“Brown,” said Mr. John P. Greener, as he turned away from the ticker in the corner, “I wish you would go over to the Board and see how the market is for Iowa Midland. Find out how much stock there is for sale and who has it. It ought to be pretty well distributed about the Street.”

“What’s up in it?” asked his partner, curiously.

“Nothing—yet,” answered Greener, quietly.

He sat down at his desk and took up a letter, headed “President’s Office, Keokuk & Northern Railway Company, Keokuk, Iowa.” When he had finished the entire sixteen closely written pages, he arose and paced slowly up and down his office.

He was a sallow-faced, black-bearded little man, slender—almost frail looking—with a high but rather narrow forehead. His eyes were furtive, shifty bits of brown light. He was thinking, and thinking to some purpose. Any one, even a stranger, seeing him, would have known that he was thinking of something big—the forehead was responsible for the impression; and also of something tricky, unscrupulous, cold-blooded—his eyes were to blame there. At length his brow cleared. He muttered: “I must have that road. Then, a consolidation with my Keokuk & Northern; and a new system that will endure as long as the country!”

Brown returned in a half hour and reported. There was very little stock for sale below $42 a share—a few small lots held by unimportant commission houses. The vendible supply increased at 44, and at 46 “inside stock would come out,” which, translated into plain English, meant that whenever the price of Iowa Midland Railway Company stock rose to $46 per share, directors of the company or close friends of theirs would be found willing to part with their holdings. It was thus evident that the greater part of such stock of the Iowa Midland as the Street was “carrying” speculatively was not for sale at such a price as would be regarded in the light of a great bargain by Mr. John F. Greener, president de facto of the rival Keokuk & Northern Railway, but better known to countless “lambs” and widows and orphans and brother financiers as the Napoleon of the Street.

“Any supporting orders?” piped Greener. Stocks are “supported,” or bought on declines, so that the price shall not go down too much, and above all not too quickly.

“Bagley has orders to buy 300 shares every quarter of a point down until 37 is reached, and then to take 5,000 shares at that figure. He got them direct from Willetts himself.” Bagley was a broker who made a specialty of dealing in Iowa Midland. Willetts was the president of the company.

“Willetts,” squeaked Greener, “was in Council Bluffs this morning. He is to take part in the ceremonies of unveiling the Soldiers’ Monument, which begin at one o’clock—that is, within twenty minutes, allowing for difference in time. He will be out of the reach of the telegraph for the afternoon.”

Brown laughed. “No wonder they are afraid of you.”

“Brown,” said Greener, “start the movement by selling 10,000 shares of Iowa Midland. Divide it up among the boys on the floor. It would be well if the room were frightened by the selling. It is more important for us to get the price down than to put out shorts at high figures. I want that stock down.” If he had merely desired to sell the stock “short” he would have gone about it carefully, to disturb the price as little as possible.

“If you want that I think you’ll get it,” said Brown. As he was going out Mr. Greener squeaked after him: “Keep them guessing, Brown; keep them guessing.”

“That,” mused Mr. John F. Greener, “ought to mean a three-or four-point break in Iowa Midland at the very least, and perhaps we can work through the peg at 37. We’ll see.” By the “peg” he meant the figure at which the supporting orders to buy were heaviest.

