POSIBNIK_1_KURS

"Just this: these savings banks were mutual. They had no stockholders. They were owned by their depositors. They made money only for their depositors. Nobody skimmed a profit off the top. All the earnings went right • back to the wage earners who deposited their pennies in the savings bank."

"Sounds downright socialistic."

"It is," Palmer told her. "But, you see, Karl Marx was only eight years old when that Scottish minister had his brainstorm."

"Oops."

"In any event, our brand of savings bankers were pretty true-blue. They usually invested their funds in government bonds. Highly patriotic. Highly stable, too. Almost none of their banks ever failed, which is more than you can say for... well, anyway, time passed."

"A century of it."

"A century and more," Palmer said. "Things happened to the wage earner. He became unionized. He got Social Security, old-age benefits, health insurance, life insurance, welfare funds, pensions, everything. The commercial banks stopped turning up their noses at him. They welcomed his savings. He was banking's darling now, secure whether he worked or not, whether he was healthy or sick and with his family provided for when he died." |

"Which has what to do with savings banks?"

"Exactly. It has nothing to do with them. They've outlived their usefulness. Nobody needs them any more."

"Oh," she said, "that's a shame. Really?"

"Seriously. What do they provide that isn't available to the wage earner from five other sources?"

"But it's sad," she objected. "All those ministers".

"I'd never have told you if I'd thought you'd crack up."

"I'll get over it in a moment," she said. "See? I'm over it already. Tell me, has anyone mentioned this to the savings banks? They're cruising right along as though they still served a purpose."

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One corner of Palmer's mouth turned up in a wry expression. "That's the whole problem."

"No one's told them, huh?"

"Here is what's happened," Palmer said. "Those ministers planted a seed that grew into a tree. Nobody needs the tree, but it keeps right on growing. Savings banks give jobs to tens of thousands of employees, from the presidents on down to the clerks. True, there aren't any stockholders. But the employee corps has a stake in making sure the savings banking system keeps flourishing."

"Why not let them? I mean, people like to save at savings banks."

"I'll tell you why," Palmer said. "That tree, the one that kept growing? It has deep roots. They've spread out and they keep spreading. And they're stealing the nourishment from the ground on which we're planted. Does that make it clear to you?"

"All of sudden, yes." She sat back and stubbed out her cigarette. Then, looking up at him in a wary way, her eyes half hidden behind her long black lashes, she asked, "What are you going to do about the tree?"

Palmer looked at the table. "Prune it... drastically."

SUCCESS STORY

by James Gould Cozzens

I met Richards ten years or more ago when I first went down to Cuba. He was a short, sharp-faced, agreeable chap, then about twenty-two. He introduced himself to me on the boat and I was surprised to find that Panamerica Steel and Structure was sending us both to the same job.

Richards was from some not very good state university engineering school. Being the same age myself, and just out of tech, I was prepared to patronize him if I needed to; but I soon saw I didn't need to. There was really not the faintest possibility of anyone supposing that Richards was as smart as I was. In fact, I

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couldn't then imagine how he had managed to get his job. I have an idea now. It came to me when I happened to read a few weeks ago that Richards had been made a vice-president and director of Panamerica Steel when the Prossert interests bought the old firm.

Richards was naturally likeable and I liked him a lot, once I was sure that he wasn't going to outshine me. The firm had a contract for the construction of a private railroad, about seventeen miles of it, to give United Sugar a sea terminal at a small deep-water Caribbean port. For Richards and me it was mostly an easy job of inspections and routine paper work. At least it was easy for me. It was harder for Richards, because he didn't appear ever to have mastered the use of a slide rule. When he asked me to check his figures I found it was no mere formality. "Boy," I was at last obliged to say, "you are undoubtedly the dumbest white man in this province. If you don't buck up, Farrell will see you never get another job down here."

Richards grinned and said, "I never want another one. Not a job like this, anyway. I'm the executive type."'

"Oh, you are!"

"Sure, I am. And what do I care what Farrell thinks? What can he do for me?" "Plenty. If he thinks you're any good, he can see you get something that pays money".

"He doesn't know anything that pays money, my son."

"He knows things that would pay enough for me," I answered, annoyed.

"Oh," said Richards, "if that's all you want, when Farrell’sworking for me I'll make him give you a job. A good one."

"Go to the devil!" I said. I was still checking his trial figures. "Look, stupid," I said, "didn't you ever take arithmetic? How much are seven times thirteen?" "Work that out." " Richards said, "and let me have a report tomorrow."

