The Irresistible Force

by Jacques Futrelle

The
IRRESISTIBLE
FORCE

By JACQUES FUTRELLE

JOHN NORWOOD was the irresistible force of Wall Street. A word from him was a bellowing, devastating, withering simoom which roared and raged up and down the Street, crumbling financial institutions like paper. Once he had been good-natured, even genial, with a general sort of faith in erring humanity—not enough to interfere with his commercial projects, but still a faith. Then he found out that he had a liver. From that moment he was settled in the conviction that every man’s hand was against him. He crushed his way through life—overrode circumstances by the harrowing force of a powerful individuality.

Now John Norwood had a project. A railroad obstructed it. That road immediately became a thing to smash. Norwood gave the order through a broker with whom he had never before had dealings. It was not desirable that it should go through his own broker. That might lead to conjecture. Conjecture might lead to anything.

“Now, see here,” he had told the broker, “there’s a jerk-water railroad out here, the K. L. & M. It’s one of those roads where they have a semi-occasional schedule, and their limited trains wait for picnic-parties. They call ’em ‘fast trains’ because you starve to death before you get anywhere to eat. That road’s in my way.”

“I understand,” said the broker.

“I’m going to build a real railroad out there,” continued Norwood; “one of those that'll make the natives sit up and think they’re in the United States. Double tracks, a train service that hits the high spots, and all that sort of thing. But I don’t want any opposition. Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Now get the K. L. & M.—full control, a working majority of the shares. I don’t care how you get it, but get it. Don’t worry me with details. And say, don’t under any circumstances let it be known that I want it. Last time I was in a railroad deal I got nipped to the tune of half a million.”

“You mean when Stanton beat you?”

“Yes, confound him!” said Norwood, and the light which sent a shiver up and down the Street glowed in his eyes. “Then he had to go and die before I got a chance to get even with him. I don’t suppose, however, he did that purposely.”

“It would seem to be stretching the point some,” admitted the broker.

“Well, that’s all,” said Norwood.

Then the irresistible force went home to dinner.

When it is said that John Norwood was the irresistible force of Wall Street, it must be understood that that applied only to the Street. In his own home it was a different proposition. Mazie, his daughter, was the dominating force there. Mazie was twenty. She had a haze of gold-bronze hair and eyes reflecting the splendor of the sky. Engulfed by her wiles Norwood blustered, raged, roared—and yielded to her capricious will. He always fought valiantly, knowing he would lose. He had been doing it for a long time; he was accustomed to it.

Mazie met him in the hall on this particular day.

“Papa,” she said, “some one is coming to see you this evening, about—about——”

“About what?” demanded Norwood. He had an uneasy feeling that he was going to lose something—he didn’t know what yet.

“About me,” continued Mazie.

“What about you?” blustered Norwood.

“Well, I suppose every girl has to fall in love some time,” said Mazie “and I—I have.”

“You? You? In love? You? Well!”

“I sha’n’t tell you who it is,” said Mazie placidly. “But he will come here this evening to see you, and ask for—for me—I mean ask for me to—to keep—to have and to hold, as it were.”

John Norwood snorted. For the moment—one of the rare occasions of his life—he had nothing to say. It was incredulous, positively unbelievable, his daughter—his—John Norwood’s—with everything on earth that a girl could possibly wish for—wanting to get married! Why——

“Of course, papa, I love you more than anybody in the world,” Mazie continued, “but I love him, too, oh, so much. I don’t want you to think that—that I am ungrateful or anything horrid. It’s so queer to love somebody else, and want to see him all the time. But I suppose every one has it some time.”

“Yes, like the measles,” said Norwood. It was an attempt at a bluster, but he didn’t feel blustery. If it had been only something else, something of no consequence, something which merely required money, why, it would have been a simple matter. Then he would have roared and raged and blustered, and given it to her. But this——

“Every one has one supremely happy moment,” Mazie went on, “and mine was when I knew he loved me. You and mother were happy—give me the same happiness you had.”

