



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books









THE GOLDEN FLOOD

By Edwin Lefevre

Illustrated By W. R. Leigh

New York

McClure, Phillips & Co.

1905


TO

DANIEL GRAY REID





PART ONE: THE FLOOD

The president looked up from the underwriters’ plan of the latest
“Industrial” consolidation capital stock, $100,000,000; assets, for
publication, $100,000,000 which the syndicate’s lawyers had pronounced
perfectly legal. Judiciously advertised, the stock probably would be
oversubscribed. The profits ought to be enormous. He was one of the
underwriters.

“What is it?” he asked. He did not frown, but his voice was as though
hung with icicles. The assistant cashier, an imaginative man in the
wrong place, shivered.

“This gentleman,” he said, giving a card to the president, “wishes to
make a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars.”

The president looked at the card. He read on it:

_MR. GEORGE KITCHELL GRINELL_

“Who sent him to us?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. He said he had a letter of introduction to you,”
 answered the assistant cashier, disclaiming all responsibility in the
matter.

The president read the card a second time. The name was unfamiliar.

“Grinnell?” he muttered. “Grinnell? Never heard of him.” Perhaps he felt
it was poor policy to show ignorance on any matter whatever. When he
spoke again, it was in a voice overflowing with a dignity that was a
subtle rebuke to all assistant cashiers:

“I will see him.”

He busied himself once more with the typewritten documents before him,
lost in its alluring possibilities, until he became conscious of a
presence near him. He still waited, purposely, before looking up. He was
a very busy man, and all the world must know it. At length he raised his
head majestically, and turned--an animated fragment of a glacier--until
his eyes rested on the stranger’s.

“Good-morning, sir,” he said politely.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dawson,” said the stranger. He was a young man,
conceivably under thirty, of medium height, square of shoulders,
clean-shaven, and clear-skinned. He had brown hair and brown eyes.
His dress hinted at careful habits rather than at fashionable tailors.
Gold-rimmed spectacles gave him a studious air, which disappeared
whenever he spoke. As if at the sound of his own voice, his eyes took on
a look of alert self-confidence which interested the bank president.
Mr. Dawson was deeply prejudiced against the look of extreme astuteness,
blended with the desire to create a favourable impression, so familiar
to him as the president of the richest bank in Wall Street.

“You are Mr.----” The president looked at the stranger’s card as though
he had left it unread until he had finished far more important business.
It really was unnecessary; but it had become a habit, which he lost only
when speaking to his equals or his superiors in wealth.

“Grinnell,” prompted the stranger, very calmly. He was so unimpressed by
the president that the president was impressed by him.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Williams tells me you wish to become one of our
depositors?”

“Yes, sir. I have here,” taking a slip of paper from his pocket-book,
“an Assay Office check on the Sub-Treasury. It is for a trifle over a
hundred thousand dollars.”

Even the greatest bank in Wall Street must have a kindly feeling toward
depositors of a hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Dawson permitted himself
to smile graciously.

“I am sure we shall be glad to have your account, Mr. Grinnell,” he
said. “You are in business in----” The slight arching of his eyebrows,
rather than the inflection of his voice, made his words a delicate
interrogation. He was a small, slender man, greyhaired and
grey-moustached, with an air of polite aloofness from trivialities. His
manners were what you might expect of a man whose grandfather had been
Minister to France, and had never forgotten it; nor had his children.
His self-possession was so great that it was not noticeable.

“I am not in any business, Mr. Dawson, unless,” said the young man
with a smile that deprived his voice of any semblance of pertness or of
premeditated discourtesy, “it is the business of depositing $103,648.67
with the Metropolitan National Bank. My friend, Professor Willetts, of
Columbia, gave me a letter of introduction. Here it is. I may say,
Mr. Dawson, that I haven’t the slightest intention of disturbing this
account, as far as I know now, for an indefinite period.” The president
read the letter. It was from the professor of metallurgy at Columbia,
who was an old acquaintance of Dawson’s. It merely said that George K.
Grinnell was one of his old students, a graduate of the School of
Mines, who had asked him to suggest a safe bank of deposit. This the
Metropolitan certainly was. He had asked his young friend to attach his
own signature at the bottom, since Grinnell had no other bank accounts,
and no other way of having his signature verified. Mr. Grinnell had said
he wished his money to be absolutely safe, and Professor Willetts took
great pleasure in sending him to Mr. Dawson.

Mr. Dawson bowed his head--an acquiescence meant to be encouraging.
To the young man the necessity for such encouragement was not clear.
Possibly it showed in his eyes, for Mr. Dawson said very politely, in
an almost courtly way he had at times to show some people that an
aristocrat could do business aristocratically:

“It is not usual for us to accept accounts from strangers. We do not
really know.” very gently, “that you are the man to whom this letter was
given, nor that your signature is that of Mr. George K. Grinnell.”

