The Store Boy

CHAPTER XXXIV CONRAD GOES INTO WALL STREET

When Con­rad suc­ceed­ed Ben as Mrs. Hamil­ton's pri­vate sec­re­tary, he was elat­ed by what he con­sid­ered his pro­mo­tion. His first dis­ap­point­ment came when he learned that his salary was to be but five dol­lars a week. He did not dare to re­mon­strate with his em­ploy­er, but he ex­pressed him­self freely to his moth­er.

“Cousin Hamil­ton might af­ford to pay me more than five dol­lars a week,” he said bit­ter­ly.

“It is small,” said his moth­er cau­tious­ly, “but we must look to the fu­ture.”

“If you mean till Cousin Hamil­ton dies, it may be twen­ty or thir­ty years. Why, she looks health­ier than you, moth­er, and will prob­ably live longer.”

Mrs. Hill looked grave. She did not fan­cy this speech.

“I don't think we shall have to wait so long,” she said. “When you are twen­ty-​one Cousin Hamil­ton will prob­ably do some­thing for you.”

“That's al­most five years,” grum­bled Con­rad.

“At any rate we have got Ben Bar­clay out of the house, that's one com­fort.”

“Yes, I am glad of that; but I'd rather be in my old place than this, if I am to get on­ly five dol­lars a week.”

“Young peo­ple are so im­pa­tient,” sighed Mrs. Hill. “You don't seem to con­sid­er that it isn't alone tak­ing Ben's place, but you have got rid of a dan­ger­ous ri­val for the in­her­itance.”

“That's true,” said Con­rad, “and I hat­ed Ben. I'd rather any oth­er boy would cut me out than he.”

“Do you know what has be­come of him?”

“No; I ex­pect that he has gone back to the coun­try--un­less he's black­ing boots or sell­ing pa­pers down­town some­where. By Jove, I'd like to come across him with a black­ing-​brush. He used to put on such airs. I would like to have heard Cousin Hamil­ton give him the grand bounce.”

Noth­ing could be more un­true than that Ben putting on airs, but Con­rad saw him through the eyes of prej­udice, and per­suad­ed him­self that such was the fact. In re­al­ity Ben was ex­ceed­ing­ly mod­est and unas­sum­ing, and it was this among oth­er things that pleased Mrs. Hamil­ton.

Con­rad con­tin­ued to find his salary in­suf­fi­cient. He was still more dis­sat­is­fied af­ter an in­ter­view with one of his school com­pan­ions, a boy em­ployed in a Wall Street bro­ker's of­fice.

He was just re­turn­ing from an er­rand on which Mrs. Hamil­ton had sent him, when he over­took Fred Lath­rop on his way up­town.

The at­ten­tion of Con­rad was drawn to a heavy gold ring with a hand­some stone on Fred's fin­ger.

“Where did you get that ring?” asked Con­rad, who had him­self a fan­cy for rings.

“Bought it in Maid­en Lane. How do you like it?”

“It is splen­did. Do you mind telling me how much you paid?”

“I paid forty-​five dol­lars. It's worth more.”

“Forty-​five dol­lars!” ejac­ulat­ed Con­rad. “Why, you must be a mil­lion­aire. Where did you get so much mon­ey?”

“I didn't find it in the street,” an­swered Fred joc­ular­ly.

“Can't you tell a feller? You didn't save it out of your wages, did you?”

“My wages? I should say not. Why, I on­ly get six dol­lars a week, and have to pay car fare and lunch­es out of that.”

“Then it isn't equal to my five dol­lars, for that is all clear. But, all the same, I can't save any­thing.”

“Nor I.”

“Then how can you af­ford to buy forty-​five dol­lar rings?”

“I don't mind telling you,” said Fred. “I made the mon­ey by spec­ulat­ing.”

“Spec­ulat­ing!” re­peat­ed Con­rad, still in the dark.

“Yes. I'll tell you all about it.”

“Do! there's a good fel­low.”

“You see, I bought fifty Erie shares on a mar­gin.”

“How's that?”