And John Norwood, looking fiercely over the gold-bronze head at an old master hanging opposite—a treasure of art—saw through it, on into the past; saw the girl he had loved, poor—they were both poor then—saw that same gold-bronze hair, those same blue eyes, that same sweet mouth, and the irresistible force blinked savagely to keep the moisture back. Oh, well, his money had been made to give his daughter every happiness she should crave, and it was not in him to refuse her the one great happiness beside which all things else were trivial and commonplace. He was silent for a long time, and Mazie, confident, snuggled in his arms.

“I suppose everybody gets it,” he said finally. “If you think you will be happy with him, whoever he is, and he’s all he should be, I will—well, I sha’n’t object very much. I hope I can give my consent.”

“You will give it?” asked Mazie.

“I haven’t said that,” Norwood corrected, with a gentle smile. “But perhaps another member of the family—family, I like that—might be welcome here. Of course you'll have to live here with me, you know?”

“Oh, I hope—I hope you'll like him,” said Mazie.

Wall Street would have been paralyzed. John Norwood sentimental? Why, it was absurd!

 

Mazie sat on the top of the long hall stairs with a little wrinkle in her brow, and wondered vaguely which, if either, of the two men in the library would come out alive. She could hear voices, and occasionally one of them rose violently.

Finally she heard the library door open, then an angry tramp across the hall, and the front door slammed. Instantly the library door crashed and the hall rattled. Mazie glided down the stairs, peered into the library, then entered.

“Well?” she asked quietly of her father.

“Well?” he roared at her. “No, it isn’t well. That man—that impertinent young ass, had the—the unspeakable—unspeakable——”

“Nerve,” Mazie helped him.

“Audacity to—ask for your hand in marriage. Why, the—the——”

“Now, papa, don’t get excited just before dinner,” said Mazie.

“I'll get excited if I want to,” Norwood bellowed. “Why, it’s simply maddening to have that impudent young—young scoundrel even think for a moment—even think, I say, of marrying you.”

He whacked the table before him viciously with his closed fist.

“I take it that you told him so?” said Mazie.

“Yes, I did tell him so. And I never will give my permission for you to marry him, young lady. You in love with him! Why in the world couldn’t you have picked out some other man—any other man in the world—even a busted duke or a lord or a count or a baron—anything on earth but just that one man?”

“Because he was the man I wanted,” said Mazie. She didn’t seem half-way broken-hearted.

“Didn’t you know of all the men who ever lived, that particular one, Dick Stanton, and his father before him, were the men I especially did not like? Didn't you know it, I say?”

And again the table rocked under a thundering smash.

“Yes, I knew it,” said Mazie sweetly.

“And still you’re in love with that—that—why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t like it,” and Mazie smiled charmingly.

“Why, the little nincompoop”—the eruption continued.

“He’s six feet two,” said Mazie.

“Well, the big nincompoop,” roared Norwood, “fiddles away all his time at pink teas, and green luncheons, and blue receptions, and red Germans, and things. Now if he’d only been a man, a man with—with stuffing in him—muscle and bone and head—one of the kind that can knock the tar out of things.”

“He played center at Yale,” said Mazie.

“Yes, probably fiddled away all his time at football, and never looked in a book.” Norwood was determined to find a fault. “I'll bet he hasn’t enough in his head to fill a—a peanut.”

“He graduated with first honors,” said Mazie.

“Yes, I always knew there were a lot of fools running these colleges—to let a—a—thing like that get through with first honors. Why—why, Mazie, how could you ever fall in love with such a—a—an ugly——?”

“He’s considered one of the handsomest men in New York,” said Mazie.

“Handsome?” raged Norwood. “He hasn’t one redeeming thing about him.”

“I think he has,” said Mazie.

“Actually poor! You'd spend everything he has in a year.”

“He has as much money as you have,” said Mazie.

“Well, what if he has? How’d he get it?” roared Norwood. “How did he get it? By his father’s speculation. That’s how he got it.”

“Well, he doesn’t speculate, papa.”

“No, he hasn’t enough brains. Never earned a cent in his life—couldn’t if he tried. He’s—he’s——”

“Very nice,” said Mazie. She hadn't even begun to lose hope yet.

