Grey Timothy/Chapter 8

Mr Callander was displeased. Nothing went well with him, and if nothing went well with him, still less did it go well with his dependents.

Mr Callander never raved, nor ranted, nor thumped the table. His rebukes were of a courteous character. He never forgot that he was a gentleman. His harrowed staff (row after row of bent black shoulders, over bright brown desks, a sedate, green-shaded electric lamp over each head) could have wished that his annoyance took another form of expression. His manager was summoned, and went to the soberly furnished ‘board-room’ with despair in his heart.

“Mr Grant,” said the head of the firm politely, “you will be distressed to learn that, by what might reasonably be called negligence, a consignment of Manchester goods have been shipped to Bombay without any advice having been forwarded to the consignee. In consequence, so my agent at Bombay informs me, the consignee has cancelled the order.”

“I will inquire into the matter,” said the manager humbly. “It does not seem, if I may say so, sufficient justification for cancelling the order.”

“You are entitled to your opinions, Mr Grant,” said the chief, with frigid politeness. “I have other views, distinctly opposite.”

Later he had occasion to tell his cashier that he had been guilty of a grave error of judgment; “a very grave error indeed, Mr Everett!” And the accountants did not escape, nor the chief clerk, nor any clerk who had the misfortune to cross his path.

The firm of Callander and Callander was in the main an imposing agency. It was the type of business that is frequently met with in the City of London, and is peculiar from the fact that it owes its rise or its decay to the Crimean War. ’57 is a landmark with such businesses, and certainly ’57 was a notable year in the case of Callander and Callander, for this was the year when the agency was at the height of its prosperity, though the number of clerks it employed was smaller and its premises less pretentious.

Callanders bought and sold; that was the sum-total of its transactions. It bought in England and, through its agents, sold in India and elsewhere.

It did, as I have said before, a conservative business—and the profits of conservative businesses decrease with the years.

It was not the prosperity or otherwise of Callander and Callander that troubled the head of the firm. There was still a margin of profit large enough to justify the motor-car and the country house. If Mr Callander had employed fewer clerks and had paid higher wages the business might have increased in importance, but Mr Callander had arrived with an age when men gauged the importance of a business by the numbers of its employees.

His main trouble, this bright and sunny summer morning, had its foundation in the extraordinary behaviour of certain South African shares. Now everybody in the City knows that Beitjesfontein Deeps are a speculation rather than an investment. It is a mine with exciting possibilities, and when ‘Bits’, as they are called by coarse City men, stood at two-and-a-quarter, Mr Callander had a quiet hint from a member of the board that they would go to twelve. A new leader had been opened, and the quartz assayed two ounces to one ton, which is very good. Years ago, in the boom time, ‘Bits’ went to twenty pounds, so in saying that they would reach twelve, his informant was well within the known limits of possibility. Mr Callander bought five hundred—a trifling investment that cost him about twelve hundred pounds. They rose in little kangaroo leaps to three-and-a-half. A small man would have sold at this price, for there is a wise saying in the City that no man was ever ruined by taking small profits. Mr Callander was not a small man, so he bought five thousand shares at three-and-a-half, and when they leapt to six pounds he invested in another five thousand. ‘Bits’ climbed slowly to seven. There they stuck, varying from six-seven-eights to seven-one-eighth.

A friend advised him to sell.

“Take your profits and clear out,” he said; “they’re a rum stock.”

But Mr Callander had his eye upon twelve. Brian Pallard came to the City one morning to meet his broker—it was the morning when Mr Callander was in so bad a temper, for ‘Bits’ had dropped to five without any particular reason. Mr Callander bought another two thousand at that price.

At the time when his uncle was consulting his own broker over the telephone, Brian was conducting an interview with him.

“What do you say to some gilt-edged gold shares?” asked the broker, but Brian shook his head.

“Gilt-edged playing cards,” he said flippantly. “I want safe investment for my money, Consols or horses.”

In fact, one of the objects of his visit was to ‘get out’ of a shaky South American security.

“You are not like Mr Callander—by the way, he’s your uncle, isn’t he?”

Brian nodded.

“Something of that sort. What about him?”

The broker laughed.

“Oh, he’s in ‘Bits’, pretty heavily, I’m told. I can’t understand a man of his standing holding that stock.”

“Beitjesfonteins?”

Brian was serious in a minute. He had a fairly extensive knowledge of stocks. Moreover, he knew of this stock, and he recognized the danger.

“Beitjesfonteins it is,” said the other carelessly. “They’re likely to go to pieces at any moment.”

“That, I know,” said Brian quickly. “What are they?”

“Five—you might find it difficult to sell at five. If this rumour that the new leader is a ‘blind’ is true, they’ll go to five shillings.”

Brian rose and reached for his hat.

“Get under that market and don’t let it sag,” he said. “I’m going to see the desperate old bird. I know Beitjesfonteins.”