A few minutes later the Iowa Midland “post” on the floor of the Stock Exchange was surrounded by a dozen puzzled and apprehensive but gentlemanly brokers. And still a few minutes later the same spot was a seething whirlpool of maniacal humanity. It was appalling, the sight of these gesticulating, yelling, fighting, coat-tearing, fisticuffing brokers—appalling and vulgar, selfish, unpleasant, ungentlemanly but eminently typical. And all that caused the transformation was the fact that Mr. Brown had been seen whispering to Harry Wilson, and Harry Wilson had left him, gone to the Iowa Midland crowd, and sold 1,000 shares at 42? and 42. Then Mr. Brown had been seen speaking with W. G. Carleton in what struck witnesses as being a more or less agitated manner, and later Carleton had sauntered carelessly over to the Iowa Midland precinct, and, after displaying very great indifference about the world in general, but most particularly about the market for Iowa Midland, had sold 1,500 shares to Bagley, the specialist, at 41¾, 41?, and 41½. Mr. Brown was now watched by two or three scores of sharp eyes, all having the same expression. And he was observed to look about him apprehensively and then begin to converse with Frank J. Pratt; whereupon Pratt, as fast as his fat legs would carry him, hastened to “Iowa Midland” and sold 2,000 shares at an average price of 41. The observant eyes had by this taken on a new expression—of indecision; but when they beheld Mr. Brown anxiously beckon to his “particular” friend, Dan Simpson, and saw shrill-voiced Dan rush like mad into the increasing crowd and sell 5,000 shares of Iowa Midland, apparently regardless of price, the observant eyes ceased to observe Brown. Activity was transferred to their owners’ throats as they thought to emulate Simpson and the rest of the Brown “whisperees.” Everybody scented danger, especially as the same “whisperees” had not “given up” the name of Brown & Greener as the real sellers, but had sold as though each Brown-talked man was acting for himself—which every other man in the room knew was out of the question, and which, in turn, increased the general uneasiness. It was a confident and yet a mystifying movement. It became more maddeningly perplexing when certain brokers, believed to be “close to the inside,” also began to sell the stock. Everybody started to do likewise. And everybody asked the same question—“What’s the matter?”—and received an avalanche of answers, all different but all unfavorable. One man said it was crop failures, another mentioned divers kinds of bugs, a third asserted it was extensive wash-outs and ruinous landslides, and bankrupting attacks by a socialistic legislature, and receivership probabilities.

Each of these was a good and sufficient reason why Iowa Midland stock should be sold. The comparison is odiously trite, but the growth of an adverse rumor in Wall Street really resembles nothing so much as the traditional snowball rolling down a hillside and becoming larger and larger as it rolls, until it is huge, terrific, with appalling possibilities for evil.

The Board Room became Iowa-Midland-mad. Speculators often stampede—just like other animals. No stock can withstand their rush to sell, even though it be “protected” or “supported” by its manipulators, much less a stock like Iowa Midland, whose market sponsor was out of town, and out of reach of the telegraph.

From all over the room men rushed to Brown, who was sitting calmly at the Erie “post,” chatting pleasantly with a friend.

“Brown, what’s up in Iowa Midland?” one of them asked, feverishly. The others listened eagerly.

Brown might have said, “I don’t know,” rudely, and turned his back on them. But he did not. He responded jocularly: “It seems to me that something is down in Iowa Midland, that something being about three points, I should say. Ha! ha!”

By this time nearly all the listeners had concluded that, since Brown refused to tell, there must be something serious—something very serious. Brown obviously was still selling the stock through other brokers, and would keep the bad news to himself until he had marketed his “line.” After that, probably he would become interestingly garrulous. They therefore advised their respective offices to get rid of their Iowa Midland stock. It might be all right; but it might be all wrong. And it was going down fast.

Mr. Greener in his office was looking at the “tape” as it came out of the little electrical printing machine that records the transactions and prices.

The sallow-faced little man permitted himself a slight—a very slight—smile. The tape showed: “IA. MID., 1000. 39; 300. 38¾; 500. ?; 300. ½; 200. ?; ¼; 300. 38.”

He turned away to summon a clerk, to whom he said: “Mr. Rock, please send for Mr. Coolidge. Make haste.”

“Very well, sir.”

A portly, white-waistcoated, white-haired man, with snow-white, short-cropped side whiskers, burst unceremoniously into the room.

“How do you do, Mr. Ormiston?” squeaked Greener, cordially.

“Greener,” panted the portly man, “what’s the matter with Iowa Midland?”

“How should I know?” in a half-complaining, half-petulant squeak.

“Brown started the selling. I saw it myself. Greener, I did you a good turn once in Central District Telegraph. I’m long 6,000 shares of this Iowa Midland. For God’s sake, man, if you know anything——”

“Mr. Ormiston, all I know is what I learn from my confidential reports of the Iowa crop. Along the line of the Keokuk & Northern the crop is not what I hoped for.” And he shook his head dolefully.

“Ticky-ticky-ticky tick!” said the ticker, calmly.