“Why I got a bro­ker to buy me fifty shares on a mar­gin of one per cent. He did it to oblige me. I hadn't any mon­ey to put up, but I had done him one or two fa­vors, and he did it out of good na­ture. As the stock was on the rise, he didn't run much of a risk. Well, I bought at 44 and sold at 45 1-4. So I made fifty dol­lars over and above the com­mis­sion. I tell you I felt good when the bro­ker paid me over five ten-​dol­lar bills.”

“I should think you would.”

“I was afraid I'd spend the mon­ey fool­ish­ly, so I went right off and bought this ring. I can sell it for what I gave any time.”

Con­rad's cu­pid­ity was great­ly ex­cit­ed by this re­mark­able luck of Fred's.

“That seems an easy way of mak­ing mon­ey,” he said. “Do you think I could try it?”

“Any­body can do it if he's got the mon­ey to plank down for a mar­gin.”

“I don't think I quite un­der­stand.”

“Then I'll tell you. You buy fifty shares of stock, cost­ing, say, fifty dol­lars a share.”

“That would be twen­ty-​five hun­dred dol­lars.”

“Yes, if you bought it right out. But you don't. You give the bro­ker what­ev­er per cent. he re­quires, say a dol­lar a share--most of them don't do it so cheap--and he buys the stock on your ac­count. If it goes up one or two points, say to fifty-​one or fifty-​two, he sells out, and the prof­it goes to you, de­duct­ing twen­ty-​five cents a share which he charges for buy­ing and sell­ing. Be­sides that, he pays you back your mar­gin.”

“That's splen­did. But doesn't it ev­er go down?”

“I should say so. If it goes down a dol­lar a share, then, of course, you lose fifty dol­lars.”

Con­rad looked se­ri­ous. This was not quite so sat­is­fac­to­ry.

“It is rather risky, then,” he said.

“Of course, there's some risk; but you know the old proverb, 'Noth­ing ven­ture, noth­ing have.' You must choose the right stock--one that is go­ing up.”

“I don't know any­thing about stock,” said Con­rad.

“I do,” said Fred. “If I had mon­ey I know what I'd buy.”

“What?” asked Con­rad ea­ger­ly.

“Pa­cif­ic Mail.”

“Do you think that's go­ing up?”

“I feel sure of it. I over­heard my boss and an­oth­er bro­ker talk­ing about it yes­ter­day, and they both pre­dict­ed a bull move­ment in it.”

“Does that mean it's go­ing up?”

“To be sure.”

“I should like to buy some.”

“Have you got mon­ey to plank down as a mar­gin?”

Con­rad had in his pock­et­book fifty dol­lars which he had col­lect­ed for Mrs. Hamil­ton, be­ing a month's rent on a small store on Third Av­enue. It flashed up­on him that with this mon­ey he could make fifty dol­lars for him­self, and be able to pay back the orig­inal sum to Mrs. Hamil­ton as soon as the op­er­ation was con­clud­ed.

“Could you man­age it for me, Fred?” he asked.

“Yes, I wouldn't mind.”

“Then I'll give you fifty dol­lars, and you do the best you can for me. If I suc­ceed I'll make you a present.”

“All right. I hope you'll win, I am sure [il­leg­ible]”

Not giv­ing him­self time to think of the se­ri­ous breach of trust he was com­mit­ting, Con­rad took the mon­ey from his pock­et and trans­ferred it to his com­pan­ion.

“It won't take long, will it?” he asked anx­ious­ly.

“Very like­ly the stock will be bought and sold to-​mor­row.”

“That will be splen­did. You'll let me know right off?”

“Yes; I'll at­tend to that.”

Con­rad went home and re­port­ed to Mrs. Hamil­ton that the ten­ant had not paid, but would do so on Sat­ur­day.

Mrs. Hamil­ton was a lit­tle sur­prised, for the Third Av­enue ten­ant had nev­er be­fore put her off. Some­thing in Con­rad's man­ner ex­cit­ed her sus­pi­cion, and she re­solved the next day to call her­self on Mr. Clark, the ten­ant. He would be like­ly to speak of the post­pone­ment, and give rea­sons for it.