Thursday, May 4, 1899, dawned as fair a spring morning as ever set off sacrificial rite or triumphal jubilee—a day of buoyant, delicious airs which set the blood throbbing in the veins and ambition thrilling in the heart—a day for action, achievement, for wild gallops along country lanes, for swift motion on land or water. I looked out of my lofty parlor window far up Fifth Avenue's long vista of mansions and palaces to where the sunlight glittered on the tender verdancy of Central Park. A trickle of cabs and carriages headed southward already had begun the descent to Wall Street. Almost the first call over the telephone came from Mr. Rogers, asking for the morning's news. I told him there was not a cloud on our sky, not a single breeze but blew from the right quarter to fill our sails. "And what were my movements?" To stick to my rooms right handy for anything. Was there a sinister thought, I wonder, behind the "Good, I agree with you," that came back from him in his heartiest tones? "I will look after things down-town and we can keep each other posted at near intervals."

It was as busy a forenoon as man ever lived through. My Boston wire kept up a constant ringing; Chicago, Philadelphia, and other long distance points showered in messages. A direct wire to Wall Street informed me of the progress of events in the financial maelstrom. All went merrily and well. It was nearing noon when a lull came; I was sitting back in my chair enjoying the sudden cessation of clatter and buzzing, thinking that after all my forebodings our ship was headed right for harbor and in a few moments would be across the bar and into smooth water, when a sharp ring at the telephone summoned me back to attention. 'Twas from 26 Broadway, from whom it doesn't matter for the purpose of this story. Suffice it to say that it was from one who, because of past acts of mine, would make any sacrifice to warn me of danger. Only a few words, for he who sends secret messages from the mysterious depths of 26 Broadway, even to dwellers on its threshold, is wise in remembering that brevity is the essence of safety—but were few words ever charged with such damnable import? This is what I heard:

"Mr. Stillman has just left Mr. Rogers and there is deviltry afoot. You cannot get to him any too quick." "One word of its nature?" I whispered back. "They are going to grab more than five millions of the subscription money."

I hung up the receiver. The face of my world had changed. To choke back the passion of fury that rose in my throat I went over to the open window and looked out at the brilliant world below, at the procession of pleasure carriages rolling up and down the Avenue, the sunlight flashing from gold-mounted harness and shining on the sleek, polished flanks of splendid horses. A gay rumble of traffic, the murmur of voices, the clangor of street-car bells were borne in to me on the mellow air. But for me the light had fled and the May world was black and freezing cold.

The grim agony of that moment's silence I shall never forget. I jumped for the door; a second's delay to tell my secretary to catch me with any important messages at Mr. Rogers' office, and I was flying down Fifth Avenue through Washington Square, and down the back streets my cabby knew so well how to make time on. When the recording angel calls off page after page of my life-book and comes to the black one covering that ride, I fear 'twill be no easy task excusing the murderous passion that filled my heart and the poison-steeped curses my lips involuntarily formed. After an eternity I was at 26 Broadway. I flew to the elevator, was on the eleventh floor in an instant, bolted by Fred, the colored usher who guards Mr. Rogers' sanctum, and strode, without knock or announcement, into the large private office beyond. Mr. Rogers was alone with his secretary, who at my first words shot out of the room. He was bending over a stack of papers, and as I landed at his desk he looked up quickly, and in a surprised way asked:

"What does this mean, Lawson?"

No one ever enters Mr. Rogers' room without his permission.

"It means that I have just learned that you and Stillman have decided to break your solemn promise to me." I tried to control myself, but the seethe of rage almost choked me. "It means that you have decided to take more of that subscription money than the five millions we agreed upon, and that means hell."

Mr. Rogers stood up, his jaws set as in their last hold, and, recognizing the crisis, he met me, not with the fierce anger I half expected and hoped he would show, but with quiet earnestness.

"Stop just there, Lawson—remember you are in my office. Who gave you this tale?"

"Never mind. Is it true? Are you going to break your promise to me? Do you intend to allot the public more than five millions?"

He hesitated only a second. Just a second, but it seemed an age; then slowly and calmly: "Yes, it has been decided that considering the tremendous number and amounts of the subscription it will be best to give them more."

"How much more?" I shouted, for I was beside myself.

"Ten millions in all," he slowly answered.

"Who has decided?"

"Every one, Mr. Rockefeller, Stillman, all of us."

"All of us? Have I been consulted? Have I decided? Have I consented to the breaking of your word, Mr. Rockefeller's word? What have Stillman and the rest to say about this? What have they to do with the promises I have made the people? I have been trapped just as all the others you and I have dealt with have been trapped. I see it all now. Trapped, trapped until now it is too late for me even to save my reputation. To think I should have been fool enough to allow myself to be made a stool-pigeon for 'Standard Oil,' and all because I took your word."

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.