There have been all manner of big stock operators and “leaders” in Wall Street—gentlemanly, well-educated leaders with a gift of epigram and foul-spoken leaders who knew as little of grammar as of manners; leaders to whom the stock market was only the Monte Carlo of the Tape and leaders to whom it was a means to an end; cool, calculating, steel-nerved leaders and fidgety, impulsive, excitable leaders; leaders who were church pillars and total abstainers and leaders whose only God was the ticker and whose most brilliant operations were carried on during the course of a drunken debauch. But never before, in the breathless history of Wall Street, had there been a leader whose following was numbered by the thousands and included not only the “shoe-string” speculators but the very richest of the rich! Never before a leader whose word took the place of statistical information, whose mere “I am buying it” created more purchasers for a stock than all the glowing prospectuses and all the accountants’ affidavits and all the bankers’ estimates.

At first Wall Street said the public was suffering 116from an epidemic of speculative insanity; that Colonel Treadwell was merely a bold operator “backed” by a clique of the greatest fortunes in America; that he was not a skilful “manipulator” of values, but by sheer brute force of tremendous buying he made those stocks advance with which he was identified and that, of course, the public always follows the stocks that are made active; and many other explanations. But in the end Wall Street came to realize exactly to what it was that the blind devotion of the speculative public for the colonel was due. Defying all traditions, upsetting all precedents, violating all rules, driving all the “veterans” to the verge of hysterics and bankruptcy by his daily defiance of accepted views as to the art of operating in stocks, Colonel Josiah T. Treadwell founded a new school: He told the truth.

The colonel sat in his office alone with his thoughts. The door was open—it was always open—and the clerks and customers of Treadwell & Co. as they passed to and fro caught glimpses of the great leader’s broad, kindly face and shrewd, little, twinkling eyes that seemed to smile at them. They wondered what new “deal” the colonel was planning. And then they wished with all their souls and purses they knew the name 117of the stock—merely the name of it—so that they might “get in on the ground floor.”

The famous operator sat on a revolving chair by his desk. He had turned his back on an accumulation of correspondence and he now rotated from right to left and from left to right. The tips of his shoes—he was a short man—missed the floor by an inch or two and he swung his feet contentedly. A ticker whirred away blithely and from time to time Treadwell ceased his rocking and his foot-swinging, and glanced jovially at the ticker “tape.” From his window he could see a Mississippi of people or a bit of New York summer sky, but his restless eyes were roaming and skipping from place to place. And the clerks and the customers wondered whether the market was going the way the colonel had planned. The ticker was whirring and clicking, impassively, and the colonel wore a meditative look. What was the “old man” scheming? The bears had better be on their guard! As a matter of fact, Josiah T. Treadwell was thinking that his brother Wilson, who had left him a few minutes before, was certainly growing bald. He also wondered whether people who advertised “restorers” and “invigorators” were veracious or merely “Wall Streety” as he put it to himself.

118A young man, an utter stranger to Colonel Treadwell, halted at the door, and looked at the leader of the stock market, hesitatingly.

“Come in, come in,” called out the colonel, cheerily. “Won’t you walk into my parlor?”

“Good-morning, Colonel Treadwell,” said the lad, diffidently.

“Who are you, and what are you, and what can I do for you?” said the colonel, extending his hand.

The youth did not heed the chubby, outstretched hand. “My name,” he said, very formally and introductorily, “is Carey. My father used to know you when he was editor of the Blankburg Herald.”

“Well,” said the colonel, encouragingly, “shake hands anyhow.”

Carey shook hands; his diffidence vanished. He was a pleasant-faced, pleasant-voiced young fellow, Treadwell thought. He was a good-hearted, jocular old fellow, unlike what he had imagined the leader of the stock market would be, Carey thought.

“Yes,” went on the colonel, “I remember your father very well. I never forget my up-the-State friends, and I am always glad to see their sons. When I ran for Congress, Bill Carey wrote 119red-hot editorials in my favor, and I was beaten by a large and enthusiastic majority. I haven’t seen your father in twenty-odd years—not since he went wrong and took to politics.”

“Well, Colonel Treadwell,” laughed Carey, “I guess Dad did his best for you. And if you didn’t go to Congress you’re better off, from all I have read in the papers about you.”

You would have thought they had known each other for years.

“That’s what I say; I have to,” chuckling.

“Colonel,” said the young man, boldly, “I’ve come to ask your advice.”

“Most people don’t ask it twice. Be careful now.”

“Do you mean that they get so rich following it that they don’t have to come again?”

“You are a politician, young man. You’ll wake up and find yourself in Congress, some fine day, unless your father goes back to newspaper work and writes some editorials in your favor.”

The boy had a pleasant smile, the colonel thought.

“I have saved up some money, Colonel.”

“Keep it. That’s the best advice I can give you. Go away instantly. Great Scott, youngster, you are in Wall Street now.”

120“Oh, I—I’m safe enough in this office, I guess,” retorted Carey.

The famous leader of the stock market looked at him solemnly. The boy returned the look, imperturbably. Then Colonel Treadwell laughed, and Carey laughed back at him.

“What are you doing to keep out of State’s prison?” asked Treadwell.

“I’m a clerk in the office of the Federal Pump Company, third floor, upstairs. I have saved some money and I want to know what to do with it. I read an article in the Sun the other day. It said you had advised people to put their savings into Suburban Trolley and how well they had fared.”

“That was a year ago. Trolley has gone up 50 points since then.”

“That shows how good the advice was. And you also said a young man should do something with his savings and not let them lie idle.” The young man looked straight into the little, twinkling, kindly eyes of the leader of the stock market.

“How much money have you?”

“I have two hundred and ten dollars,” replied the lad with an uncertain smile. He had felt proud of the magnitude of his savings in his own 121room; in this office he felt a bit ashamed of their insignificance.

“Dear me,” said the millionaire speculator, very seriously, “that is a good deal of money. It’s a blame sight more’n I had, when I started in business. Got it with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll introduce you to my brother Wilson, who has charge of our customers. Come in, John.”

“John” came in. His other name was Mellen. He was a slim, quiet-looking man of about five-and-fifty. His enemies said that he had made $1,000,000 for every year he had lived and had kept it.

“Sit down, John,” said Colonel Treadwell, shaking hands with Mr. Mellen, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

At the door he shook hands with two more visitors—a tall, r............