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... , you're
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 the cheapest plane ticket to orlando 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 I'll 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 the cheapest plane ticket to orlando and arithmetic," he observed. "I want to get
out and get to work, though. That's what I want to do."
"You're pretty young, my son," observed his uncle. "You're only how
old now? Fourteen?"
"Thirteen."
"Well, you can't leave school much before sixteen. You'll do
better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It can't do you
any harm. You won't be a boy again."
"I don't want to be a boy. I want to get to work."
"Don't go too fast, son. You'll 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 you've
behaved yourself and you still want to, I'll help you get a start
in business. If I were you and were going to be a banker, I'd
first spend a year or so in some good grain and commission house.
There's good training to be had there. You'll learn a lot that
you ought to know.
And, meantime, keep your health and the cheapest plane ticket to orlando learn all
you can. Wherever I am, you let me know, and I'll write and find
out how you've been conducting yourself."
He gave the boy a ten-dollar gold piece 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
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!" the cheapest plane ticket to orlando 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 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 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, ... |
