Wall Street stories. Edwin Lefevre

cheerfully.

      “No,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t worry. But,” hesitatingly, for, after all, she felt the awkwardness of her position, “I wish I had the money instead of the bonds.” And she added, self-defensively: “I haven’t slept a wink for three nights thinking about this.”

      The thought of his coming emancipation cheered Mr. Colwell immensely. “Your wish shall be gratified, Mrs. Hunt. Why didn’t you ask me before, if you felt that way?” he said, in mild reproach. And he summoned a clerk.

      “Make out a check for $35,000 payable to Mrs. Rose Hunt, and transfer the 100 Manhattan Electric Light 5s to my personal account.”

      He gave her the check and told her: “Here is the money. I am very sorry that I unwittingly caused you some anxiety. But all’s well that ends well. Any time that I can be of service to you—Not at all. Don’t thank me, please; no. Good morning.”

      But he did not tell her that by taking over her account he paid $96,000 for bonds he could have bought in the open market for $93,000. He was the politest man in Wall Street; and, after all, he had known Hunt for many years.

      A week later Manhattan Electric 5–per cent bonds sold at 96 again. Mrs. Hunt called on him. It was noon, and she evidently had spent the morning mustering up courage for the visit. They greeted one another, she embarrassed and he courteous and kindly as usual.

      “Mr. Colwell, you still have those bonds, haven’t you?”

      “Why, yes.”

      “I—I think I’d like to take them back.”

      “Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. I’ll find out how much they are selling for.” He summoned a clerk to get a quotation on Manhattan Electric 5s. The clerk telephoned to one of their bond-specialists, and learned that the bonds could be bought at 96½. He reported to Mr. Colwell, and Mr. Colwell told Mrs. Hunt, adding: “So you see they are practically where they were when you bought them before.”

      She hesitated. “I—I—didn’t you buy them from me at 93? I’d like to buy them back at the same price I sold them to you.”

      “No, Mrs. Hunt,” he said; “I bought them from you at 96.”

      “But the price was 93.” And she added, corroboratively: “Don’t you remember it was in all the papers?”

      “Yes, but I gave you back exactly the same amount that I received from you, and I had the bonds transferred to my account. They stand on our books as having cost me 96.”

      “But couldn’t you let me have them at 93?” she persisted.

      “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hunt, but I don’t see how I could. If you buy them in the open market now, you will be in exactly the same position as before you sold them, and you will make a great deal of money, because they are going up now. Let me buy them for you at 96½.”

      “At 93, you mean,” with a tentative smile.

      “At whatever price they may be selling for,” he corrected, patiently.

      “Why did you let me sell them, Mr. Colwell?” she asked, plaintively.

      “But, my dear madam, if you buy them now, you will be no worse off than if you had kept the original lot.”

      “Well, I don’t see why it is that I have to pay 96½ now for the very same bonds I sold last Tuesday at 93. If it was some other bonds,” she added, “I wouldn’t mind so much.”

      “My dear Mrs. Hunt, it makes no difference which bonds you hold. They have all risen in price, yours and mine and everybody’s; your lot was the same as any other lot. You see that, don’t you?”

      “Ye-es; but——”

      “Well, then, you are exactly where you were before you bought any. You’ve lost nothing, because you received your money back intact.”

      “I’m willing to buy them,” she said resolutely, “at 93.”

      “Mrs. Hunt, I wish I could buy them for you at that price. But there are none for sale cheaper than 96½.”

      “Oh, why did I let you sell my bonds!” she said, disconsolately.

      “Well, you worried so much because they had declined that——”

      “Yes, but I didn’t know anything about business matters. You know I didn’t, Mr. Colwell,” she finished, accusingly.

      He smiled in his good-natured way. “Shall I buy the bonds for you?” he asked. He knew the plans of the syndicate in charge, and being sure the bonds would advance, he thought she might as well share in the profits. At heart he felt sorry for her.

      She smiled back. “Yes,” she told him, “at 93.” It did not seem right to her, notwithstanding his explanations, that she should pay 96½ for them, when the price a few days ago was 93.

      “But how can I, if they are 96½?”

      “Mr. Colwell, it is 93 or nothing.” She was almost pale at her own boldness. It really seemed to her as if the price had only been waiting for her to sell out in order to advance. And though she wanted the bonds, she did not feel like yielding.

      “Then I very much fear it will have to be nothing.”

      “Er—good morning, Mr. Colwell,” on the verge of tears.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.” And before he knew it, forgetting all that had gone before, he added: “Should you change your mind, I should be glad to——”

      “I know I wouldn’t pay more than 93 if I lived to be a thousand years.” She looked expectantly at him, to see if he had repented, and she smiled—the smile that is a woman’s last resort, that says, almost articulately: “I know you will, of course, do as I ask. My question is only a formality. I know your nobility, and I fear not.” But he only bowed her out, very politely.

      On the Stock Exchange the price of Man. Elec. L. H. & P. Co. 5s rose steadily. Mrs. Hunt, too indignant to feel lachrymose, discussed the subject with her Cousin Emily and her husband. Emily was very much interested. Between her and Mrs. Hunt they forced the poor man to make strange admissions, and, deliberately ignoring his feeble protests, they worked themselves up to the point of believing that, while it would be merely generous of Mr. Colwell to let his friend’s widow have the bonds at 93, it would be only his obvious duty to let her have them at 96½. The moment they reached this decision Mrs. Hunt knew how to act. And the more she thought the more indignant she became. The next morning she called on her late husband’s executor and friend.

      Her face wore the look often seen on those ardent souls who think their sacred and inalienable rights have been trampled upon by the tyrant Man, but who at the same time feel certain the hour of retribution is near.

      “Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I came to find out exactly what you propose to do about my bonds.” Her voice conveyed the impression that she expected violent opposition, perhaps even bad language, from him.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Why, what do you mean?”

      His affected ignorance deepened the lines on her face. Instead of bluster he was using finesse!

      “I think you ought to know, Mr. Colwell,” she said, meaningly.

      “Well, I really don’t. I remember you wouldn’t heed my advice when I told you not to sell out, and again when I advised you to buy them back.”

      “Yes, at 96½,” she burst out, indignantly.

      “Well, if you had, you would to-day have a profit of over $7,000.”

      “And whose fault is it that I haven’t?” She paused for a reply. Receiving none, she went on: “But never mind; I have decided to accept your offer,” very bitterly, as if a poor widow could not afford to be a chooser; “I’ll take those bonds at 96½.” And she added, under her breath: “Although it really ought to be 93.”