tall, raw-boned, gigantic man, with
weather-tanned face and straggling grey moustache--this was Jack
Evans; and Mrs. Evans, short and pudgy, but with a kindly face, and
not too many diamonds; and the Misses Evans,--stately and slender
and perfectly arrayed. "Why, they're all right!" was the thought
that came to Montague.

They were all right until they opened their mouths. When they spoke,
you discovered that Evans was a miner, and that his wife had been
cook on a ranch; also that Anne and Mary had harsh voices, and that
they never by any chance said or did anything natural.

They were escorted into the stately dining-room--Henri II., with a
historic mantel taken from the palace of Fontainebleau, and four
great allegorical paintings of Morning, Evening, Noon, and Midnight
upon the walls. There were no other guests--the table, set for six,
seemed like a toy in the vast apartment. And in a sudden fash--with
a start of almost terror--Montague realized what it must mean not to
be in Society. To have all this splendour, and nobody to share it!
To have Henri II. dining-rooms and Louis XVI. parlours and Louis
XIV. libraries--and see them all empty! To have no one to drive
with or talk with, no one to visit or play cards with--to go to the
theatre and the opera and have no ono to speak to! Worse than that,
to be stared at and smiled at! To live in this huge palace, and know
that all the horde of servants, underneath their cringing deference,
were sneering at you! To face that--to live in the presence of it
day after day! And then, outside of your home, the ever widening
circles of ridicule and contempt--Society, with all its hangers-on
and parasites, its imitators and admirers!

And some one had defied all that--some one had taken up the sword
and gone forth to beat down that opposition! Montague looked at this
little family of four, and wondered which of them was the driving
force in this most desperate emprise!

He arrived at it by a process of elimination. It could not be Evans
himself. One saw that the old man was quite hopeless socially;
nothing could change his big hairy hands or his lean scrawny neck,
or his irresistible impulse to slide down in his chair and cross his
long legs in front of him. The face and the talk of Jack Evans
brought irresistibly to mind the mountain trail and the prospector's
pack-mule, the smoke of camp-fires and the odour of bacon and beans.
Seventeen long years the man had tramped in deserts and mountain
wildernesses, and Nature had graven her impress deep into his body
and soul.

He was very shy at this dinner; but Montague came to know him well
in the course of time. And after he had come to realize that
Montague was not one of the grafters, he opened up his heart. Evans
had held on to his mine when he had found it, and he had downed the
rivals who had tried to take it away from him, and he had bought the
railroads who had tried to crush him--and now he had come to Wall
Street to fight the men who had tried to ruin his railroads. But
through it all, he had kept the heart of a woman, and the sight of
real distress was unbearable to him. He was the sort of man to keep
a roll of ten-thousand-dollar bills in his pistol pocket, and to
give one away if he thought he could do it without offence. And, on
the other hand, men told how once when he had seen a porter insult a
woman passenger on his line, he jumped up and pulled the bell-cord,
and had the man put out on the roadside at midnight, thirty miles
from the nearest town!

No, it was the women folks, he said to Montague, with his grim
laugh. It didn't trouble him at all to be called a "noovoo rich";
and when he felt like dancing a shakedown, he could take a run out
to God's country. But the women folks had got the bee in their
bonnet. The old man added sadly that one of the disadvantages of
striking it rich was that it left the women folks with nothing to
do.

Nor was it Mrs. Evans, either. "Sarey," as she was called by the
head of the house, sat next to Montague at dinner; and he discovered
that with the very least encouragement, the good lady was willing to
become homelike and comfortable. Montague gave the occasion, because
he was a stranger, and volunteered the opinion that New York was a
shamelessly extravagant place, and hard to get along in; and Mrs.
Evans took up the subject and revealed herself as a good-natured and
kindly personage, who had wistful yearnings for mush and molasses,
and flap-jacks, and bread fried in bacon-grease, and similar
sensible things, while her chef was compelling her to eat pate de
foie gras in aspic, and milk-fed guinea-chicks, and biscuits glacees
Tortoni. Of course she did not say that at dinner,--she made a game
effort to play her part,--with the result of at least one diverting
experience for Montague.

Mrs. Evans was telling him what a dreadful place she considered the
city for young men; and how she feared to bring her boy here. "The
men here have no morals at all," said she, and added earnestly,
"I've come to the conclusion that Eastern men are naturally
amphibious!"

