The Financier | Page 5

It was not always
completely successful, however. Small portions of its body or its tail were frequently left
in the claws of the monster below. Fascinated by the drama, young Cowperwood came
daily to watch.
One morning he stood in front of the tank, his nose almost pressed to the glass. Only a
portion of the squid remained, and his ink-bag was emptier than ever. In the corner of the
tank sat the lobster, poised apparently for action.
The boy stayed as long as he could, the bitter struggle fascinating him. Now, maybe, or in
an hour or a day, the squid might die, slain by the lobster, and the lobster would eat him.
He looked again at the greenish-copperish engine of destruction in the corner and
wondered when this would be. To-night, maybe. He would come back to-night.
He returned that night, and lo! the expected had happened. There was a little crowd
around the tank. The lobster was in the corner. Before him was the squid cut in two and
partially devoured.
"He got him at last," observed one bystander. "I was standing right here an hour ago, and
up he leaped and grabbed him. The squid was too tired. He wasn't quick enough. He did
back up, but that lobster he calculated on his doing that. He's been figuring on his
movements for a long time now. He got him to-day."
Frank only stared. Too bad he had missed this. The least touch of sorrow for the squid
came to him as he stared at it slain. Then he gazed at the victor.
"That's the way it has to be, I guess," he commented to himself. "That squid wasn't quick
enough." He figured it out.
"The squid couldn't kill the lobster--he had no weapon. The lobster could kill the
squid--he was heavily armed. There was nothing for the squid to feed on; the lobster had
the squid as prey. What was the result to be? What else could it be? He didn't have a
chance," he concluded finally, as he trotted on homeward.
The incident made a great impression on him. It answered in a rough way that riddle
which had been annoying him so much in the past: "How is life organized?" Things lived
on each other--that was it. Lobsters lived on squids and other things. What lived on
lobsters? Men, of course! Sure, that was it! And what lived on men? he asked himself.
Was it other men? Wild animals lived on men. And there were Indians and cannibals.
And some men were killed by storms and accidents. He wasn't so sure about men living
on men; but men did kill each other. How about wars and street fights and mobs? He had
seen a mob once. It attacked the Public Ledger building as he was coming home from

school. His father had explained why. It was about the slaves. That was it! Sure, men
lived on men. Look at the slaves. They were men. That's what all this excitement was
about these days. Men killing other men-- negroes.
He went on home quite pleased with himself at his solution.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, as he entered the house, "he finally got him!"
"Got who? What got what?" she inquired in amazement. "Go wash your hands."
"Why, that lobster got that squid I was telling you and pa about the other day."
"Well, that's too bad. What makes you take any interest in such things? Run, wash your
hands."
"Well, you don't often see anything like that. I never did." He went out in the back yard,
where there was a hydrant and a post with a little table on it, and on that a shining tin-pan
and a bucket of water. Here he washed his face and hands.
"Say, papa," he said to his father, later, "you know that squid?"
"Yes."
"Well, he's dead. The lobster got him."
His father continued reading. "Well, that's too bad," he said, indifferently.
But for days and weeks Frank thought of this and of the life he was tossed into, for he
was already pondering on what he should be in this world, and how he should get along.
From seeing his father count money, he was sure that he would like banking; and Third
Street, where his father's office was, seemed to him the cleanest, most fascinating street
in the world.
Chapter II

The growth of young Frank Algernon Cowperwood was through years of what might be
called a comfortable and happy family existence. Buttonwood Street, where he spent the
first ten years of his life, was a lovely place for a boy to live. It contained mostly small
two and three-story red brick houses, with small white marble steps leading up to the
front door, and thin,