“And—and he isn’t—isn’t honest,” declared Norwood, somewhat hesitatingly. The Wall Street glitter came into his eyes, and his voice lost its rant.

“Not honest?” gasped Mazie, and a sudden pain appeared in her face. “Why, papa!”

“No, he isn’t honest.” Norwood was blustering again. “At least his father wasn’t.”

Mazie’s face was anxious now.

“No,” thundered Norwood. “His father robbed me of half a million dollars, years ago. Robbed me, I say, and—and then died before I got a whack at him. Now, every time I see this young Stanton—Dick Stanton—silly name for a man, anyhow!—I want to choke him until he gives me back every cent of it.”

“How did he rob you, papa?” Mazie’s voice was low and tense.

“There I was,” said Norwood, “working day and night, straining every nerve to get some railroad bonds—wearing my life out—and old Stanton had to come into it. I had made my bid for the bonds, they were gilt-edged, and it seemed certain I would get them, when what did old Stanton do? What did he do, I say? He got next to the directors, found out what my bid was, and overbid me—overbid me, young lady. And then what did he do? He got them, and I didn’t know it until the bonds were delivered.”

Mazie didn’t follow such financial intricacies, but she was not discouraged.

“As I understand it,” she said, “when he got the bonds you lost half a million dollars?”

“Yes,” blurted the irresistible force, “and it was a—was robbery.” He felt that his argument was not a sound one, even to himself.

“And if you had got the bonds, Mr. Stanton would have lost half a million dollars?”

“Well, something like that,” Norwood confessed. He felt his contention crumbling about his ears. “But it was underhanded—every time he got a chance he would do those things to me, and it wasn’t honest.”

Mazie burst out laughing. It was a delight to hear her laugh. It was a ripple with a gurgling catch in it.

“And I told this young Stanton so just now,” continued Norwood. He felt the earth slipping away from him. “I told him that his father wasn’t honest, and—and——”

“Well, what happened?”

“He—he said if I hadn’t been your father, he would have hit me in the nose.”

Mazie laughed again.

“He said he was honest, and I told him the best way to prove it would be to let you alone. You are only twenty now, and in a couple of years, if you want to—want to throw yourself away on him, why, I sha’n’t object. Meanwhile, I was thinking I might buy you a duke or something. But for two years I am going to run this thing myself. Do you understand? He has promised to let you absolutely alone for that long.”

“Did he promise that?” asked Mazie. She wasn’t very happy now.

“He didn’t want to,” said Norwood, “but I made him.”

“Well, we—we could run away, you know, papa.”

“I know you could,” roared Norwood; “and that would prove just what I said of him—that he isn’t honest. That would prove it.”

“Of course I’m not going to run away,” said Mazie; “but, papa, I don’t think you ought to let a personal prejudice interfere with my happiness.”

“Personal prejudice, bosh!” said Norwood. “Personal prejudice? Why, I never allowed personal prejudice to interfere with me in my life. If he’s all you say he is, let him show it to me. Let me see what’s in him. He’ll have plenty of opportunity in two years.”

“Two years is such a long, long time.” And Mazie sighed dolefully.

“It’s not half as long before marriage as it is afterward,” said Norwood. He didn’t believe it, but it had a good sound. Besides, he felt that he could be sarcastic now. He had regained the mastery. Having regained it, he looked at Mazie a long time.

“Couldn’t blame any darned fool for falling in love with her,” he said to himself.

Then he sat down to dinner. Dinner was an event in his life. He never frivoled, nor wasted time or space on trivial things. The irresistible force had an appetite like a laborer in a lumber-camp.

 

Next day began John Norwood’s most famous fight in the Street. Of the ten thousand shares of K. L. & M., the Westinghouse interests owned four thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven, just fourteen less than control. Naturally, they had the directorate, and, being in possession, they were satisfied. The K. L. & M. paid a couple of million a year; this was fifteen per cent. on the original investment. Their administration had been wise, economical, and lucrative. The price of the stock was above par.