Then, as Montague knitted his brows and looked perplexed, she added,
"Don't you think so?" And he replied, with as little delay as
possible, that he had never really thought of it before.

It was not until a couple of hours later that the light dawned upon
him, in the course of a conversation with Miss Anne. "We met Lady
Stonebridge at luncheon to-day," said that young person. "Do you
know her?"

"No," said Montague, who had never heard of her.

"I think those aristocratic English women use the most abominable
slang," continued Anne. "Have you noticed it?"

"Yes, I have," he said.

"And so utterly cynical! Do you know, Lady Stonebridge quite shocked
mother--she told her she didn't believe in marriage at all, and that
she thought all men were naturally polygamous!"

Later on, Montague came to know "Mrs. Sarey"; and one afternoon,
sitting in her Petit Trianon drawing-room, he asked her abruptly,
"Why in the world do you want to get into Society?" And the poor
lady caught her breath, and tried to be indignant; and then, seeing
that he was in earnest, and that she was cornered, broke down and
confessed. "It isn't me," she said, "it's the gals." (For along with
the surrender went a reversion to natural speech.) "It's Mary, and
more particularly Anne."

They talked it over confidentially--which was a great relief to Mrs.
Sarey's soul, for she was cruelly lonely. So far as she was
concerned, it was not because she wanted Society, but because
Society didn't want her. She flashed up in sudden anger, and
clenched her fists, declaring that Jack Evans was as good a man as
walked the streets of New York--and they would acknowledge it before
he got through with them, too! After that she intended to settle
down at home and be comfortable, and mend her husband's socks.

She went on to tell him what a hard road was the path of glory.
There were hundreds of people ready to know them--but oh, such a
riffraff! They might fill up their home with the hangers-on and the
yellow, but no, they could wait. They had learned a lot since they
set out. One very aristocratic lady had invited them to dinner, and
their hopes had been high--but alas, while they were sitting by the
fireplace, some one admired a thirty-thousand-dollar emerald ring
which Mrs. Evans had on her finger, and she had taken it off and
passed it about among the company, and somewhere it had vanished
completely! And another person had invited Mary to a bridge-party,
and though she had played hardly at all, her hostess had quietly
informed her that she had lost a thousand dollars. And the great
Lady Stonebridge had actually sent for her and told her that she
could introduce her in some of the very best circles, if only she
was willing to lose always! Mrs. Evans had possessed a very homely
Irish name before she was married; and Lady Stonebridge had got five
thousand dollars from her to use some great influence she possessed
in the Royal College of Heralds, and prove that she was descended
directly from the noble old family of Magennis, who had been the
lords of Iveagh, way back in the fourteenth century. And now Oliver
had told them that this imposing charter would not help them in the
least!

In the process of elimination, there were the Misses Evans left.
Montague's friends made many jests when they heard that he had met
them--asking him if he meant to settle down. Major Venable went so
far as to assure him that there was not the least doubt that either
of the girls would take him in a second. Montague laughed, and
answered that Mary was not so bad--she had a sweet face and was
good-natured; but also, she was two years younger than Anne; and he
could not get over the thought that two more years might make
another Anne of her.

For it was Anne who was the driving force of the family! Anne who
had planned the great campaign, and selected the Lamson palace, and
pried the family loose from the primeval rocks of Nevada! She was
cold as an iceberg, tireless, pitiless to others as to herself; for
seventeen years her father had wandered and dug among the mountains;
and for seventeen years, if need be, she would dig beneath the walls
of the fortress of Society!

After Montague had had his heart to heart talk with the mother, Miss
Anne Evans became very haughty toward him; whereby he knew that the
old lady had told about it, and that the daughter resented his
presumption. But to Oliver she laid bare her soul, and Oliver would
come and tell his brother about it: how she plotted and planned and
studied, and brought new schemes to him every week. She had some of
the real people bought over to secret sympathy with her; if there
was some especial favour which she asked for, she would set to work
with the good-natured old man, and the person would have some
important money service done him. She had the people of Society all
marked--she was learning all their weaknesses, and the underground
passages of their lives, and working patiently to find the key to
her problem--some one family which was socially impregnable, but
whose finances were in such a shape that they would receive the
proposition to take up the Evanses, and definitely put them in.
Montague used to look back upon all this with wonder and
amusement--from those days in the not far distant future, when the
papers had cable descriptions of the gowns of the Duchess of Arden,
nee Evans, who was the bright particular star of the London social
season!






