Friday, the Thirteenth: A Novel

[Illustration: “I saw there something missing from her great blue eyes.
I looked; gasped”]




Friday, the Thirteenth

A Novel by

Thomas W. Lawson

Frontispiece in colour by Sigismond de Ivanowski

1907




Copyright, 1906, 1907.
Copyright, 1907.
Published, February, 1907




To Her

I Dedicate This Book

All That Is Good In This Little Waif, Which Is Very
Dear To Me, I Know A Just God Will Place To
Her Credit. All That Is Mean And Low And
Human Could Never Have Been Birthed
Had She Been Nigh To Guide An
Ever Wayward Pen.

_The Author._

_The Nest, Dreamwold,
August, 1906._




Friday, the Thirteenth




Chapter I.



“Friday, the 13th; I thought as much. If Bob has started, there will be
hell, but I will see what I can do.”

The sound of my voice, as I dropped the receiver, seemed to part the mists
of five years and usher me into the world of Then as though it had never
passed on.

I had been sitting in my office, letting the tape slide through my fingers
while its every yard spelled “panic” in a constantly rising voice, when
they told me that Brownley on the floor of the Exchange wanted me at the
’phone, and “quick.” Brownley was our junior partner and floor man. He
talked with a rush. Stock Exchange floor men in panics never let their
speech hobble.

“Mr. Randolph, it’s sizzling over here, and it’s getting hotter every
second. It’s Bob—that is evident to all. If he keeps up this pace for
twenty minutes longer, the sulphur will overflow ‘the Street’ and get
into the banks and into the country, and no man can tell how much
territory will be burned over by to-morrow. The boys have begged me to ask
you to throw yourself into the breach and stay him. They agree you are the
only hope now.”

“Are you sure, Fred, that this is Bob’s work?” I asked. “Have you seen
him?”

“Yes, I have just come from his office, and glad I was to get out. He’s on
the war-path, Mr. Randolph—uglier than I ever saw him. The last time he
broke loose was child’s play to his mood to-day. Mother sent me word this
morning that she saw last night the spell was coming. He had been up to
see her and sisters, and mother thought from his tone he was about to
disappear again. When she told me of his mood, and I remembered the day, I
was afraid he might seek his vent here. Also I heard of his being about
town till long after midnight. The minute I opened his office door this
morning he flew at me like a panther. I told him I had only dropped in on
my rounds for an order, as they were running off right smart, and I didn’t
know but he might like to pick up some bargains. ‘Bargains!’ he roared,
‘don’t you know the day? Don’t you know it is Friday, the 13th? Go back
to that hell-pit and sell, sell, sell.’ ‘Sell what and how much?’ I asked.
‘Anything, everything. Give the thieves every share they will take, and
when they won’t take any more, ram as much again down their crops until
they spit up all they have been buying for the last three months!’ Going
out I met Jim Holliday and Frank Swan rushing in. They are evidently
executing Bob’s orders, and have been pouring Anti-People’s out for an
hour. They will be on the floor again in a few minutes, so I thought it
safer to call you before I started to sell. Mr. Randolph, they cannot take
much more of anything in here, and if I begin to throw stocks over, it
will bring the gavel inside of ten minutes; and that will be to announce a
dozen failures. It’s yet twenty minutes to one and God only knows what
will happen before three. It’s up to you, Mr. Randolph, to do something,
and unless I am on a bad slant, you haven’t many minutes to lose.”

It was then I dropped the receiver with “I thought as much!” As I had been
fingering the tape, watching five and ten millions crumbling from price
values every few minutes, I was sure this was the work of Bob Brownley.
No one else in Wall Street had the power, the nerve, and the devilish
cruelty to rip things as they had been ripped during the last twenty
minutes. The night before I had passed Bob in the theatre lobby. I gave
him close scrutiny and saw the look of which I of all men best knew the
meaning. The big brown eyes were set on space; the outer corners of the
handsome mouth were drawn hard and tense as though weighted. As I had my
wife with me it was impossible to follow him, but when I got home I called
up his house and his clubs, intending to ask, him to run up and smoke a
cigar with me, but could locate him nowhere. I tried again in the morning
without success, but when just before noon the tape began to jump and
flash and snarl, I remembered Bob’s ugly mood, and all it portended.

Fred Brownley was Bob’s youngest brother, twelve years his junior. He had
been with Randolph & Randolph from the day he left college, and for over a
year had been our most trusted Stock Exchange man. Bob Brownley, when
himself, was as fond of his “baby brother,” as he called him, as his
beautiful Southern mother was of both; but when the devil had possession
of Bob—and his option during the past five years had been exercised many
a time—mother and brother had to take their place with all the rest of
the world, for then Bob knew no kindred, no friends.