At first Wall Street thought that Silas Shaw’s “religiousness” was an affectation. What purpose the Old Man desired to serve by the calculated notoriety of his church affiliations no one could tell. It is true that many ingenious theories were advanced, some going so far as to hint at repentance. But deep in the hearts of his fellow-brokers, and of his friends and his victims alike, was the belief that old Shaw, in some not generally known way, made practical use of his ostentatious enthusiasm for things churchly as politicians resort to more or less obvious devices to “capture the German vote” or to “please the Irish element.”

One day, after a series of skirmishes and a final pitched battle in “South Shore” between the Old Man and the bears, when the pelts of the latter, after the capitulation, added nearly a half million to the old fellow’s bank account, certain luminaries of the Methodist Episcopal Church were called into consultation. Silas Shaw had long thought about it; and now there was much conferring and more or less arid and misplaced sermonizing by the theologians 212and much soothing talk by the Old Man’s lawyers; and more Methodist clergymen and more lawyers and more talk; and then a real estate agent and an architect and a leading banker and, at last, just one check from the Old Man.

The next day the newspapers announced that the Shaw Theological Seminary had been founded and endowed by Mr. Silas Shaw. But even after the Old Man had devoted his ursine spoils to this praiseworthy object, Wall Street continued skeptical.

And, yet, Wall Street made a mistake—as it often does in its judgment of its leaders. Silas Shaw really had a soft spot in his tape-wound and ticker-dented old heart for all things ecclesiastical. Next to being a power in the Street he loved to be regarded as one of the pillars of his church. He heard with pleasure, of week days, the wakeful staccato sound of the ticker; but on Sundays he certainly enjoyed the soothing cadences of familiar hymns. And if more than one hardened broker expressed picturesque but unreproducible opinions of the old man, so also more than one enthusiastic young minister could tell pleasant stories of how the old stock gambler received him and responded to the fervent appeal for the funds wherewith many a little backwoods church was built.

213Shaw’s generosity was so notorious among the church people that the Reverend Doctor Ramsdell, pastor of the Steenth Street Methodist Episcopal Church and a trustee of the Shaw Theological Seminary, felt no embarrassment in applying to him for assistance. It was not Shaw’s church, but in Dr. Ramsdell’s charge there were one or two bankers well known in Wall Street and several members of the New York Stock Exchange. It seemed particularly fitting to the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell that the name of Silas Shaw, followed by a few figures, should head a subscription list. It was desired to erect a Protestant Chapel in Oruro, Bolivia—the most uncivilized of all the South American “republics.”

“Good-morning, Brother Shaw; I trust you are well.”

“Tolerable, tolerable, thank’ee kindly,” replied the sturdy old gambler. “What brings you down to this sinful section? Doing some missionary work, eh? I wish you’d begin among those da—er—dandy young bears.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Rev. Dr. Ramsdell, eagerly. “It is precisely à propos of missionary work.” And he told Silas Shaw all about the plan for carrying the light into Bolivia by building the only Protestant chapel in Oruro, where it was incredibly 214tenebrous—worse than darkest Africa. The reverend doctor hoped, nay, he knew, in view of Brother Shaw’s well-known devotion to the glorious work of redeeming their benighted Bolivian brethren, that he could count upon him, etc.; and the subscription list——

“My dear Dr. Ramsdell,” interrupted Shaw, “I never sign subscription lists. When I give, I give; and I don’t want everybody to know how much I’ve given.”

“Well, Brother Shaw, you need not sign your name. I’ll put you down as X. Y. Z.,” he smiled encouragingly.

“No, no; don’t put me down at all.”

The good doctor looked so surprised and so woebegone that Shaw laughed.

“Cheer up, Doctor. I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll buy some Erie for you. Yes, sirree; that’s the best thing I can do. What do you say to that?” And he looked at the doctor, triumphantly.

“Ahem!—I am not—are you sure it will prove a—ahem!—a desirable investment? You see, I do not—ah—know much about Wall Street.”

“Neither do I. And the older I grow the less I know.”

215The reverend doctor ventured a tentative smile of semi-incredulity.

“That’s right, Doctor. But we’ll make something for you. The blooming, I mean, benighted Bohemians——”

“Ahem!—Bolivians, Brother Shaw.”

“I meant Bolivians. They must have a chance for their souls. John,” to a clerk; “buy 500 shares of Erie at the market.”

“Yes, sir,” said John, disappearing into the telephone booth. To buy, “at the market” meant to buy at the prevailing or market price.

“Brother Shaw, I am extremely grateful to you. This matter is very close to my heart, I assure you. And—ah—will—when will I know if the—ah—investment turns out profitably?”

“Oh, have no fears on that score. We shall make the stock market contribute to your missionary fund. All you’ll have to do is to look on the financial page of your paper every evening and keep posted.”

“I fear, Brother Shaw,” said Dr. Ramsdell, deprecatingly, “that I shall have no little trouble in—ah—keeping posted.”

“Not at all. See, here,” and he took up his paper and turned to the stock tables. “Draw up your chair, Doctor. You see, here is Erie. Yesterday, 216on transactions of 18,230 shares, Erie Railroad stock sold as high as 64? and as low as 63?, the last or closing sale being at 64?. The numbers mean dollars per share. It was very strong. Haven’t you got a report on that 500 Erie yet, John?”

“Yes, sir,” said John. “Sixty-five and one-eighth.”

“You see, Doctor, the stock is still going up. Well, every day when you look on the table you will see at what price Erie stock is selling. If it is more than 65?, why, that will show you are making money. Every point up, that is, every unit, will mean that your missionary fund is $500 richer.”

“And—Brother Shaw—ahem!—if it should be—ah—less?”

“What’s the use of thinking such things, Dr. Ramsdell? All you have to remember is that I am going to make some money for you; and that I paid 65? for the stock I bought.”

“You really think——”

“Have no fears, Doctor. You understand, of course, that it is well not to give such matters undue publicity.”

“Of course, of course,” assented the doctor. “I understand.” But he did not.

217“Nothing more, Doctor?”

“No; I thank you very much, Brother Shaw. I—er—most sincerely hope my—ah—your—I should say—ah—our investment, may result in—ah—favorably for our Bolivian Missionary Fund. Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it, Doctor. And don’t you worry. We will come out O.K. You’ll hear from me in a week or two. Good-morning.”

The reverend doctor went across the Street to the office of one of his parishioners, Walter H. Cranston, a stock broker.

Mr. Cranston was bemoaning the appalling lack of business and making up his mind about certain Delphic advice he contemplated giving his timid customers, in order to make them “trade,” which would mean commissions, when Dr. Ramsdell’s card was brought.

“Confound him, what does he want to come around, bothering a man at his business for?” he thought. But he said: “............