The young man laughed pleasantly. “I see your position, Mr. Dawson, but,
really, I am not important enough to be impersonated by anybody. As for
my being George K. Grinnell, I’ve laboured under that impression for
twenty-nine years. I’ll have Professor Willetts in person introduce me,
if you wish. I have some letters----” He made a motion toward his breast
pocket, but Mr. Dawson held up a hand in polite dissent; he was above
suspicions. “And as for my signature, if you will send a clerk with me
to the Assay Office, next door they will doubtless verify it to your
satisfaction; I can just as easily bring legal tender notes, I suppose.
In any case, as I have no intention of touching this money for some time
to come, I suppose the bank will be safe from----”

“Oh,” interrupted Dawson, with a sort of subdued cordiality, “as I told
you before, while we do not usually take accounts from people of whom we
know nothing in a business way, we will make an exception in your case.”
 That the young man might not think the bank’s eagerness for deposits
made its officers unbusinesslike, the president added, with a
politely explanatory smile: “Professor Willetts’s letter is sufficient
introduction. As you say you are not in business--”

He paused and looked at the young man for confirmation.

“No, sir; I happen to have this money, and I desire a safe place to
keep it in. I may bring a little more. It depends upon certain family
matters. But that is for the future to decide. In the meantime, I should
like to leave this money here, untouched.”

“Very well, sir.” The president pushed a button on his desk.
A bright-looking, neatly dressed office-boy appeared, his face
exaggeratedly attentive.

“Ask Mr. Williams to come in, please.” The office-boy turned on his
heels as by a military command, and hastened away. It was the bank’s
training; the president’s admirers said it showed his genius for
organization down to the smallest detail. Presently the assistant
cashier entered.

“Mr. Williams, Mr. Grinnell will be one of our most valued depositors.
We must show him that we appreciate his confidence in us. Kindly attend
to the necessary details.” Mr. Dawson paused. Perhaps his hesitancy
was meant as an invitation to Mr. George Kitchell Grinnell to vouchsafe
further information of a personal nature. But Mr. Grinnell said, with a
smile: “Many thanks, Mr. Dawson,” and Mr. Dawson smiled back, politely.
As the men turned to go, he took up the underwriting plan and forgot
all about the incident. It was a Thursday. It might as well have been a
Monday or a Tuesday; but it was not.

Mr. Williams called up Professor Willetts on the telephone, who said he
had given a letter of introduction to George K. Grinnell. He described
Grinnell’s appearance, and added that Grinnell had been one of his
students, and was quite well up on metallurgy, but was not, so far as
the professor knew, engaged in active business. He thought Grinnell had
some private means. The Assay Office people had identified Grinnell and
his signature. It was not much information, but it was enough.

On the following Thursday, after the close of the business day, Mr.
Dawson, reading over some routine memoranda submitted by the cashier,
found his gaze arrested by a line that told of the deposit of $151,008
by “George K. Grinnell.” He sent for the cashier.

“What about this $151,000 deposit by George K. Grinnell?” he asked.

“He deposited an Assay Office check, the same as he did last week.”

The president frowned. He was puzzled.

“If he should happen to make any further deposits of this character,
tell the receiving teller to say I should like to see him, please.”

“Very well, sir.”

The president turned to his desk again, and promptly forgot the
incident--forgot it for exactly one week. On the following Thursday,
shortly before noon, Williams, the assistant cashier--a short, stout
man, with an oleaginous smile--approached his feared chief.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dawson,”--the assistant cashier’s habitual attitude
before the president was one uninterrupted apology for existing at
all--“Mr. Grinnell is here.”

“Grinnell? Grinnell?” mused the president, frowning.

“He has just deposited $250,000--an Assay Office check, the same as last
Thursday. You said if he should----”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mr. Dawson sharply. “Tell him to be kind enough
to come in.” He muttered to himself: “That makes half a million in
gold in a fortnight. H’m!” When Mr. Dawson h’mmed to himself it meant
business--usually, woe to the vanquished!

He rose to greet the h’m-compelling depositor.

“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell?” He smiled with a cordiality that was more
than mere affability and extended his hand. The president’s grasp was
firm. Wall Street said that his soul had been in cold storage some
thirty thousand centuries before it came down to earth to animate
the body of Richard Dawson. But Mr. Dawson, just as there are men who
endeavour to seem honest by habitually looking you straight in the eyes,
believed that strong pressure must indicate genuine friendliness in a
hand clasp.

Mr. Grinnell smiled. There was not the faintest trace of hostility in
the young man’s smile; but it was not a fatuous smile, nevertheless.

“The cashier said you----”

“Yes; I told him to ask you to be good enough to see me. I hope I am not
inconveniencing you?”

“Not at all. But I fancy you are very busy.”

The president smiled in self-defence.

