Page:Scribners Magazine volume 27.djvu/256

 machine gave to Wharton's mind after six months a color of anxiety. In meditative moments this anxiety sometimes deepened into tenor. For because Tom Wharton's heart had no solace save in the use of power, in the soul of him Tom Wharton was an abject coward. He had hypnotized himself into the belief that his luck was infallible; but the low burring, the shrill rasping, and the irregular clicking of the machine got upon his nerves and filled him with alarm. He hammered away ineffectually at the money power. He wrenched and jacked unavailingly at the trusts. Then Senator Wharton got his trip-hammer and started to pound the people into plumb by the promise of a service pension law. The promise backed by Wharton's power to fulfil it brought consternation to the East, where most of the nation's taxes to pay the pensions would be gathered, and where but a small portion of the pensions would be distributed. Wharton saw this Eastern consternation and chuckled, for he believed that it would be matched by rejoicing in the West. In congratulating himself upon the probable success of his pension plans Wharton found another pleasure and perhaps a keener one. All New England turned toward Senator Felt as its hope in the struggle against the Wharton bill. If Felt failed to thwart Wharton, the East and his State and his party would have none of him. So Tom Wharton changed his tobacco quid from one jaw to the other and exhaled a curse upon Felt from the worm-eaten caverns of his soul.

The god of business is an exacting god, and he puts all sorts of warning signs at the mile-posts of the years in men's lives. At the sixtieth mile-post there is a danger sign which warns men against new enterprises. The penalties for disregarding this sign are severe. But sinful pride having tilted Wharton's nose he could not see the warning on his third-score mile-post. So he began to dabble in wheat. Of course he scalded his fingers. A Chicago packer tempted him, and the two old fellows went on to the market as bears. Wharton's name was not known in the deal; but, little by little, while wheat kept going up, his available collateral went into his broker's hands and was dumped upon the New York market. The Chicago packer could have commanded securities representing twenty million dollars in a few hours. But Wharton's poor little two millions began to shrink when he turned it into bankable paper, and evaporated before his eyes. One day late in May a small financial tornado struck Wall Street. It began in R. B. T. and spread to every industrial stock on the market. Wharton's collateral at that time had been reduced to its lowest terms, and he had nothing but the industrial stocks to offer. When the day closed wheat had gone skyward, and not a banking concern in Wall Street, New Street, Exchange Place, or lower Broadway would accept as collateral a single stock that Wharton had put in his broker's hands. The New York broker could not reach Wharton during the mad hour when industrial stocks were being pounded down. The broker had to protect himself. Wharton's stocks were thrown under the hammer. They did not realize enough to pay the margins on his wheat orders. His note went to protest, and when the day closed Tom Wharton's fortune was gone.

The latter years of Wharton's life had been spent out of partnerships and away from close companions. His very greed had isolated him, and so when misfortune befell him he could turn to no friendly hand for help. His family had departed from him in all but the outer semblance, and he was absolutely alone in his calamity. When he had learned the worst that the broker had to tell, Wharton locked himself in his private room with a flask of whiskey, and when he came out his pallid face was the only sign of his perturbation. For his daring was not lessened; he never played "old maid" or "penny ante," and he loved the game best when the forfeit was high. He believed that wheat had reached its summit, and he had figured it out that with $75,000 to operate upon he could regain everything. But he decided that he must have that amount. He rejected a dozen plans to get it, and only one was left. It was a desperate plan, but Wharton did not hesitate to follow it. He left that night on the midnight train for the West. Ike Russell, the treasurer of Wharton's State, was made of clay with Wharton's own hand. When Wharton arrived