The portly man approached the little machine. “Thirty-seven-and-an-eighth. Thirty-seven!” he shouted. “Great Scott! she’s going down like a——” He did not finish the comparison, but rushed out of the office without pausing to say good-by. At one o’clock his 6,000 shares at $42½ represented $255,000. Now, at two o’clock, at $37, the same stock would fetch about $222,000. A depreciation of $33,000 in an hour is apt to make one neglectful of the little niceties. An additional un-nicety was the obvious fact that an attempt to sell 6,000 shares on a declining market would inevitably cause a still further drop. Mr. Ormiston was excusable.

Again Mr. Greener summoned a confidential clerk.

“Mr. Rock,” he squeaked, placidly, “telephone Mr. Brown that Ormiston, Monkhouse & Co. are about to sell 6,000 shares of Iowa Midland, and that Mr. Coolidge must not pay more than 35 for it.”

“Mr. Coolidge is in your private room, sir,” announced an office-boy.

The little financier, with an expressionless, sallow face, confronted his chief confidential broker. Their relations were unsuspected by the Street. Everybody thought Coolidge was a pleasant and honorable man.

“Coolidge, go to the Board at once. Ormiston is going to sell 6,000 shares of Iowa Midland. Get it as cheap as you can. Don’t be in a hurry, though.”

“How much shall I buy?” asked the broker, jotting down a few figures in his order book.

“As much as you can; all that is offered below 37,” squeaked the Napoleon of the Street. It was a Napoleonic order. “And, Coolidge, I don’t want this known by any one. Clear the stock yourself.” It meant that Mr. Coolidge was to put the stock through the Clearing House in his own name. As there is a charge for this service, in addition to the usual buying or selling commission, such steps are not resorted to unless it is desired to conceal the identity of the broker’s principal, should the latter be a fellow-member of the Exchange.

“Very well, Mr. Greener. Good-morning.” And the broker went out on a run. “Whew!” he whistled when he was in the Street on his way to the Stock Exchange, a few doors below. “Brown & Greener must be short at least 50,000 or 60,000 shares.” This was five times too much. But it showed that Mr. Greener was impartial in his distribution of erroneous impressions. He wanted to accumulate the stock rather than “cover” a short line; but there was no reason why even his most trusted broker should know it.

Ormiston’s 6,000 shares found their way to Mr. Coolidge’s office at from 34? to 35¾. Mr. Brown in the meantime had succeeded in forcing down the prices by the usual tricks. The man who once had done Greener a good turn now did him another—the gift of $40,000!

In addition, Coolidge, employing several brokers, purchased 23,000 shares in all, which meant that Mr. Greener, after “covering” Brown’s early “short sales,” was in possession of fully 14,000 shares of the common stock of the Iowa Midland Railway Company, at a price averaging nearly 6 points lower than they could have been bought on the preceding day, which is to say $75,000 cheaper.

But Brown & Greener had made as much on their short sales, which was actually equivalent to having the lambs pay a man for the privilege of being shorn by him!

Such was the first of a series of skirmishes by means of which the diminutive Napoleon of the Street captured the floating supply of Iowa Midland stock, until he had no less than 65,000 shares safe in his clutches.

All the old tricks that he knew and new devices he invented were used to hide from the Street the fact that Mr. Greener was buying the stock on every opportunity. But beyond a certain limit extensive purchases of a particular stock cannot be concealed from the thousand shrewd men who make their living—a very good living, indeed—by not being blind. First one thing, then another, told these men that some powerful financier or group of financiers had bought enormously of Iowa Midland, “absorbing” unostentatiously all the stock shaken out by the violent fluctuations of the past few months. This fact and the remarkable improvement of business along the line of the road caused a “substantial rise” in the price of the company’s securities. But no one suspected the little Napoleon with the shifty eyes and the squeak and the genius, who had bought in the open market, through unsuspected brokers, and in Iowa from the local holders, by means of secret agents, until he had accumulated 78,600 shares.

Brown said to his partner one day, a little uneasily: “Supposing we can’t get any more stock, what are we going to do with what we have?” To try to sell it, however carefully, would be sure to break the market.

