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them either. Very well, Gus and Rudolph would borrow of the banks. Their security was good, the plantations were sure payers, but the banks refused any “accommodation.” The young men went from one bank to another till they realized that there was an understanding among these Organized Capitalists; the word had been passed not to let the two Spreckels boys have a cent. For a while they stared at ruin, but they hustled around and finally found a private capitalist who backed them; and they made good. They sold the plantation at a price which netted them a fortune each.

Rudolph thought he was through with business. Investing his money in real estate and gas stock, he retired to the country and, content with Tis rents and dividends, was neglecting his duty as a stockholder to develop a beautiful estate in Sonoma County, when bad news came. His father had started the gas war in San Francisco. It seemed that the gas works were blowing smoke in the old man’s windows. He protested, in vain, and one noon at the Pacific Union Club he met the president, Joe Crockett.

“Hook here, Joe,” he said, “I’ve had enough of that smoke of yours. You’d better do something -”

“The Club is no place to discuss business,”