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This is the lad that interests me, he said, after a time, laying a hand on the shoulder of Frank. What did you name him in full, Henry?
Frank Algernon.
Well, you might have named him after me. Theres something to this boy.
How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter, my boy?
Im not so sure that Id like to, replied the eldest.
Well, thats straight-spoken. What have you against it?
Nothing, except that I dont know anything about it.
What do you know?
The boy smiled wisely. Not very much, I guess.
Well, what are you interested in?
Money!
Aha! Whats bred in the bone, eh?[10] Get something of that from your father, eh? Well, thats a good trait. And spoken like a man, too! Well hear more about that later. Nancy, youre breeding a financier here, I think. He talks like one.
He looked at Frank carefully now. There was real force in that sturdy young body no doubt of it. Those large, clear gray eyes were full of intelligence. They indicated much and revealed nothing.
A smart boy! he said to Henry, his brother-in-law. I like his get-up. You have a bright family.
Henry Cowperwood smiled dryly. This man, if he liked Frank, might do much for the boy. He might eventually leave him some of his fortune. He was wealthy and single.
Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house he and his negro body-guard, Manuel, who spoke both English and Spanish, much to the astonishment of the children; and he took an increasing interest in Frank.
When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to do, I think Ill help him to do it, he observed to his sister one day; and she told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank about his studies, and found that he cared little for books or most of the study he was compelled to pursue. Grammar was an abomination. Literature silly. Latin was of no use. History well, it was fairly interesting.
I like bookkeeping and arithmetic, he observed. I want to get out and get to work, though. Thats what I want to do.
Youre pretty young, my son, observed his uncle. Youre only how old now? Fourteen?
Thirteen.
Well, you cant leave school much before sixteen. Youll do better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It cant do you any harm. You wont be a boy again.
I dont want to be a boy. I want to get to work.
Dont go too fast, son. Youll be a man soon enough. You want to be a banker, do you?
Yes, sir!
Well, when the time comes, if everything is all right and youve behaved yourself and you still want to, Ill help you get a start in business. If I were you and were going to be a banker, Id first spend a year or so in some good grain and commission house. Theres good training to be had there. Youll learn a lot that you ought to know. And, meantime, keep your health and learn all you can. Wherever I am, you let me know, and Ill write and find out how youve been conducting yourself.
He gave the boy a ten-dollar gold piece[11] with which to start a bank-account. And, not strange to say, he liked the whole Cowperwood household much better for this dynamic, self-sufficient, sterling youth who was an integral part of it.
Chapter III
It was in his thirteenth year that young Cowperwood entered into his first business venture. Walking along Front Street one day, a street of importing and wholesale establishments, he saw an auctioneers flag hanging out before a wholesale grocery and from the interior came the auctioneers voice: What am I bid[12] for this exceptional lot of Java coffee, twenty-two bags all told, which is now selling in the market for seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag wholesale? What am I bid? What am I bid? The whole lot must go as one. What am I bid?
Eighteen dollars, suggested a trader standing near the door, more to start the bidding than anything else. Frank paused.
Twenty-two! called another.
Thirty! a third. Thirty-five! a fourth, and so up to seventy-five, less than half of what it was worth.
Im bid seventy-five! Im bid seventy-five! called the auctioneer, loudly. Any other offers? Going once at seventy-five; am I offered eighty? Going twice at seventy-five, and he paused, one hand raised dramatically. Then he brought it down with a slap in the palm of the other sold to Mr. Silas Gregory for seventy-five. Make a note of that, Jerry, he called to his red-haired, freckle-faced clerk beside him. Then he turned to another lot of grocery staples this time starch, eleven barrels of it.
Young Cowperwood was making a rapid calculation. If, as the auctioneer said, coffee was worth seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag in the open market, and this buyer was getting this coffee for seventy-five dollars, he was making then and there eighty-six dollars and four cents, to say nothing of what his profit would be if he sold it at retail. As he recalled, his mother was paying twenty-eight cents a pound. He drew nearer, his books tucked under his arm, and watched these operations closely. The starch, as he soon heard, was valued at ten dollars a barrel, and it only brought six. Some kegs of vinegar were knocked down at one-third their value, and so on. He began to wish he could bid; but he had no money, just a little pocket change. The auctioneer noticed him standing almost directly under his nose, and was impressed with the stolidity solidity of the boys expression.
I am going to offer you now a fine lot of Castile soap[13] seven cases, no less which, as you know, if you know anything about soap, is now selling at fourteen cents a bar. This soap is worth anywhere at this moment eleven dollars and seventy-five cents a case. What am I bid? What am I bid? What am I bid? He was talking fast in the usual style of auctioneers, with much unnecessary emphasis; but Cowperwood was not unduly impressed. He was already rapidly calculating for himself. Seven cases at eleven dollars and seventy-five cents would be worth just eighty-two dollars and twenty-five cents; and if it went at half if it went at half
Twelve dollars, commented one bidder.
Fifteen, bid another.
Twenty, called a third.
Twenty-five, a fourth.
Then it came to dollar raises, for Castile soap was not such a vital commodity.[14] Twenty-six.
Twenty-seven.
Twentyeight.
Twenty-nine. There was a pause. Thirty, observed young Cowperwood, decisively.
The auctioneer, a short lean faced, spare man with bushy hair and an incisive eye, looked at him curiously and almost incredulously but without pausing. He had, somehow, in spite of himself, been impressed by the boys peculiar eye; and now he felt, without knowing why, that the offer was probably legitimate enough, and that the boy had the money. He might be the son of a grocer.
Im bid thirty! Im bid thirty! Im bid thirty for this fine lot of Castile soap. Its a fine lot. Its worth fourteen cents a bar. Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one?
Thirty-one, said a voice.
Thirty-two, replied Cowperwood. The same process was repeated.
Im bid thirty-two! Im bid thirty-two! Im bid thirty-two! Will anybody bid thirty-three? Its fine soap. Seven cases of fine Castile soap. Will anybody bid thirty-three?