“Brown,” squeaked the little man, plaintively, “I have concluded that in case I can’t get enough stock to bring Willetts and his crowd”—the president of the Iowa Midland and his fellow-directors—“to my way of thinking, we had better sell the block we now hold to the Keokuk & Northern Railway Company at the market price of $68 a share. Perhaps we could even run it up a little higher. Our stock cost us on an average $51 a share. We could take our payment one half in cash and half in first mortgage bonds at a fair discount. The deal would be highly beneficial to the Keokuk & Northern Company, since, having such a large block of her rival’s stock, there would be no more fighting and rate-cutting. Our company would be a powerful factor in the Iowa Midland’s affairs, for we ought to have two or possibly three directors in their board.”

“Greener,” said Brown, “shake!”

“Oh, no; not yet,” squeaked the little man, deprecatingly.

Shortly afterward began a campaign of hostility against the management of the Iowa Midland Railway Company and President Willetts in particular. It was a bitter campaign of defamation, of ingenious accusations, and of alarming prognostications. All the newspapers, important or obscure, subsidized or honest, began to print articles of the kind technically known as “roasts.” The road, it was declared, had escaped a receivership by a sheer miracle. President Willetts’s incompetence was stupendous and incurable. There was, in sooth, some basis for the complaints, and many stockholders were undoubtedly dissatisfied with the Willetts “dynasty.” But not even the newspapers themselves knew that they were merely moving in response to wires artistically pulled by a financial genius of the first water. The stock once more declined. Not knowing who was fighting him, President Willetts was unable to defend himself effectively. Many timid or disgusted holders sold out. Mr. Greener gave no sign of life; but his brokers bought the stock offered for sale.

At length a well-known and talkative broker confided to an intimate friend, who told his intimate friend in confidence, who whispered to his chum, who told, etc., etc., that Mr. John F. Greener had been responsible for the fall and rise of Iowa Midland stock; that for months he had been buying it on the Stock Exchange; that he had quietly picked up some large blocks in Iowa. All of which was very sad, and, worse still, true. Also, that Mr. Greener now held 182,300 shares of the stock, which was even sadder, but untrue.

It really was very well done. The annual meeting of the company was only six weeks away.

The reporters rushed to Mr. Greener’s office. The little financier would not be seen. At length he reluctantly consented to be interviewed. He admitted, after a skilful display of unwillingness, that he had bought Iowa Midland stock. As to the amount, he said that was not of interest to the general public. The reporters finally cornered him and succeeded in making the little financier say, with a fleeting and very peculiar smile: “Yes; it is over 100,000 shares.” And not another word could the newspaper men get out of him.

Being an intelligent man, he never lied for publication. Each reporter who saw that smile and the furtive look that accompanied it went away convinced to the life-wagering point that Mr. John F. Greener was in control of the Iowa Midland. And they wrote accordingly.

President Willetts all but had an apoplectic stroke. The Street disgustedly said: “Another successful, villainous plot of Greener’s!” And such was his reputation as an “absorber” of roads and roads’ profits that the stock declined ten points in two days. Investors and speculators alike displayed a frantic desire not to be identified in any way or manner with one of Mr. Greener’s properties.

The little financier had not been mistaken. His last card was his own evil reputation! He had reserved it for the end. On the wide-spread fear that followed his broker’s artistic “indiscretion” he was able to “scoop” 32,000 shares more at low figures. Such is the value of fame!

He now held 110,600 shares, or one third of the Iowa Midland Railroad Company’s entire capital stock—enough to coerce Willetts into making very profitable arrangements with Mr. Greener’s Keokuk & Northern Railway Company. Of course the absolute control of the Iowa Midland was best of all, if it only could be secured. But of this the sallow-faced little man with the high forehead and the shifty eyes was doubtful. He confessed as much to Brown, ending with: “It’s a shame, too. I could make so much out of that property!”

He estimated—it had cost him $11,000 to secure the necessary data—that Willetts and his clique held 105,000 shares, so that there were still 122,000 shares unaccounted for—probably scattered among small investors throughout the country, who did not care who managed the road so long as they received pleasant promises of dividends, and also among banking houses and anti-Greener men, who, though they did not approve of Willetts, disapproved even more emphatically and vehemently of Greener and his methods.

If he could not buy the stock itself he must try to secure proxies.

