United States or Lebanon ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Altho Geoffrey Windlebird described himself as a Napoleon of Finance, a Cinquevalli or Chung Ling Soo of Finance would have been a more accurate title. As a juggler with other people's money he was at the head of his class. And yet, when one came to examine it, his method was delightfully simple.
Seated with his wife at breakfast on the veranda which overlooked the rolling lawns and leafy woods of his charming Sussex home, Geoffrey Windlebird, the great financier, was enjoying the morning sun to the full.
"Why, if I've made a couple of hundred thousand, what must Mr. Windlebird have netted. It says here that he is the largest holder. He must have pulled off the biggest thing of his life." He thought for a moment. "The chap I'm sorry for," he said meditatively, "is Mr. Windlebird's pal. You know. The fellow whom Mr. Windlebird persuaded to sell all his shares to me."
They say they will publish it in their next number but one. What are you going to do about it?" Mr. Windlebird yawned. "Not to put too fine a point on it, dearest, the game is up. The Napoleon of Finance is about to meet his Waterloo. And all for twenty thousand pounds. That is the really bitter part of it. To-morrow we sail for the Argentine. I've got the tickets." "You're joking, Geoffrey.
We've been flying about all night that French ass lost his bearings and my suit is thin. Can you direct me to a hotel?" "Hotel? Nonsense." Mr. Windlebird spoke in the bluff, breezy voice which at many a stricken board-meeting had calmed frantic shareholders as if by magic. "You're coming right into my house and up to bed this instant."
It was not long before he had told them the history of his career, skipping the earlier years and beginning with the entry of wealth into his life. "It makes you feel funny," he confided to Mr. Windlebird's sympathetic ear, "suddenly coming into a pot of money like that. You don't seem hardly able to realize it. I don't know what to do with it." Mr. Windlebird smiled paternally.
It gave a brief account of some large deal which Mr. Windlebird was negotiating. Roland did not understand a word of it, but it gave him an idea. Mr. Windlebird's financial standing, he knew, was above suspicion. Mr. Windlebird had made that clear to him during his visit. There could be no possibility of offending Mr. Windlebird by a paragraph or two about the manners and customs of financiers.
There were moments when it seemed to Mr. Windlebird that he had solved the problem of Perpetual Promotion. The only thing that can stop a triumphal progress like Mr. Windlebird's is when some coarse person refuses to play to the rules, and demands ready money instead of shares in the next venture. This had happened now, and it had flattened Mr. Windlebird like an avalanche.
He filled his glass. "This " he paused to sip "this pal of mine has a large holding of Wildcats. He wants to realize in order to put the money into something else, in which he is more personally interested." Mr. Windlebird paused. His mind dwelt for a moment on his overdrawn current account at the bank. "In which he is more personally interested," he repeated dreamily.
"As much as that! Oh, Mr. Bleke!" She began to cry softly. She pressed his hand. Roland gaped at her. "Mr. Bleke, there has been a terrible slump in Wildcat Reefs. To-day, they may be absolutely worthless." Roland felt as if a cold hand had been laid on his spine. "Wor-worthless!" he stammered. Mrs. Windlebird looked at him with moist eyes. "You can imagine how my husband feels about this.
Word Of The Day