CHAPTER XIV





Montague had written a reluctant letter to Major Thorne, telling him
that he had been unable to interest anyone in his proposition, and
that he was not in position to undertake it himself. Then, according
to his brother's injunction, he left his money in the bank, and
waited. There would be "something doing" soon, said Oliver.

And as they drove home from the Evanses', Oliver served notice upon
him that this event might be expected any day. He was very
mysterious about it, and would answer none of his brother's
questions--except to say that it had nothing to do with the people
they had just visited.

"I suppose," Montague remarked, "you have not failed to realize that
Evans might play you false."

And the other laughed, echoing the words, "Might do it!" Then he
went on to tell the tale of the great railroad builder of the West,
whose daughter had been married, with elaborate festivities; and
some of the young men present, thinking to find him in a sentimental
mood, had asked him for his views about the market. He advised them
to buy the stock of his road; and they formed a pool and bought, and
as fast as they bought, he sold--until the little venture cost the
boys a total of seven million and a half!

"No, no," Oliver added. "I have never put up a dollar for anything
of Evans's, and I never shall.--They are simply a side issue,
anyway," he added carelessly.

A couple of mornings later, while Montague was at breakfast, his
brother called him up and said that he was coming round, and would
go down town with him. Montague knew at once that that meant
something serious, for he had never before known his brother to be
awake so early.

They took a cab; and then Oliver explained. The moment had
arrived--the time to take the plunge, and come up with a fortune. He
could not tell much about it, for it was a matter upon which he
stood pledged to absolute secrecy. There were but four people in the
country who knew about it. It was the chance of a lifetime--and in
four or five hours it would be gone. Three times before it had come
to Oliver, and each time he had multiplied his capital several
times; that he had not made millions was simply because he did not
have enough money. His brother must take his word for this and
simply put himself into his hands.

"What is it you want me to do?" asked Montague, gravely.

"I want you to take every dollar you have, or that you can lay your
hands on this morning, and turn it over to me to buy stocks with."

"To buy on margin, you mean?"

"Of course I mean that," said Oliver. Then, as he saw his brother
frown, he added, "Understand me, I have absolutely certain
information as to how a certain stock will behave to-day."

"The best judges of a stock often make mistakes in such matters,"
said Montague.

"It is not a question of any person's judgment," was the reply. "It
is a question of knowledge. The stock is to be MADE to behave so."

"But how can you know that the person who intends to make it behave
may not be lying to you?"

"My information does not come from that person, but from a person
who has no such interest--who, on the contrary, is in on the deal
with me, and gains only as I gain."

"Then, in other words," said Montague, "your information is stolen?"

"Everything in Wall Street is stolen," was Oliver's concise reply.

There was a long silence, while the cab rolled swiftly on its way.
"Well?" Oliver asked at last.

"I can imagine," said Montague, "how a man might intend to move a
certain stock, and think that he had the power, and yet find that he
was mistaken. There are so many forces, so many chances to be
considered--it seems to me you must be taking a risk."

Oliver laughed. "You talk like a child," was his reply. "Suppose
that I were in absolute control of a corporation, and that I chose
to run it for purposes of market manipulation, don't you think I
might come pretty near knowing what its stock was going to do?"

"Yes," said Montague, slowly, "if such a thing as that were
conceivable."

"If it were conceivable!" laughed his brother. "And now suppose that
I had a confidential man--a secretary, we'll say--and I paid him
twenty thousand a year, and he saw chances to make a hundred
thousand in an hour--don't you think he might conceivably try it?"

"Yes," said Montague, "he might. But where do you come in?"

"Well, if the man were going to do anything worth while, he'd need
capital, would he not? And he'd hardly dare to look for any money in
the Street, where a thousand eyes would be watching him. What more
natural than to look out for some person who is in Society and has
the ear of private parties with plenty of cash?"

And Montague sat in deep thought. "I see," he said slowly; "I see!"
Then, fixing his eyes upon Oliver, he exclaimed, earnestly, "One
thing more!"

"Don't ask me any more," protested the other. "I told you I was
pledged--"

"You must tell me this," said Montague. "Does Bobbie Walling know
about it?"

