“It’s a risk, Taylor, of course, and we’ll let the old lady take the risk. At the worst it’s safer than the damned foolishness she has in mind.”
So it happened that John Taylor went South to look after large investments and, as Mr. Easterly expressed it, “to bring back facts, not dreams.” His investment matters went quickly and well, and now he turned to his wider and bigger scheme. He wrote the Cresswells tentatively, expecting no reply, or an evasive one; planning to circle around them, drawing his nets closer, and trying them again later. To his surprise they responded quickly.
“Humph! Hard pressed,” he decided, and hurried to them.
So it was the week after Mary Taylor’s ride that found him at Cresswell’s front door, thin, eagle-eyed, fairly well dressed and radiating confidence.
“John Taylor,” he announced to Sam, jerkily, thrusting out a card. “Want to see Mr. Cresswell; soon as possible.”
Sam made him wait a half-hour, for the sake of discipline, and then brought father and son.
“Good morning, Mr. Cresswell, and Mr. Cresswell again,” said Mr. Taylor, helping himself to a straight-backed chair. “Hope you’ll pardon this unexpected visit. Found myself called through Montgomery, just after I got your wire; thought I’d better drop over.”
At Harry’s suggestion they moved to the veranda and sat down over whiskey and soda, which Taylor refused, and plunged into the subject without preliminaries.
“I’m assuming that you gentlemen are in the cotton business for making money. So am I. I see a way in which you and your friends can help me and mine, and clear up more millions than all of us can spend; for this reason I’ve hunted you up. This is my scheme.
“See here; there are a thousand cotton-mills in this country, half of them in the South, one-fourth in New England, and one-fourth in the Middle States. They are capitalized at six hundred million dollars. Now let me tell you: we control three hundred and fifty millions of that capitalization. The trust is going through capitalization at a billion. The only thing that threatens it is child-labor legislation in the South, the tariff, and the control of the supply of cotton. Pretty big hindrances, you say. That’s so, but look here: we’ve got the stock so placed that nothing short of a popular upheaval can send any Child Labor bill through Congress in six years. See? After that we don’t care. Same thing applies to the tariff. The last bill ran ten years. The present bill will last longer, or I lose my guess—‘specially if Smith is in the Senate.
“Well, then, there remains raw cotton. The connection of cotton-raising and its raw material is too close to risk a manufacturing trust that does not include practical control of the raw material. For that reason we’re planning a trust to include the raising and manufacturing of cotton in America. Then, too, cornering the cotton market here means the whip-hand of the industrial world. Gentlemen, it’s the biggest idea of the century. It beats steel.”
Colonel Cresswell chuckled.
“How do you spell that?” he asked.
But John Taylor was not to be diverted; his thin face was pale, but his gray eyes burned with the fire of a zealot. Harry Cresswell only smiled dimly and looked interested.
“Now, again,” continued John Taylor. “There are a million cotton farms in the South, half run by colored people and half by whites. Leave the colored out of account as long as they are disfranchised. The half million white farms are owned or controlled by five thousand wholesale merchants and three thousand big landowners, of whom you, Colonel Cresswell, are among the biggest with your fifty thousand acres. Ten banks control these eight thousand people—one of these is the Jefferson National of Montgomery, of which you are a silent director.”
Colonel Cresswell started; this man evidently had inside information. Did he know of the mortgage, too?
“Don’t be alarmed. I’m safe,” Taylor assured him. “Now, then, if we can get the banks, wholesale merchants, and biggest planters into line we can control the cotton crop.”
“But,” objected Harry Cresswell, “while the banks and the large merchants may be possibilities, do you know what it means to try to get planters into line?”
“Yes, I do. And what I don’t know you and your father do. Colonel Cresswell is president of the Farmers’ League. That’s the reason I’m here. Your success last year made you indispensable to our plans.”
“Our success?” laughed Colonel Cresswell, ruefully, thinking of the fifty thousand dollars lost and the mortgage to cover it.
“Yes, sir—success! You didn’t know it; we were too careful to allow that; and I say frankly you wouldn’t know it now if we weren’t convinced you were too far involved and the League too discouraged to repeat the dose.”
“Now, look here, sir,” began Colonel Cresswell, flushing and drawing himself erect.
“There, there, Colonel Cresswell, don’t misunderstand me. I’m a plain man. I’m playing a big game—a tremendous one. I need you, and I know you need me. I find out about you, and my sources of knowledge are wide and unerring. But the knowledge is safe, sir; it’s buried. Last year when you people curtailed cotton acreage and warehoused a big chunk of the crop you gave the mill men the scare of their lives. We had a hasty conference and the result was that the bottom fell out of your credit.”
Colonel Cresswell grew pale.
