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“But it’s work. Charity work. Committee work. And going out in society. Not one of us can say his time is his own.”

“Hear, hear,” said someone.

“And of course we’re increasing the population, most of us,” said Harry Downs. “You’re not, though, are you, Locky?”

“I hope not,” said Abraham Lockwood. “And I don’t do much in the charitable line. My father contributes to this and that, but I prefer to put my money to work. Later, when I’ve made a little pile, I’ll pick my own charities.”

Everything he said was calculated to make them think, to make them think and remember him and want to do business with him, and to recall that he was so far from using his old friendships that he was bypassing Philadelphia for New York. Any earlier suspicion they might have had that he was a climber was now being allayed. Before the evening was over Harry Downs and Morris Homestead separately invited him to lunch before returning to Swedish Haven. He declined both invitations because, he said, he was taking an early train to New York.

As he had anticipated, he received letters from Homestead and Downs. He arranged to meet Downs at the Gibbsville Club on Harry’s next visit to the region. He dismissed Homestead with a friendly but vague reply; Homestead was not his man. Morris Homestead would never need money himself and would not be eager to make it for anyone else. He was interested in fox-hunting, food and wine, club life and his family. He had not even been a particularly good whist player, and his membership in The Ruffes was due to the fact that he could not be left out of any good club in Philadelphia. He was a quiet, clean-cut, well-bred, courtly bore, already worth eight million dollars and with as much again to come his way when his mother died. There was not even much use to cultivate him for the future, when Abraham Lockwood might seriously cock an eye at the Philadelphia Club. Morris Homestead would never support the candidacy of anyone who was not automatically qualified, as Abraham Lockwood had reason to know from experience in The Ruffes’ deliberations.

Harry Downs was another story. He was extravagantly proud of the Penn in his name, but his family during the post-Revolutionary years had never had a considerable fortune. He played cards to win, so much so that in college days he was the most intense and abstemious player, drinking almost nothing, and impersonally critical of his partners’ play. For three years he had been the most consistent winner, if not the most congenial member of The Ruffes. His money-making was postponed by the War, during which he was brevetted major and wounded by mortar fire at Gettysburg. After the War he became frenetically dedicated to the making of money, and he was Abraham Lockwood’s man.

They dined together at the Gibbsville Club. “Locky, you hurt Morris Homestead’s feelings,” said Harry Downs.

“Why?” said Abraham Lockwood. He was a little surprised that Harry Downs would know of Homestead’s overtures. “Or should I say, how?”

“It’s a great privilege to be asked to become a client of Homestead & Company.”

“I wasn’t. I was asked for lunch, and I couldn’t go.”

“Well, it’s a great privilege to be asked to lunch by Morris Homestead. Some people would cancel a trip to New York.”

“Morris is a nice fellow, but as you said that night, these are the years that count. Why did Morris ask me to lunch?”

“Possibly because he thought I was going to. He doesn’t go after new business, but he feels that Homestead & Company have every bit as much right to you as we have.”

“As you have? Are you after new business, Harry?”

“Yes, Locky. Yours.”

“Where did you get the idea that our business would be worth going after?”

“From you, first, and then I’ve been hearing reports right here in this club. Our friends here tell us that you and your father have a miniature empire in Swedish Haven.”

“It’s miniature, I assure you.”

“I wonder. I’m told that both you and your father have turned down directorships in the Gibbsville Trust Company. Very wise.”

“That was my father’s decision. We’d have nothing to gain. We don’t want Gibbsville men encroaching on our territory, so to speak. But we couldn’t keep them out if we were fellow directors. You know how those things are. For the same reason we haven’t had anything to do with Philadelphia. Philadelphia money is all over this county— except Swedish Haven. We would like to keep that for ourselves, and we’re going to, if we can.”

“You won’t be able to forever. I say that in a friendly spirit.”

“You say it as a friend, but I detect a warning note.”

“Yes, Locky, there’s a faint warning note.”

“From Philadelphia? All the way from Philadelphia?”

“No. From Gibbsville, only four or five miles. There are some Gibbsville men who don’t see why you should have it all.”

“How much are you going to confide in me, Harry?”

“I’ve already told you as much as I should as a friend.”

“Yes, and I thank you. But from now on, it’s business?”

“Yes,” said Harry Downs. “Your New York people won’t help you, at least as much as we could.”

“Oh, you’re implying that we need help?”

“Not yet, but if you did need help, would New York come to your rescue?”

“No. We haven’t given them that much business, and I have to tell you now, Harry. My father isn’t in the New York transactions at all. It’s all me, my own money.”

“I could almost guess that, from what I’ve heard of your father.”

“So we can leave him out of this discussion.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather. Now I’m dealing with the principal himself. All right. Why don’t you just forget about New York and let me try to make some money for you?”

“You surely don’t expect me to say yes or no right away? As you said, Harry, a while back this became business, not two friends.”

“Said it and meant it, and we’ll be friends whatever the outcome of this conversation.”

“Always, I hope. Now you’ve asked me to do business with you, a compliment, because you don’t know what kind of business I’d bring you. It won’t be large, at least at first, and never large by Philadelphia standards. But the character of the business. You don’t know anything about that, so I’ll tell you. I am interested in one thing—making money. Two things—making money and making it quickly. Therefore, the character of my business would be, simply, speculation. Does that interest you?”

“Very much. We can always find customers for conservative investments. That’s the bread-and-butter business. Trust funds. Large estates. Elderly people. People that are satisfied with small returns on their money. But as you know, the big, quick money is made in speculation. And lost. Your father has made his money one way, you want to make yours the other. I lead a double life, Locky. I’m a conservative, three-percent man when I come to Gibbsville. But part of the tune I’m a gambler.”

“How have you done, as a gambler?”

“So far, I’m ahead of the game.”

“Why?”

“Why? Oh, I see. You want to know if it’s on my own hook or through private information. Frankly, it’s mostly on my own. I watch a stock until I know its fluctuations. At a certain low, I buy it. At a certain high, I sell. And I do it on margin. I couldn’t afford to do it otherwise. Everybody does what I do. Nothing unusual about it except that I may be a little more attentive than most fellows.”

“I’m sure you are. Well, is it your idea that I turn over a certain amount of money for you to speculate with?”

“Yes.”

“To you, and not to the firm of Haynes & Webster?”