When I had time, I continued to check his figures for him, and Farrell only caught him in a bad mistake about twice; but Farrell was the best man Panamerica Steel had. He'd been managing construction jobs both in Cuba and Mexico for twenty

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years. After the first month or so he simply let Richards alone and devoted himself lo giving me the whole benefit of his usually sharp and scornful criticism. He was at me every minute he could spare, telling me to forget this or that and use my head, showing me little tricks of figuring and method. He said it would be a good plan to take some Spanish lessons from a clerk he named in the sugar company's office.

"Spanish?" said Richards, when I told him he'd better join the class. "Not for me! Say, it took me twenty-two years to learn English. People who want to talk to me have to know it, or they'd better bring an interpreter with them."

"All right," I said, "I don't mind telling you the idea is Farrell's. He spoke to me about it."

"Well, he didn't speak to me," said Richards. "I guess he thinks I'm perfect the way I am. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a beer bottle."

I could easily see that he was coming to no good end.

In January several directors of the United Sugar Company came down on their annual jaunt—nominally business, but mostly pleasure; a good excuse to get south on a vacation. They came on a yacht.

The yacht belonged to Mr. Joseph Prossert, who was, I think, chairman of United Sugar's board then. It was the first time I'd ever seen at close quarters one of these really rich and powerful financial figures whose name everyone knows. He was an inconspicuous, rather stout man, with little hair on his head and a fussy, ponderous way of speaking. He was dressed in some dark thin cloth that looked like alpaca.14

His interest in sugar was purely financial—he didn't know anything about it from the practical standpoint. I really saw him at close quarters, too, for he was delayed on his boat when the directors went on a tour of inspection and Farrell left Richards and me and two or three armed guards to come up that afternoon.

Mr. Prossert was very affable. He asked me a number of questions. I knew the job well enough and could have answered almost any intelligent question—I mean, the sort that a trained engineer would be likely to ask. As it was, I suppose I'd said for perhaps the third time, "I'm afraid I wouldn't know, sir. We haven't any calcu-

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lations on that," getting a glance of mildly surprised disbelief, when Richards suddenly spoke up. "I think, about nine million cubic feet, sir," he said. He looked boyishly embarrassed. "I just happened to be working it out last night. Just for my own interest, that is. Not officially." He blushed.

"Oh," said Mr. Prossert, turning in his seat and giving him a sharp look. "That's very interesting, Mr.—er—Richards, isn't it? Well, now, maybe you could tell me about—"

Richards could. He knew everything. He knew to the last car the capacity of every switch and yard; he knew the load limits of every bridge and culvert; he knew the average rainfall for the last twenty years; he knew the population of the various straggling villages we passed through; he knew the heights of the distant blue peaks to the west. He had made himself familiar with local labor costs and wage scales. He had the statistics on accidents and unavoidable delays. All the way up Mr. Prossert fired questions at him and he fired answers right back.

When we reached the railhead, a motor was waiting to take Mr. Prossert on. Getting out of the gas car, he nodded absent-mindedly to me, shook hands with Richards. "Very interesting indeed," he said. "Very interesting indeed, Mr. Richards. Good-by and thank you."

"Not at all, sir," Richards said. "Glad if I could be of service to you."

As soon as the motor moved off, I exploded. "Of all the asinine tricks! A little honest bluff doesn't hurt; but some of your figures—"

"I aim to please," Richards said, grinning. "If a man like Prossert wants to know something, who am I to hold out on him?"

"I suppose you think you're smart," I told him. "What's he going to think when he looks up the figures or asks somebody who does know?"

"Listen, my son," said Richards kindly. "He wasn't asking for any information he was going to use. He doesn't want to know those figures. If he ever does, he has plenty of people to get him the right ones. He won't remember these. I don't even remember them myself. What he is going to remember is you and me."

"Oh, yes?"

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"Oh, yes," said Richards firmly. "He's going to remember that Panamerica Steel and Structure has a bright young man named Richards who could tell him everything he wanted to know when he wanted to know it—just the sort of chap he can use; not like that other fellow who took no interest in his job, couldn't answer the simplest question, and who's going to be doing small-time contracting all his life."

"Oh, yes?" I said. But it is true that I am still working for the Company still doing a little work in the construction line.

The Financier, by Theodore Dreiser

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 auctioneer’s flag hanging out before a wholesale grocery and from the interior came the auctioneer’s voice: “What am I bid 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.

“I’m bid seventy-five! I’m 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 seventyfive. Make a note of that, Jerry,” he called to his red-haired, freckle-faced clerk

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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 boy’s expression.

“I am going to offer you now a fine lot of Castile soap — 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.