"He does not," was the reply. But Montague had known his brother
long and intimately, and he could read things in his eyes. He knew
that that was a lie. He had solved the mystery at last!

Montague knew that he had come to a parting of the ways. He did not
like this kind of thing--he had not come to New York to be a
stock-gambler. But what a difficult thing it would be to say so; and
how unfair it was to be confronted with such an issue, and compelled
to decide in a few minutes in a cab!

He had put himself in his brother's hands, and now he was under
obligations to him, which he could not pay off. Oliver had paid all
his expenses; he was doing everything for him. He had made all his
difficulties his own, and all in frankness and perfect trust--upon
the assumption that his brother would play the game with him. And
now, at the critical moment, he was to face about, and say; "I do
not like the game. I do not approve of your life!" Such a painful
thing it is to have a higher moral code than one's friends!

If he refused, he saw that he would have to face a complete break;
he could not go on living in the world to which he had been
introduced. Fifty thousand had seemed an enormous fee, yet even a
week or two had sufficed for it to come to seem inadequate. He would
have to have many such fees, if they were to go on living at their
present rate; and if Alice were to have a social career, and
entertain her friends. And to ask Alice to give up now, and retire,
would be even harder than to face his brother here in the cab.

Then came the temptation. Life was a battle, and this was the way it
was being fought. If he rejected the opportunity, others would seize
it; in fact, by refusing, he would be handing it to them. This great
man, whoever he might be, who was manipulating stocks for his own
convenience--could anyone in his senses reject a chance to wrench
from him some part of his spoils? Montague saw the impulse of
refusal dying away within him.

"Well?" asked his brother, finally.

"Oliver," said the other, "don't you think that I ought to know more
about it, so that I can judge?"

"You could not judge, even if I told you all," said Oliver. "It
would take you a long time to become familiar with the
circumstances, as I am. You must take my word; I know it is certain
and safe."

Then suddenly he unbuttoned his coat, and took out some papers, and
handed his brother a telegram. It was dated Chicago, and read,
"Guest is expected immediately.--HENRY." "That means, 'Buy
Transcontinental this morning,'" said Oliver.

"I see," said the other. "Then the man is in Chicago?"

"No," was the reply. "That is his wife. He wires to her."

"--How much money have you?" asked Oliver, after a pause.

"I've most of the fifty thousand," the other answered, "and about
thirty thousand we brought with us."

"How much can you put your hands on?"

"Why, I could get all of it; but part of the money is mother's, and
I would not touch that."

The younger man was about to remonstrate, but Montague stopped him,
"I will put up the fifty thousand I have earned," he said. "I dare
not risk any more."

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "As you please," he said. "You may
never have another such chance in your life."

He dropped the subject, or at least he probably tried to. Within a
few minutes, however, he was back at it again, with the result that
by the time they reached the banking-district, Montague had agreed
to draw sixty thousand.

They stopped at his bank. "It isn't open yet,--" said Oliver, "but
the paying teller will oblige you. Tell him you want it before the
Exchange opens."

Montague went in and got his money, in six new, crisp,
ten-thousand-dollar bills. He buttoned them up in his inmost pocket,
wondering a little, incidentally, at the magnificence of the place,
and at the swift routine manner in which the clerk took in and paid
out such sums as this. Then they drove to Oliver's bank, and he drew
a hundred and twenty thousand; and then he paid off the cab, and
they strolled down Broadway into Wall Street. It lacked a quarter of
an hour of the time of the opening of the Exchange; and a stream of
prosperous-looking men were pouring in from all the cars and ferries
to their offices.

"Where are your brokers?" Montague inquired.

"I don't have any brokers--at least not for a matter such as this,"
said Oliver. And he stopped in front of one of the big buildings.
"In there," he said, "are the offices of Hammond and
Streeter--second floor to your left. Go there and ask for a member
of the firm, and introduce yourself under an assumed name--"

"What!" gasped Montague.

"Of course, man--you would not dream of giving your own name! What
difference will that make?"

"I never thought of doing such a thing," said the other.

"Well, think of it now."

But Montague shook his head. "I would not do that," he said.

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "All right," he said; "tell him you
don't care to give your name. They're a little shady--they'll take
your money."

"Suppose they won't?" asked the other.

"Then wait outside for me, and I'll take you somewhere else."

"What shall I buy?"