“It may cost you money,” warned the other, “if I hold the stock at five”

“You can hold till the cows come home,” said Brian, making for the door. “I’ll give you the tip when to remove your bruised shoulder.”

“Up to how much?”

“Fifty thousand,” said the young man, and left the stockbroker staring.

Then he took up his silk hat and strolled across to the house. Business in the Kaffir market was brisk; there was a babel of talk, of offers, of acceptances.

“I’ll sell ‘Bits’!” cried a strident voice. “I’ll sell at five!”

Burton the broker listened absently, then:

“‘Bits’! I’ll sell four-seven-eights!” said a voice.

“I’ll buy!” said Burton quickly.

“Five hundred?”

“As many as you like,” was the quick response. “I’ll buy ‘Bits’ four-seven-eights!”

“I’ll sell!” a dozen men clamoured at him, hands and notebooks waved to attract his attention.

One by one he took them. They were small parcels.

“I’ll buy ‘Bits’ four-seven-eights,” he called, but there was no response.

“I’ll buy ‘Bits’ at five!”

“I’ll sell!”

Again the clamours, the hand-waving.

He exhausted the supply, and again he was grateful that the parcels were small.

Greatly daring, he raised his offer. By this time a rumour was through the house that the leader had made good. Burton was a big man in his profession, and he did not buy without cause.

In the meantime Brian had reached his uncle’s office.

“I will see if Mr Callander is in, sir,” said the prevaricating clerk. “What name shall I say?”

“Just say that I have come about” Brian hesitated. He knew that if he sent in his name his uncle would probably refuse to see him. At the same time he realized that it would not be advisable to give his business away to the clerks.

He scribbled on a piece of paper the word ‘Beitjesfontein’.

“Take that to Mr Callander and say that I wish to see him urgently.”

The clerk went away, and in a few moments returned.

“Mr Callander will see you, sir,” he said, and led the way. His uncle looked up as he entered and an angry frown gave points to his acid inquiry.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Brian waited until the clerk had withdrawn.

“I came to see you on the business indicated ‘Bits’,” said Brian calmly, “and if you’ll invite me to sit down I won’t keep you a minute.”

“I prefer not to discuss any such matter,” said Mr Callander stiffly. “This interview is unsought by me.”

“I haven’t been counting the hours exactly,” said the young man, and, uninvited, dropped into the nearest chair. “In fact, until a quarter of an hour ago I had no idea that I should see you. I see you now,” he added magnanimously, “in the interests of the family.”

“Whose family?” demanded Mr Callander, and it was easy to see that his choler was rising.

“Our family,” responded Brian sweetly. “After all, we are sort of related; but that’s nothing to do with the matter. What I want to speak to you about is ‘Bits’. You’re heavily in those, Mr Callander—oh! I know what you’re going to say,” he went on as his uncle prepared to explode, “it’s no business of mine—but I know ‘Bits’,” said Brian grimly. “I’ve got good reason to, and I know the rotten crowd behind it. Pinlow is in it”

“That is false,” said the elder man, his voice trembling with anger; “and if it were true”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s true all right!” said Brian easily. “Pinlow is one of the gang that’s rigging the market—I’ll bet if Pinlow didn’t put you into things, it was a pal of Pinlow’s.”

In a flash Callander remembered that it was Fanks, a close friend of Lord Pinlow, who had suggested his buying—only for an instant, then he dismissed the suspicion as unworthy. He mastered his wrath as best he could.

“If that is all you have to say,” he said coldly, “we need not prolong the interview. I did not seek your advice in buying. I do not know how you were made aware that I had bought, and I shall certainly not seek your advice in selling—good morning.”

“Look here, Mr Callander,”—Brian leant over the desk—“don’t for Heaven’s sake be guided by your prejudices. I know”

“Lord Pinlow,” announced a voice, and Pinlow came hurrying through the door, to stop dead at the sight of the man he hated best in the world, and who hated him no less.

There was an awkward silence, which Brian broke.

“Pinlow, my uncle is in Beitjesfonteins,” he said; “it’s up to you to get him out without loss, and if you don’t, look out for squalls.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Pinlow, glaring at him.

“You’ll know all right,” said Brian, with a meaning smile, as he took up his hat preparatory to departing.

“Your threats do not worry me,” sneered Pinlow; “if I were to be affected by the things which are said of me by the hangers-on of the turf, by the sharps and the thieves”

“Cut it out,” implored Brian. “You make my ears ache. I only warn you that if ‘Bits’ drop another point I will send a post card to you at your club, which will be chastely inscribed ‘Lord Pinlow is a market rigger, a swindler, and a blackguard!’ By that time I shall perhaps have thought of something else to say. Good morning.”

He left the two men speechless, and made his way back to Burton’s office. A ’phone message recalled him from the house.

“How are ‘Bits’?” he asked as Burton entered.

“Strong,” replied the other ironically. “A courageous buyer has brought them to six.”

Brian nodded.

“They’ll stay there for a day, if I am any judge,” he said.