He knew that some of the trust companies held a fair amount of the longed-for stock. He laid siege to them. He bombarded them with promises and poured an enfilading fire of pledges so honorable, so eminently sound and business-like, as to pierce the armor of their distrust. In the end they actually grew to believe that they were acting wisely when they pledged their support to Mr. Greener. The guarantee he gave them seemed ironclad, and they agreed to give him their proxies whenever he should send for them.

He called his clerk Rock and told him: “Go to the Rural Trust Company and to the Commercial Loan & Trust Company. See Mr. Roberts and Mr. Morgan. They will give you some Iowa Midland proxies made out to Frederick Rock or John F. Greener.”

Rock was a good-looking, quiet chap, with a very well-shaped head and a resolute chin. His manners were pleasing. He had a habit of looking one straight in the eyes, but did not always succeed thereby in conveying an impression of straightforwardness. But he certainly impressed one as being bold and keen. His fellow-clerks used to say that Rock spent his spare time in studying the financial operations of the Napoleon of the Street with the same care and minuteness that military students go over the campaigns of Napoleon Bonaparte—which was the truth.

“Mr. Greener,” said Rock, “you are carrying 110,000 shares of stock, are you not?”

“Eh?” squeaked Greener, innocently.

“I figure that, unless you are doing something outside this office, you will need proxies for 50,000 shares more to give you absolute control and elect your own board of directors and carry out your plans in connection with Keokuk & Northern.”

Not by so much as the twinkling of an eye did the little man betray that he was interested in Rock’s words, or that the clerk’s meddling with the firm’s affairs was at all out of the ordinary.

“Mr. Greener,” said the clerk, very earnestly, “I should like to try to get them for you.”

“Yes?” he squeaked, absent-mindedly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Rock.

“Go ahead, then,” said Mr. Greener, carelessly. “Let me know next week how you are getting on.”

An expression of disappointment came into Rock’s face, whereupon Greener added: “Of course if you succeed I’ll do well by you.”

“What will you do, Mr. Greener?” asked the clerk, looking straight at him.

“I’ll give you,” he squeaked, encouragingly, “ten thousand dollars.”

“Is that a good price for the work, Mr. Greener? I may have to pay out a great deal,” added the young clerk with a faint touch of bitterness.

“It is all that it is worth to me, Mr. Rock, and I think it is worth more to me than to anybody else. I’ll raise your salary from sixteen hundred to two thousand a year. That’s a great deal more money than I had at your age, Mr. Rock.”

“Very well,” said Rock, quietly. “I’ll do the best I can.” But once away from Greener, his face flushed with anger and indignation. “Ten thousand for what might be worth ten millions to the financier!” The clerk had studied Greener’s Napoleonic methods for two years. He had learned patience for one thing, and he had waited for his chance. It had come at last, and he knew it.

Events make the man. Rock had thought carefully, intelligently, and, best of all, coolly. He had planned logically. It was a good plan; it was the only feasible plan, and it could not be upset by meddlesome courts. How Mr. John F. Greener had failed to think of the same plan was a bit strange. The unscrupulousness of it did not frighten the clerk. He had the instincts of a financier of the Greener school.

The clerk all that week did nothing but collect the Iowa Midland proxies promised by the complaisant trust companies. They amounted to 21,200 shares. From prominent brokerage houses, by means of alluring and unauthorized promises, he secured 7,100 shares; in all he had 28,300 shares. This meant that at the approaching annual meeting Mr. Greener could vote 138,900 shares out of a possible total of 320,000. Unless the opposition could unite, the election was already sure to “go Mr. Greener’s way.”

From time to time, when the little financier would ask Rock how he was progressing, the clerk would tell him he was doing as well as could be expected. He also told Mr. Greener that the trust companies had given only 14,000 shares, and he said nothing whatever of the 7,100 shares he had secured from the friendly brokers. It was a desperate risk, this concealing from Mr. Greener how well he had done; but the clerk was bold.

The moment Rock became convinced that there were no more pro-Greener proxies to be had by hook or crook, he began his attack on the enemy. His problem was to capture the anti-Greener votes—or stock. He proceeded to put his plan into effect. And the plan of this healthy clerk with the unflinching eyes and the resolute chin was worthy of the sallow-faced little man with the furtive look and the great forehead.