"Ten thousand shares of Transcontinental Common at the opening
price; and tell them to buy on the scale up, and to raise the stop;
also to take your orders to sell over the 'phone. Then wait there
until I come for you."

Montague set his teeth together and obeyed orders. Inside the door
marked Hammond and Streeter a pleasant-faced young man advanced to
meet him, and led him to a grey-haired and affable gentleman, Mr.
Streeter. And Montague introduced himself as a stranger in town,
from the South, and wishing to buy some stock. Mr. Streeter led him
into an inner office and seated himself at a desk and drew some
papers in front of him. "Your name, please?" he asked.

"I don't care to give my name," replied the other. And Mr. Streeter
put down his pen.

"Not give your name?" he said.

"No," said Montague quietly.

"Why?"--said Mr. Streeter--"I don't understand--"

"I am a stranger in town," said Montague, "and not accustomed to
dealing in stocks. I should prefer to remain unknown."

The man eyed him sharply. "Where do you come from?" he asked.

"From Mississippi," was the reply.

"And have you a residence in New York?"

"At a hotel," said Montague.

"You have to give some name," said the other.

"Any will do," said Montague. "John Smith, if you like."

"We never do anything like this," said the broker.

"We require that our customers be introduced. There are rules of the
Exchange--there are rules--"

"I am sorry," said Montague; "this would be a cash transaction."

"How many shares do you want to buy?"

"Ten thousand," was the reply.

Mr. Streeter became more serious. "That is a large order," he said.

Montague said nothing.

"What do you wish to buy?" was the next question.

"Transcontinental Common," he replied.

"Well," said the other, after another pause-,-"we will try to
accommodate you. But you will have to consider it--er--"

"Strictly confidential," said Montague.

So Mr. Streeter made out the papers, and Montague, looking them
over, discovered that they called for one hundred thousand dollars.



"That is a mistake," he said. "I have only sixty thousand."

"Oh," said the other, "we shall certainly have to charge you a ten
per cent, margin."

Montague was not prepared for this contingency; but he did some
mental arithmetic. "What is the present price of the stock?" he
asked.

"Fifty-nine and five-eighths," was the reply.

"Then sixty thousand dollars is more than ten per cent, of the
market price," said Montague.

"Yes," said Mr. Streeter. "But in dealing with a stranger we shall
certainly have to put a 'stop loss' order at four points above, and
that would leave you only two points of safety--surely not enough."

"I see," said Montague--and he had a sudden appalling realization of
the wild game which his brother had planned for him.

"Whereas," Mr. Streeter continued, persuasively, "if you put up ten
per cent., you will have six points."

"Very well," said the other promptly. "Then please buy me six
thousand shares."

So they closed the deal, and the papers were signed, and Mr.
Streeter took the six new, crisp ten-thousand-dollar bills.

Then he escorted him to the outer office, remarking pleasantly on
the way, "I hope you're well advised. We're inclined to be bearish
upon Transcontinental ourselves--the situation looks rather
squally."

These words were not worth the breath it took to say them; but
Montague was not aware of this, and felt a painful start within. But
he answered, carelessly, that one must take his chance, and sat down
in one of the customer's chairs. Hammond and Streeter's was like a
little lecture-hall, with rows of seats and a big blackboard in
front, with the initials of the most important stocks in columns,
and yesterday's closing prices above, on little green cards. At one
side was a ticker, with two attendants awaiting the opening click.

In the seats were twenty or thirty men, old and young; most of them
regular habitues, victims of the fever of the Street. Montague
watched them, catching snatches of their whispered conversation,
with its intricate and disagreeable slang. He felt intensely
humiliated and uncomfortable--for he had got the fever of the Street
into his own veins, and he could not conquer it. There were nasty
shivers running up and down his spine, and his hands were cold.

He stared at the little figures, fascinated; they stood for some
vast and tremendous force outside, which could not be controlled or
even comprehended,--some merciless, annihilating force, like the
lightning or the tornado. And he had put himself at the mercy of it;
it might do its will with him! "Tr. C. 59 5/8" read the little
pasteboard; and he had only six points of safety. If at any time in
the day that figure should be changed to read "53 5/8"--then every
dollar of Montague's sixty thousand would be gone for ever! The
great fee that he had worked so hard for and rejoiced so greatly
over--that would be all gone, and a slice out of his inheritance
besides!