But a couple of days later the Westinghouse interests awoke to the fact that some one else had a hand on the pulse of the road. It dawned on them suddenly, when the price, already high, jumped. They immediately began an investigation, and found, to their consternation, that a broker representing an unknown had quietly bought up K. L. & M. at a greatly advanced price, and now held four thousand nine hundred and eighty-three shares. The Westinghouse people were scared. They hustled about, and found that thirty outstanding shares were in the hands of an old client. They went to this client, whom they alone knew, and asked to buy at any price. The client refused to sell; would consider no offer from them or any one else. Further, if any attack was made on the road, this client promised to vote with the Westinghouses, thus allowing that firm to retain control.

Feeling somewhat reassured, the Westinghouse interests sat still and held tight. They felt that disaster could not come as long as they did that. Then Norwood’s broker went to report.

“Well?” demanded Norwood.

“There are ten thousand shares of K. L. & M.,” the broker began. “Of these, I have bought four thousand nine hundred and eighty-three for you.”

“Well, that isn’t control,” said Norwood. “I want control.”

“There are four thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven shares held by the Westinghouse interests,” the broker continued placidly. “They own them absolutely, and refuse to sell at any price.”

“Well, I know all that,” Norwood blustered impatiently.

“The other thirty shares are controlled, though not owned, by the Westinghouse people,” the broker went on.

“Who owns ’em?” demanded Norwood.

“I don’t know, and can’t find out,” said the broker.

“Can’t find out, eh? Can’t find out?” Norwood roared at the broker, as he looked him up and down carefully, minutely, scornfully. “Can’t find out? You call yourself an up-to-date business man, and can’t find out who owns thirty shares of K. L. & M.?”

“You couldn’t find out yourself,” said the broker. He was nettled. It is not comforting to one man to have another look him over as he would a prize pig.

“Find out!” thundered Norwood. “Certainly I can find out. Find out anything.”

“Where I have failed no man in the Street can find out,” said the broker.

“Oh, bosh,” said Norwood. “Do you mean to say there’s not a man in the Street with enough brains to find out who owns those thirty shares?”

“Guess that’s right,” said the broker.

“Well, I'll find out,” bellowed Norwood. “Thirty measly little shares of stock, and can’t find out. Why, I'll find out, and I'll swamp somebody if they don’t look out.” There was danger in Wall Street when Norwood’s under jaw protruded at just that angle. “Make a bluff,” he went on. “Go into the Street and announce publicly that John Norwood wants those thirty shares of K. L. & M. That ought to scare somebody into giving ’em up.”

The broker obeyed orders. The Westinghouse people grew pale. One of the firm rushed to see the client who held the thirty shares. The client listened, reiterated a refusal to sell, smiled, and said it would be all right. The Westinghouses, reassured, then began an active campaign of sitting still and holding tight. The strain was awful.

Meanwhile the Street waited patiently for the end of the world. John Norwood had spoken. Finally the broker again went to Norwood.

“It won’t work,” he reported. “It might have some result if you would appear personally in the matter. I simply can’t find out who owns those shares. I have had the best detectives in the Street investigating.”

Norwood smiled. It was an indulgent, pitying smile, the sort of smile that conscious strength gives.

“I’ll take an hour or so this afternoon and go out myself and get those shares,” he said.

Then the irresistible force met the immovable body. The impact was terrific. Norwood’s “hour or so” brought no result. He bellowed a challenge up and down the Street; threatened, blustered, raved, and—learned nothing. For a week he butted the impossible. His roar reverberated and drove the weaklings to cover, but it had no result to himself. Then he hired spies, bribed employees, bought the active support of a gentleman of talent who entered the Westinghouse offices at night and sought to find out something. Still he was helpless. The Street failed to wither. It looked on with a deep and unflagging interest, but it didn’t get excited. In fact, it drew a long breath of relief to see Norwood engrossed in the trivial pusuit of thirty shares of K. L.& M. He was allowing other things to pass unmolested.

More deliberately, with less of bluster, with more care as to detail, he began the search all over again. He thought once of openly attacking the Westinghouse interests in the market, but they had anticipated such a move, and had fled to cover. They merely held K. L. & M., but they held it grimly.