“Twenty-six.” “Twenty-seven.” “Twenty-eight.” “Twenty-nine.” There was a pause. “Thirty,” observed young Cowperwood, decisively.

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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 boy’s 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.

“I’m bid thirty! I’m bid thirty! I’m bid thirty for this fine lot of Castile soap. It’s a fine lot. It’s 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.

“I’m bid thirty-two! I’m bid thirty-two! I’m bid thirty-two! Will anybody bid thirty-three? It’s fine soap. Seven cases of fine Castile soap. Will anybody bid thirty-three?”

Young Cowperwood’s mind was working. He had no money with him; but his father was teller of the Third National Bank, and he could quote him as reference. He could sell all of his soap to the family grocer, surely; or, if not, to other grocers. Other people were anxious to get this soap at this price. Why not he?

The auctioneer paused.

“Thirty-two once! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two twice! Am I bid thirtythree? Thirty-two three times! Seven fine cases of soap. Am I bid anything more?” Once, twice! Three times! Am I bid anything more?”— his hand was up again —

“and sold to Mr.—?” He leaned over and looked curiously into the face of his young bidder.

“Frank Cowperwood, son of the teller of the Third National Bank,” replied the boy, decisively.

“Oh, yes,” said the man, fixed by his glance.

“Will you wait while I run up to the bank and get the money?”

“Yes. Don’t be gone long. If you’re not here in an hour I’ll sell it again.”

Young Cowperwood made no reply. He hurried out and ran fast; first, to his mother’s grocer, whose store was within a block of his home.

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Thirty feet from the door he slowed up, put on a nonchalant air, and strolling in, looked about for Castile soap. There it was, the same kind, displayed in a box and looking just as his soap looked.

“How much is this a bar, Mr. Dalrymple?” he inquired. “Sixteen cents,” replied that worthy.

“If I could sell you seven boxes for sixty-two dollars just like this, would you take them?”

“The same soap?” “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Dalrymple calculated a moment.

“Yes, I think I would,” he replied, cautiously. “Would you pay me to-day?”

“I’d give you my note for it. Where is the soap?”

He was perplexed and somewhat astonished by this unexpected proposition on the part of his neighbor’s son. He knew Mr. Cowperwood well — and Frank also.

“Will you take it if I bring it to you to-day?”

“Yes, I will,” he replied. “Are you going into the soap business?” “No. But I know where I can get some of that soap cheap.”

He hurried out again and ran to his father’s bank. It was after banking hours; but he knew how to get in, and he knew that his father would be glad to see him make thirty dollars. He only wanted to borrow the money for a day.

“What’s the trouble, Frank?” asked his father, looking up from his desk when he appeared, breathless and red faced.

“I want you to loan me thirty-two dollars! Will you?” “Why, yes, I might. What do you want to do with it?”

“I want to buy some soap — seven boxes of Castile soap. I know where I can get it and sell it. Mr. Dalrymple will take it. He’s already offered me sixty-two for it. I can get it for thirty-two. Will you let me have the money? I’ve got to run back and pay the auctioneer.”

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His father smiled. This was the most business-like attitude he had seen his son manifest. He was so keen, so alert for a boy of thirteen.

“Why, Frank,” he said, going over to a drawer where some bills were, “are you going to become a financier already? You’re sure you’re not going to lose on this? You know what you’re doing, do you?”

“You let me have the money, father, will you?” he pleaded. “I’ll show you in a little bit. Just let me have it. You can trust me.”

He was like a young hound on the scent of game. His father could not resist his appeal.

“Why, certainly, Frank,” he replied. “I’ll trust you.” And he counted out six five-dollar certificates of the Third National’s own issue and two ones. “There you are.”

Frank ran out of the building with a briefly spoken thanks and returned to the auction room as fast as his legs would carry him. When he came in, sugar was being auctioned. He made his way to the auctioneer’s clerk.

“I want to pay for that soap,” he suggested. “Now?”

“Yes. Will you give me a receipt?” “Yep.”

“Do you deliver this?”

“No. No delivery. You have to take it away in twenty-four hours.”

That difficulty did not trouble him.

“All right,” he said, and pocketed his paper testimony of purchase.

The auctioneer watched him as he went out. In half an hour he was back with a drayman — an idle levee-wharf hanger-on who was waiting for a job.

Frank had bargained with him to deliver the soap for sixty cents. In still another half-hour he was before the door of the astonished Mr. Dalrymple whom he had come out and look at the boxes before attempting to remove them. His plan was to have them carried on to his own home if the operation for any reason failed to go through. Though it was his first great venture, he was cool as glass.

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