“It is a case of heads I win; tails you lose,” Rock muttered to himself, exultingly.

The young man presented himself forthwith at the office of Weddell, Hopkins & Co., prominent bankers and bitter enemies of Mr. John F. Greener and his methods. They knew Rock as one of the confidential clerks of Brown & Greener, and he had no difficulty in securing an audience from Mr. Weddell.

“Good-morning, Mr. Weddell.”

“Good-morning, sir,” said the banker, coldly. “I must say I’m somewhat surprised at the presumption of your people in sending you to me.”

“Mr. Weddell,” said Rock, a trifle too eagerly to be artistic, “I’ve left the firm of Brown & Greener. They were,” he added, youthfully, “too rascally for me.”

Mr. Weddell’s face froze solid. He feared an application for a position.

“Ye-es?” he said. His voice matched his face in frigidity.

“Mr. Weddell,” said the young clerk, looking straight into the old banker’s eyes, “you in common with other honest men have been wishing you could prevent Mr. Greener from wrecking the Iowa Midland. Now, Mr. Weddell,” he went on, eagerly, as the enthusiasm of the plan grew upon him, “I know all about Mr. Greener’s plans and resources and I want you to help me fight him. If you do we will win, sure.”

“How will you go about it?” asked the old banker, evasively. He was not certain this was not some trick of the versatile Mr. John F. Greener.

“Mr. Greener,” answered young Rock, “has not control of the property. He has only 110,600 shares. I had access to the books, and I know to a share.”

“I don’t wish you to betray an employer’s secrets, even though he may be my enemy. I do not care to hear any more.” He was an old-fashioned banker, was Mr. Weddell.

“I am not betraying any secrets. He himself said he had over 100,000 shares, and all the reporters jumped at the conclusion that he had actually a controlling interest. And that is what he will have, unless you help me. I have proxies here for 28,300 shares from trust companies and commission houses. My plan is to get all the proxies I can from the anti-Greener and the anti-Willetts stockholders. Then we can make Mr. Willetts give us pledges in black and white to inaugurate the much-needed reforms and stop his policy of extravagance and his costly traffic arrangements. Willetts will do it to save himself and the road from falling into Greener’s hands. But there’s no time to lose, Mr. Weddell.” The excitement of the game he was playing stimulated him like wine.

“And you?” queried the old banker, meaningly. “Where do you come in?” The insinuation was his last weapon. The young man’s was really the only feasible plan that he could see.

“I? It might be, Mr. Weddell, that after the election I could be appointed assistant secretary of the company, as an evidence of good faith on the part of the reform management. I can keep tabs on them and represent the Weddell-Hopkins interest. The salary,” he added, with truly artistic significance, “could be $5,000 a year. I have been getting just one-half that.” His salary was exactly $1,600; but why minimize one’s commercial value?

The old banker walked up and down....

“By gad, sir, you shall have our proxies,” said Mr. Weddell, at length.

“It would be well not to let Mr. Greener suspect this,” added Rock. And the banker agreed with him.

Weddell, Hopkins & Co. held 14,000 shares of Iowa Midland stock, and on the next day Rock received their proxies. Coming from so well-known, so notoriously anti-Greener a house, they served as credentials to him, and he was able to convince many doubting Thomases. He secured proxies from practically all the anti-Greener stock held in the city, as well as in Philadelphia and Boston.

His day-long absences from the office aroused no suspicions there, since everybody thought he was working in the interest of Brown & Greener, including Messrs. Brown & Greener. All told, the proxies he had secured from Mr. Greener’s friends and from his foes amounted to 61,830 shares. It was really a remarkable performance. He felt very proud of it. As to consequences, he had carefully weighed them. He was working for Frederick Rock. He was bound to succeed, on whichever side the coin came down.

Mr. Greener called him into the private office.

“Mr. Rock, how about those Iowa Midland proxies?”

“I have them safe,” answered the clerk, a bit defiantly.

“How many?”

Rock pulled out a piece of paper, though he knew the figures by heart. He said, in a tone he endeavored to make nonchalant: “I have exactly 61,830 shares.”

“What? What?” The Napoleon’s voice overflowed with astonishment.