At the end of a week John Norwood’s effort to get the thirty shares of K. L. & M. had become a point of honor with him—a serious, glaring failure in a life which heretofore had not known failure. At the same time, it had become a joke in the Street. Brokers laughed at it, but Norwood went doggedly on. It was this trait of tenacity which had won success for him before, and now the cause had become a vital issue.

“I’ll crush him to powder,” he repeated.

“When you find him,” said the broker.

“Guess the old man’s losing his grip,” said Wall Street, and it chortled as it made a grab at some of Norwood’s unprotected stocks and got away with them.

“Losing my grip, am I?” growled Norwood when he heard. “Wait until I finish this job, and I’ll wipe Wall Street as clean as a ballroom floor with those chaps.”

In another fortnight, Norwood began to realize that he was bucking a stone wall. He began to feel, for the first time, that there was a possibility of failure. He saw that a man who can negotiate hundred-million-dollar loans for the government, merge railroads, steamships, steel interests, copper bo1anzas, who held the financial interests of the country in his open hand, was not always victorious if he happened to have a man against him who could not be frightened. If he could only learn who held the shares. But he couldn't. Then, although he would hardly confess the fact, but it was true, he developed a certain admiration for the unknown.

Then a great coup was planned against Norwood. The Westinghouse people, in retaliation, conceived the idea of raiding Steel, and formed a great pool to back them. Norwood held millions of Steel. It was just at this psychological moment that Norwood, in a towering rage, received a card as he sat at his desk. The card bore the name: “Mr. Richard Stanton.” Norwood looked at it, and the world turned red.

“If he asks me for my daughter’s hand again, I'll throw him out the window,” he declared. “Let him come in.”

Mr. Richard Stanton entered.

“Well?” thundered Norwood.

“I came in to see you, Mr. Norwood,” Stanton began calmly, “not because of any admiration I have for you personally, but because of my regard for—for another member of your family.”

“Now don’t go over all that again,” said Norwood. “I’ve heard it once. You’ve given me your promise, and I won’t release you from it.”

“I know that,” said Stanton. “If you'll permit me to sit down, I think I may be able to tell you something in which you will be interested.”

“Well, sit down, then,” said Norwood. It was not a courteous invitation, but Stanton, being a calm young man, sat down.

“There is a plan afoot to raid your Steel holdings,” Stanton continued.

“A what?” demanded Norwood. He was interested.

“A pool has been formed to smash you in Steel, and unless you act quickly it may succeed.”

“To smash me, eh?” And Norwood’s under jaw shot out fiercely. “To smash me. Uh, huh! And who’s in it?”

“That I can't tell you,” said Stanton. “I know there is such a plan, and I am merely telling you because I know, if it succeeds, you will be ruined. It is enough to let you know that it is coming. You can save yourself.”

John Norwood sank back into his chair, his eyes half-closed, his mind far away, trying out his defenses, his fortifications, thinking over all things connected with his Steel holdings. For a full minute he sat thus, and gradually the fierce jaw retired to its normal position. Then his eyes fell to Stanton. Again he was aggressive.

“Why do you tell me this?” he demanded. “To make yourself solid with me, I suppose?” He was sneering.

“You flatter yourself, Mr. Norwood,” said Stanton, and his face flushed. “I learned of the coming raid through an invitation to join the pool against you, and I have no desire to see the father of the girl I love ruined.”

Norwood went over and stood looking out of the window a long time. Then he turned back to Stanton.

“I think—I think it’s damned decent of you, Stanton,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I thank you. Perhaps I——” He extended his hand.

“Pray don’t feel under any obligation,” said Stanton, and there was a slight touch of irony in his voice. “You can protect yourself, and—and I wish you good day.”

“Wait a minute,” said Norwood. “Sit down a minute. You know I feel like you’ve made a monkey of me, somehow.” He laughed uneasily. “Since that time you called at my house, I’ve been pretty busy with another matter, and perhaps I have neglected my affairs somewhat—my Steel, I mean. I’ve been chasing thirty shares of a railroad stock, and let everything else go. And I didn’t get the stock, at that.”

“No?” Stanton was politely interested.