“Mr. Grinnell,” he said, with a sort of quizzical joviality, “you have
been a source of some--I’ll own up”--with the amused smile of men when
they confess to an essentially feminine sin--“curiosity. I tell you
frankly that I’d very much like to know more about you--what you are
doing, what you have done, what you intend to do. In the past fifteen
days you have deposited with us a half-million in gold.” He again
smiled; this time interrogatively.

“Mr. Dawson,” the young man answered, very seriously, though not in the
slightest degree rebukingly, “really I can add nothing to what I told
you when I first had the pleasure of seeing you. As I said then, I have
not the slightest intention of disturbing the account, not to the extent
of one cent, so far as I can see now. Indeed, you may safely assume that
this money will remain untouched for an indefinite period. I’d rather
keep the money here than in a safe-deposit vault. Still,” with a smile
for the first time, “if you think I’d better transfer my account to the
Eastern National, or the Marshall National, to save you further----”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Grinnell!” in a tone that conveyed to a nicety his
shock at being misunderstood, “I merely wished to learn more about you
from a natural business curiosity. We certainly are satisfied if you
are.”

“Well,” Grinnell said, smiling again, “I am twenty-nine years old,
single, an orphan, a graduate of the School of Mines. I live with my
sister at 193 West 38th Street, and I believe in a republican form of
government under a Democratic administration.”

“My dear Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, with a look of regret to
hide his annoyance, “pray do not imagine for an instant that I had any
desire to pry into your personal affairs. You know, we like to take an
interest in our depositors, just as we wish our depositors to take
an interest in us. Your bank president should be your business father
confessor. The time may come when we may be of use to you. I shall be
glad to give you my best advice, should you ever care for it. And, Mr.
Grinnell,” with a smile, paternal to the last eighth, “I am a month
or two older than you. I have had some experience in many lines of
business,” excepting that of Mr. George K. Grinnell, who did not accept
the subtle invitation to confide. Then, with a final smile, putting his
hand on the young man’s shoulder: “As for your account, Mr. Grinnell,
may it continue to grow! We can stand it if you can.”

“I am glad to hear that; very glad indeed, I may take you at your word.
Being young, I am, of course, very wise, Mr. Dawson. But I have hopes
of getting over it. When my account becomes really respectable, I,
doubtless, shall be more than glad to avail myself of your advice. I
shall value it highly.”

“It is yours at any time, Mr. Grinnell,” said the president, shaking
hands. He did not show any surprise at the intimation of greater
deposits in the future. It was as well that he did not. On Thursday of
the following week, Mr. George K. Grinnell deposited an Assay Office
check for $500,000 lacking a few cents. It made a million of gold
bullion which the young man had sold to the United States Assay Office,
and of which he had deposited the proceeds in the Metropolitan National
Bank. The president did not forget the incident when the cashier sent in
a memorandum, but promptly summoned the official.

“Mr. Grinnell has become quite a depositor, I see,” he said.

“Every Thursday he comes with an Assay Office--”

“Yes, I know. It seems to be a habit with, him. If he should come in
next Thursday, or at any time, let me know at once. Don’t ask him to
come into my office, but let me know he is here, at once. Has he drawn
any checks on us?”

“No, sir; not one.”

“If he does, let me see it.”

“It is--er--rather curious,” ventured the cashier.

“Not at all,” said Mr. Dawson curtly. The cashier left him without
another word.

The advent of the strange depositor was curiously awaited by the tellers
to whom the cashier had spoken. The cashier himself offered to bet his
assistant that Grinnell would not deposit more than $500,000. The fat
assistant decided to lose a five-dollar hat to his superior, and then to
ask that same superior for an increase in salary. He bet that Grinnell
would deposit a million.

“You see,” he said, with a look of intense astuteness, that his device
of intentionally losing the bet might not be too obvious, “he deposited
first a hundred thousand, then a hundred and fifty; then two-fifty; then
he doubled and deposited five hundred thousand. I think he will double
again and deposit a million.”

“Millions don’t grow on bushes. I’ll take the bet,” remarked the cashier
stingingly. His subordinate covered a chuckle of success by a woeful
smile of self-depreciation. But his exultation over the increase in
salary to follow the artistic loss of a five-dollar hat did not endure
long. Grover, one of the receiving tellers, on Thursday hastily sent him
word that Mr. Grinnell had deposited $1,000,000, and was being delayed
at the teller’s window on a pretext of attending to some clerical
detail. The assistant cashier straightway walked into the president’s
room.

“Mr. Grinnell is outside, sir. He has just deposited one million.”

“Very well, Mr. Williams.”

The president walked out of his private office, through the corridor,
into the main office of the bank. On one side there was a long, marble
counter, surmounted by a bronze railing, having windows barred like
those of a jail, behind which were imprisoned the tellers and the
clerks; on the other, the plain walls, with the long panels of polished
marble, and the high, little upright desks over the steam radiators at
which the customers made out the deposit slips or signed checks. It
was not unlike a church, this temple of Mammon, known in Wall Street
as “Fort Dawson.” It had a look of