There is in this land of the free, where all men are created equal (on paper), a class of financial sharpers, whose ambition and sole occupation is to secure for themselves the wealth of others by the most occult and far-reaching scheming ever evolved by human brain. They toil not, neither do they produce, yet Satan with all his archness is not equipped like one of these. There is no taint of illegality in their methods, they are outwardly the best of men, heralded by the press as great financiers, railroad magnates, oil, copper, and iron kings, praised by the rich and toadied to by the poor. They are envied by many, lauded by editors who seek advertisements, and (if they contribute liberally) praised by college presidents and preachers alike. Political fortunes are turned by their nod, laws enacted in their aid, the code of morals shaded in their favor, club doors opened, and society bowing low whichever way they turn. Only the toiling millions whose lives are one long fight against poverty think or speak ill of them, and such are not considered. Those magnates of extortion so colossal that it is legal, have one trite expression that contains their contempt for the millions who envy, and that is, "The public be d——d."

Of their operation on the chess board of finance little need be said. It is known, or at least its results are, to high or low, rich or poor. These octopuses, or rather human sharks, organize trusts, corner every necessity of life where conditions will permit; buy bankrupt railroads, inflate their stock, boom it by systematic deception and then unload it at top prices on the countless flocks of lambs ever ready to buy what is dear, and who never by any known process can be induced to buy what is cheap.

And those are financiers!

There is another class, usually with less money, but equal in brains and audacity, who have come to be known as promoters. Relatively speaking they should be called dogfish. They would be financiers if they could, but lacking capital to buy railroads, or corner everything on the earth, except water, they merely organize schemes and sell stock. How many, and how varied those are, it is waste of space to specify. All that the patient reader need do is consult the pages of any or all city dailies and read the tempting list of schemes there to be found. All are alike in the main, for all offer safe investments, sure and ample returns, indorsed by names that glitter, and promise everything under the sun,—except to return your money if you do not get value promised.

Of this class was J. Malcolm Weston.

He had organized two or three glittering bubbles before the firm of Weston & Hill was established, but from lack of capital failed to reap the hoped-for reward. Then along came Hill, a retired manufacturer, whose history shall be given in due time, who had more money than brains and more conceit than either. Weston, a shrewd and smooth-tongued schemer, reading Hill at a glance, was not long in flattering that gullible man into a partnership and taking him and his money into camp, as it were. For a time, and while Winn Hardy was serving apprenticeship, the firm conducted a fairly honest and respectable business. They bought and sold stocks and bonds of all kinds, that is, they sold and then bought to fill orders only,—a species of commission business perfectly safe, but not satisfying to Weston. He longed to soar, to organize a great scheme, a glittering bubble, to see his name in print as a king of finance, and do it on other people's money—and Hill's.

Then one day, while off with his broker, Simmons, on the latter's steam yacht, visiting various north coast islands, the impulse culminated.

"Why not buy one of these islands," said Simmons, "and start a quarry company? You can buy one for a song and a granite-quarrying industry sounds safe and will catch the cautious. I am intending to build a fine residence in the near future, and you can furnish me the stone. In return, I'll market stock enough to pay for it. We can find an island with a harbor and buy it, or a part, which is all that is needful, and you can do the rest." And thus the scheme was hatched, and when J. Malcolm Weston, the to-be great financier, returned to the city, he was sole owner of Jess Hutton's unused quarry and the Rockhaven Granite Company was born.

It took time, however, for Hill was a cautious man, holding on to his purse-strings with the grip of death, and Weston must needs approach him circuitously. Then there were outsiders to warm up, as it were, men of some financial standing whose names were of value, to interest; a charter to be obtained, and all the legal and business detail necessary to the carrying out of a scheme to be attended to. It also needed all of Weston's plausible arguments to perfect the plot, and summer came around again before the conspiracy was ready to be launched. Then "the street" was cautious, and knowing Weston's reputation in the past, was not eager, or even willing, to buy this stock. At first, a few credulous people like Winn's aunt and two or three others who believed in Weston bought small lots, and the men whose names appeared on the prospectus were each and all given stock in due ratio to their prominence. And then Simmons began his fine work. He knew, and so did Weston, that every share they had given away would be offered for sale as soon as a price for it had been established "on 'change" and then the scheme would fall flat. But Simmons had ideas of his own. "We must wait," he said, "until your man Hardy has shipped us one or two loads of granite, then herald that fact repeatedly in the papers until the dear confiding public don't know whether one or ten shiploads have arrived, and then—declare a dividend!"

It was not long after, and when Winn Hardy, the honest dupe that he was, was either zealously striving to push the Rockhaven Granite Company interests toward success, or thinking about what fine eyes Mona Hutton had, that the Market News contained the following item:—

"The first load of granite destined for the new and palatial residence which Richard Simmons, the well-known broker, is about to build, has arrived. It came from the Rockhaven Granite Company's quarries on an island they own, which produces the finest quality of building stone obtainable."

A week later this item also appeared in the same financial sheet:—

"It is rumored that all the treasury stock of the Rockhaven Granite Company has been subscribed for and that this enterprising corporation is overwhelmed with orders for their excellent product. This is due to the rapid growth of our beautiful city and the consequent demand for building materials."

And J. Malcolm Weston, after reading them in the privacy of his office, stroked his abundant side whiskers with an admiring caress, while a smile of satisfaction spread over his genial face. It was the beginning of his long-cherished ambition to pose as a great financier and it filled his soul with joy.

"A dozen or more of such items will start the ball rolling in glorious shape," he said to Hill, "and boom Rockhaven to beat the cards."

But Hill, the narrow-minded and close-fisted man that he was, only looked cross, and sourly asked, "What did they cost?"