Cowperwood was referring to the system under which certain portions of city money, like the sinking-fund, were permitted to be kept in certain banks at a low rate of interest or no rate—banks in which Mollenhauer and Butler and Simpson were interested. This was their safe graft.
“Don’t throw your chances away, George. Don’t quit now. You’ll be worth millions in a few years, and you won’t have to turn a hand. All you will have to do will be to keep what you have. If you don’t help me, mark my word, they’ll throw you over the moment I’m out of this, and they’ll let you go to the penitentiary. Who’s going to put up five hundred thousand dollars for you, George? Where is Mollenhauer going to get it, or Butler, or anybody, in these times? They can’t. They don’t intend to. When I’m through, you’re through, and you’ll be exposed quicker than anyone else. They can’t hurt me, George. I’m an agent. I didn’t ask you to come to me. You came to me in the first place of your own accord. If you don’t help me, you’re through, I tell you, and you’re going to be sent to the penitentiary as sure as there are jails. Why don’t you take a stand, George? Why don’t you stand your ground? You have your wife and children to look after. You can’t be any worse off loaning me three hundred thousand more than you are right now. What difference does it make—five hundred thousand or eight hundred thousand? It’s all one and the same thing, if you’re going to be tried for it. Besides, if you loan me this, there isn’t going to be any trial. I’m not going to fail. This storm will blow over in a week or ten days, and we’ll be rich again. For Heaven’s sake, George, don’t go to pieces this way! Be sensible! Be reasonable!”
He paused, for Stener’s face had become a jellylike mass of woe.
“I can’t, Frank,” he wailed. “I tell you I can’t. They’ll punish me worse than ever if I do that. They’ll never let up on me. You don’t know these people.”
In Stener’s crumpling weakness Cowperwood read his own fate. What could you do with a man like that? How brace him up? You couldn’t! And with a gesture of infinite understanding, disgust, noble indifference, he threw up his hands and started to walk out. At the door he turned.
“George,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you, not for myself. I’ll come out of things all right, eventually. I’ll be rich. But, George, you’re making the one great mistake of your life. You’ll be poor; you’ll be a convict, and you’ll have only yourself to blame. There isn’t a thing the matter with this money situation except the fire. There isn’t a thing wrong with my affairs except this slump in stocks—this panic. You sit there, a fortune in your hands, and you allow a lot of schemers, highbinders, who don’t know any more of your affairs or mine than a rabbit, and who haven’t any interest in you except to plan what they can get out of you, to frighten you and prevent you from doing the one thing that will save your life. Three hundred thousand paltry dollars that in three or four weeks from now I can pay back to you four and five times over, and for that you will see me go broke and yourself to the penitentiary. I can’t understand it, George. You’re out of your mind. You’re going to rue this the longest day that you live.”
He waited a few moments to see if this, by any twist of chance, would have any effect; then, noting that Stener still remained a wilted, helpless mass of nothing, he shook his head gloomily and walked out.
It was the first time in his life that Cowperwood had ever shown the least sign of weakening or despair. He had felt all along as though there were nothing to the Greek theory of being pursued by the furies. Now, however, there seemed an untoward fate which was pursuing him. It looked that way. Still, fate or no fate, he did not propose to be daunted. Even in this very beginning of a tendency to feel despondent he threw back his head, expanded his chest, and walked as briskly as ever.
In the large room outside Stener’s private office he encountered Albert Stires, Stener’s chief clerk and secretary. He and Albert had exchanged many friendly greetings in times past, and all the little minor transactions in regard to city loan had been discussed between them, for Albert knew more of the intricacies of finance and financial bookkeeping than Stener would ever know.
At the sight of Stires the thought in regard to the sixty thousand dollars’ worth of city loan certificates, previously referred to, flashed suddenly through his mind. He had not deposited them in the sinking-fund, and did not intend to for the present—could not, unless considerable free money were to reach him shortly—for he had used them to