A boy put into his hand a little four-page paper--one of the
countless news-sheets which different houses and interests
distributed free for advertising or other purposes; and a heading
"Transcontinental" caught his eye, among the paragraphs in the Day's
Events. He read: "The directors' meeting of the Transcontinental
R.R. will be held at noon. It is confidently predicted that the
quarterly dividend will be passed, as it has been for the last three
quarters. There is great dissatisfaction among the stock-holders.
The stock has been decidedly weak, with no apparent inside support;
it fell off three points just before closing yesterday, upon the
news of further proceedings by Western state officials, and widely
credited rumours of dissensions among the directors, with renewed
opposition to the control of the Hopkins interests."

Ten o'clock came and went, and the ticker began its long journey.
There was intense activity in Transcontinental, many thousands of
shares changing hands, and the price swaying back and forth. When
Oliver came in, in half an hour, it stood at 59 3/8.

"That's all right," said he. "Our time will not come till
afternoon."

"But suppose we are wiped out before afternoon?" said the other.

"That is impossible," answered Oliver. "There will be big buying all
the morning."

They sat for a while, nervous and restless. Then, by way of breaking
the monotony, Oliver suggested that his brother might like to see
the "Street." They went around the corner to Broad Street. Here at
the head stood the Sub-treasury building, with all the gold of the
government inside, and a Gatling gun in the tower. The public did
not know it was there, but the financial men knew it, and it seemed
as if they had huddled all their offices and banks and safe-deposit
vaults under its shelter. Here, far underground, were hidden the two
hundred millions of securities of the Oil Trust--in a huge
six-hundred-ton steel vault, with a door so delicately poised that a
finger could swing it on its hinges. And opposite to this was the
white Grecian building of the Stock Exchange. Down the street were
throngs of men within a roped arena, pushing, shouting, jostling;
this was "the curb," where one could buy or sell small blocks of
stock, and all the wild-cat mining and oil stocks which were not
listed by the Exchange. Rain or shine, these men were always here;
and in the windows of the neighbouring buildings stood others
shouting quotations to them through megaphones, or signalling in
deaf and dumb language. Some of these brokers wore coloured hats, so
that they could be distinguished; some had offices far off, where
men sat all day with strong glasses trained upon them. Everywhere
was the atmosphere of speculation--the restless, feverish eyes; the
quick, nervous gestures; the haggard, care-worn faces. For in this
game every man was pitted against every other man; and the dice were
loaded so that nine out of every ten were doomed in advance to ruin
and defeat. They procured passes to the visitors' gallery of the
Exchange. From here one looked down into a room one or two hundred
feet square, its floor covered with a snowstorm of torn pieces of
paper, and its air a babel of shouts and cries. Here were gathered
perhaps two thousand men and boys; some were lounging and talking,
but most were crowded about the various trading-posts, pushing,
climbing over each other, leaping up, waving their hands and calling
aloud. A "seat" in this exchange was worth about ninety-five
thousand dollars, and so no one of these men was poor; but yet they
came, day after day, to play their parts in this sordid arena,
"seeking in sorrow for each other's joy": inventing a thousand petty
tricks to outwit and deceive each other; rejoicing in a thousand
petty triumphs; and spending their lives, like the waves upon the
shore, a very symbol of human futility. Now and then a sudden
impulse would seize them, and they would become like howling demons,
surging about one spot, shrieking, gasping, clawing each other's
clothing to pieces; and the spectator shuddered, seeing them as the
victims of some strange and dreadful enchantment, which bound them
to struggle and torment each other until they were worn out and
grey.

But one felt these things only dimly, when he had put all his
fortune into Transcontinental Common. For then he had sold his own
soul to the enchanter, and the spell was upon him, and he hoped and
feared and agonized with the struggling throng. Montague had no need
to ask which was his "post"; for a mob of a hundred men were packed
about it, with little whirls and eddies here and there on the
outside. "Something doing to-day all right," said a man in his ear.

It was interesting to watch; but there was one difficulty--there
were no quotations provided for the spectators. So the sight of this
activity merely set them on edge with anxiety--something must be
happening to their stock! Even Oliver was visibly nervous--after
all, in the surest cases, the game was a dangerous one; there might
be a big failure, or an assassination, or an earthquake! They rushed
out and made for the nearest broker's office, where a glance at the
board showed them Transcontinental at 60. They drew a long breath,
and sat down again to wait.