Rock looked straight into Greener’s shifty brown eyes. “I said,” he repeated, “that I had proxies for 61,830 shares.”

Mr. Greener remembered himself. “I congratulate you, Mr. Rock, on keeping your word. You will find I keep mine equally well,” he said in his normal squeak.

“We may as well have an understanding now as any other time, Mr. Greener.” Rock’s eyes did not leave the sallow face of the great railroad wrecker. He knew he had crossed the Rubicon. He was fighting for his future, for the prosperity of his dreams. And he was fighting a giant of giants. All this the clerk thought; and the thought braced him wonderfully. He became self-possessed, discriminating—a Napoleonic bud about to burst into full bloom.

“What do you mean?” squeaked Mr. Greener, naÏvely.

Mr. Brown entered. He was just in time to hear the clerk say: “You have, all told, 110,000 shares of Iowa Midland. President Willetts and his crowd control about the same amount.”

“Yes,” said the sallow-faced little man. His forehead was moist—barely moist—with perspiration, but his face was expressionless. His eyes were less furtive; that was all. He was looking intently now at the young clerk, for he understood.

“Well, some of the proxies stand in the name of Frederick Rock or John F. Greener, but the greater part in my name alone. I can vote the entire lot as I please. And whichever side I vote for will have an absolute majority. Mr. Greener, I have the naming of the directors, and therefore of the president of the Iowa Midland. And you can’t prevent me; and you can’t touch me; and you can’t do a d—d thing to me!” he ended, defiantly. It was nearly all superfluous, inartistic. But, youth—a defect one overcomes with time!

“You infernal scoundrel!” shouted Mr. Brown. He had a short, thick neck, and anger made his face dangerously purple.

“I secured most of the proxies,” continued Rock, in a tone that savored slightly of self-defence, “by assuring Weddell, Hopkins & Co. and their friends that I would vote against Mr. Greener.” He paused.

“Go ahead, Mr. Rock,” squeaked Mr. Greener; “don’t be afraid to talk.” The pale little man with the black beard and the high forehead not only had a great genius for finance, but possessed wonderful nerve. His squeak was an inconsistency; but it served to make him human.

“You offered me $10,000 cash and $2,000 a year.”

“Yes,” admitted Mr. Greener, meekly. “How much do you want?” His look became furtive again. A great weight had been removed from his mind. Rock perceived it and became even more courageous.

“Weddell, Hopkins & Co. and their friends want me to vote the Willetts ticket, Mr. Willetts having promised to make important reforms. My reward is to be the position of assistant secretary, with headquarters in New York, at a salary of $5,000 a year, to say nothing of the backing of Weddell, Hopkins & Co.”

“I’ll do as much and give you $20,000 in cash,” said Mr. Greener, quietly.

“No. I want to join the New York Stock Exchange. I want you to buy me a seat and I want you to give me some of your business. And I want you to lend me $50,000 on my note.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Greener, you know what I can do; and I know what the absolute control of the Iowa Midland means to you, and what the consolidation with Keokuk & Northern or the lease of the one by the other would do for both of them—and for you. And I want to be your broker. I’ll serve you faithfully, Mr. Greener.”

“Rock,” squeaked Mr. Greener, “shake hands. I understand just how you feel about this. I’ll buy you a seat and I’ll give you all the business I can, and I’ll lend you $100,000 without any note. I think I know you now. The seat you shall have just as soon as it can be bought. My interests shall be your interests in the future.”

“I’ve made all the necessary arrangements. I can buy the seat at a moment’s notice,” said Rock, calmly, though his heart was beating wildly for sheer joy of victory. “It will cost $23,000.”

“Tell Mr. Simpson to make out my personal check for $25,000,” piped the Napoleon of the Street, almost cordially.

“Th-thank you very much, Mr. Greener,” stammered the bold clerk. “The proxies——”

“Oh, that’s all right,” interrupted Mr. John F. Greener. “You’ll go to Des Moines with us. You’re one of us now. I’ve long wanted a man like you. But, Rock, nowadays, young men are either gamblers or fools,” he added, with a final plaintive squeak.

A week later Mr. Greener was elected president of the Iowa Midland Railway Company and Mr. Rock was elected a member of the New York Stock Exchange.