The Tipster | Page 2

the profits would be great. He would make enough to live on. He would
not let the Street take away what it had given. That was the great secret:
to know when to quit! He would be content with a moderate amount,
wisely invested in gilt-edged bonds. And then he would bid the Street
good-by forever.
Force of long business custom and the indefinable fear of new ventures
for a time fought successfully his increasing ticker-fever. But one day
his brokers wished to speak to him, to urge him to sell out his entire
holdings, having been advised of an epoch-making resolution by
Congress. They had received the news in advance from a Washington
customer. Other brokers had important connections in the Capital and
therefore there was no time to lose. They dared not assume the
responsibilty of selling him out without his permission. Five
minutes--five eternities!--passed before they could talk by telephone
with him; and when he gave his order to sell, the market had broken
five or six points. The news was "out." The news agencies' slips were in
the brokers' offices and half of Wall Street knew. Instead of being
among the first ten sellers Gilmartin was among the second hundred.

II
The clerks gave him a farewell dinner. All were there, even the head
office-boy to whom the two-dollar subscription was no light matter.
The man who probably would succeed Gilmartin as manager, Jenkins,
acted as toastmaster. He made a witty speech which ended with a neatly
turned compliment. Moreover, he seemed sincerely sorry to bid
good-by to the man whose departure meant promotion--which was the
nicest compliment of all. And the other clerks--old Williamson, long
since ambition-proof; and young Hardy, bitten ceaselessly by it; and
middle-aged Jameson, who knew he could run the business much better
than Gilmartin; and Baldwin, who never thought of business in or out
of the office--all told him how good he had been and related
corroborative anecdotes that made him blush and the others cheer; and
how sorry they were he would no longer be with them, but how glad he

was going to do so much better by himself; and they hoped he would
not "cut" them when he met them after he had become a great
millionaire. And Gilmartin felt his heart grow soft and feelings not all
of happiness came over him. Danny, the dean of the office boys, whose
surname was known only to the cashier, rose and said, in the tones of
one speaking of a dear departed friend: "He was the best man in the
place. He always was all right." Everybody laughed; whereupon Danny
went on, with a defiant glare at the others: "I'd work for him for nothin'
if he'd want me, instead of gettin' ten a week from any one else." And
when they laughed the harder at this he said, stoutly: "Yes, I would!"
His eyes filled with tears at their incredulity, which he feared might be
shared by Mr. Gilmartin. But the toastmaster rose very gravely and said:
"What's the matter with Danny?" And all shouted in unison: "He's all
right!" with a cordiality so heartfelt that Danny smiled and sat down,
blushing happily. And crusty Jameson, who knew he could run the
business so much better than Gilmartin, stood up--he was the last
speaker--and began: "In the ten years I've worked with Gilmartin, we've
had our differences and--well--I--well--er--oh, damn it!" and walked
quickly to the head of the table and shook hands violently with
Gilmartin for fully a minute, while all the others looked on in silence.
Gilmartin had been eager to go to Wall Street. But this leave-taking
made him sad. The old Gilmartin who had worked with these men was
no more and the new Gilmartin felt sorry. He had never stopped to
think how much they cared for him nor indeed how very much he cared
for them.
He told them, very simply, he did not expect ever again to spend such
pleasant years anywhere as at the old office; and as for his spells of
ill-temper--oh, yes, they needn't shake their heads; he knew he often
was irritable--he had meant well and trusted they would forgive him. If
he had his life to live over again he would try really to deserve all that
they had said of him on this evening. And he was very, very sorry to
leave them. "Very sorry, boys; very sorry. Very sorry!" he finished
lamely, with a wistful smile. He shook hands with each man--a strong
grip, as though he were about to go on a journey from which he might
never return--and in his heart of hearts there was a new doubt of the

wisdom of going to Wall Street. But it was too late to draw back.