“I want you to know that I appreciate what you have done in tipping me off to this raid. And yet I’m afraid you won't believe me,” continued Norwood. “By the way”—and the Wall Street king became the man of business again—“you don’t happen to know who holds an odd thirty shares of K. L. & M., do you?”

“Yes, I know,” replied Stanton.

“What?” Norwood gasped. “You know?”

And just at that moment the door was flung open, and Mazie, charming in gray, ran into the room.

“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, and then, at sight of Stanton, a startled “My goodness! What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Stanton. He smiled gravely at her astonishment.

“I was over at Staten Island, and was just driving by,” said Mazie. “If I’m in the way——”

“Would you mind telling me who holds those shares?” Norwood asked of Stanton. After the interruption of her entrance, he had forgotten that Mazie was on earth.

“Not in the least,” said Stanton,

“Well, who then?” Norwood continued. He was on the verge of victory.

“I hold them.”

Norwood gazed at Stanton a moment, and rage came into his face. Then he turned and walked to the window, where he stood for a moment, as Mazie questioningly looked from one man to the other. Finally Norwood turned back. His hands were trembling with anger, and his face frightened Mazie. Stanton stood looking at him curiously. When Norwood spoke, his voice was husky, tense. It was the suppressed roar of the lion about to leap.

“You hold them,” he began. “You, like your father before you, have tried to ruin my plans. You have made me the laughing-stock of the Street. You have seen men who used to pale when they spoke to me sneer at the ‘old man who was losing his grip.’ You have seen my business honor at stake. You have done all this, and yet you have had the—the audacity to hope for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“I was under no obligation whatever to you,” said Stanton easily. “I was satisfied to hold my shares. The Westinghouse people were friends of my father’s, and are friends of mine. I had no object in throwing the shares into your hands to ruin the Westinghouse interests, as I knew you had planned. And besides, I was never asked by you or by any of your agents if I held the shares, or if I would sell them.”

“Would you sell them?” asked Norwood.

“No,” said Stanton.

“At ten thousand a share?”

“No,” said Stanton.

“At twenty thousand?”

“No, not at fifty thousand.”

“I’ll ruin you for this; ruin you!” thundered Norwood.

“You can’t do that,” said Stanton quietly. “Every cent I have, beyond these shares, is either in real estate, cash, or in United States gold bonds. However, I was going to say, that if the thirty shares I hold will be of any service to you, I am perfectly willing to allow you to vote them.”

Norwood sank down into a chair with his head in his hands. He sat thus for a long time, and Mazie’s soft hand strayed over the iron-gray hair lovingly. She did not understand. She merely knew that the two men whom she loved above all the world had reached a crisis in their relations. Finally Norwood arose.

“I rather guess I’m taking this thing too seriously,” he said, and the strain in his voice had gone. “It seems I am being placed under more obligations to you every moment. I can only thank you again, and—apologize for some things I have said about you—things you did not know of.”

“There is one thing I should like to ask,” said Stanton, “and that is, when you vote my shares, and they will give you control of K. L. & M., that you buy in the Westinghouse interests at the market price, and, if you think the shares a good investment, hold them for me until—until—for two years. I hope to make a settlement of that amount on my wife.”

“I will protect Westinghouse,” said Norwood. “But the K. L. & M. isn’t worth a darn as an investment. I’ll recommend something along that line later. Fact is, I’m going to wipe K. L. & M. off the earth.” For the second time he shook Stanton’s hand. “But understand, this makes no difference about my daughter. You are prepared to keep your promise to let her alone for two years?”

“I am,” said Stanton. “Good day.”

He turned, and the door closed behind him. Mazie stood looking after him a moment, perplexed, sorrowful, then she ran to her father.

“Father,” she said, “what is it? What’s the matter?”

“I was just thinking, little girl,” said Norwood, as his arm slipped about her, and the quizzical smile she loved came to his lips; “I was just thinking that that young fellow would make a blamed good business partner for me.”

“Oh, papa!” said Mazie.

“And that it might be a good idea to have him up to dinner to-night.”

“Oh, papa!”

“And that it doesn’t take so long to get a trousseau if one is willing to pay enough.”

“Oh!” Mazie was beyond speech. She was weeping.

 

And the irresistible force swept onward.