by John Buchan
Devenish had a blacksmith’s shop on his farm, and his overseer was a good mechanic, so the cape-cart was fetched from the mud-hole and given a new axle. The rain kept off that day, but the next morning when they started for Greenlees’ mine it began again in grim earnest. They had about fifty miles to go through a wild bit of country, which did not contain even a native village, and the road was at its best only a scar on the veld, and, when it ran through bush, scarcely wider than a foot-track. Devenish insisted on providing them with plenty of food, which was fortunate, for they took three days to reach Greenlees . . .
This was the best part of Tavanger’s story, but I must confine myself to the bare outline. They struck a river at what was usually a broad shallow ford, but was now a lake of yeasty water. It was the only possible place, for above and below the stream ran a defile among rocks, and the whole outfit was nearly drowned before they made the crossing. But they found themselves on an island, for another branch of the river, broader, deeper and swifter, confronted them a hundred yards farther on. This proved hopeless, and Potgieter tried to recross the first branch, with the notion of making a circuit and finding an easier ford farther up. But the water was rising every minute, and even the transport-rider’s stout heart failed him. He announced that there was nothing to be done except to wait for the river to fall. Happily the island was high ground, so there was no risk of its being overflowed.
They spent two nights and a day in that dismal place, which in twelve hours had shrunk to the limits of about a couple of acres. It was covered with low scrub, but this was no shelter from the unceasing rain. Potgieter made a scherm for the mules out of wait-a-bit thorns, and inside it rigged up a sort of tent with the cover of the cape-cart. It was as well that he did this, for the two men were not the only refugees on the island. Various kinds of buck had been cut off by the flood, and bush-pig, and the mules were in a perpetual ferment, which Potgieter said was due to lions. Tavanger more than once thought he saw a tawny, slinking shadow in the undergrowth. They got a sort of fire going, but there was no decent fuel to burn, and the best they could do was a heap of smoking twigs. Potgieter shot a brace of guinea-fowl, which they cooked for dinner in the scanty ashes. He would not let Tavanger stir from the scherm, for he said that the island would be full of storm-stayed snakes and other unhallowed oddments. So the wretched pair had to twiddle their thumbs for thirty-six hours in an atmosphere like a Turkish bath, coughing and choking by the greenwood fire, and subsisting for the most part on Devenish’s cold viands. Unluckily they had neither tea nor coffee, and their tobacco ran out. Tavanger got a furious cold in his head and rheumatic pains in his back, but the worst discomfort was the utter boredom; for Potgieter had no small talk, and slept most of the time.
Late on the second night the rain ceased, and revealed a wonderful sky of stars. On the second morning the river had fallen sufficiently to be forded, and mules and men, very stiff and miserable, started off for Greenlees. But their troubles were not over, for the valley they presently struck seemed to have melted into primeval slime, and when they got on to the higher ground they had to make lengthy detours to circumvent landslips. It was almost dark when they reached the mine, and it took Greenlees some time, Tavanger said, to realise that they were human. When he did, when he understood who Tavanger was — having spent some time in a London office he knew him by repute — and recognised Potgieter as a man with whom he had once hunted, he was hospitable enough. In an empty rondavel he filled two wooden tubs with scalding water, into which he put a tin of mustard and a can of sheep-deep, declaring that it was the only way to stave off pneumonia.
Greenlees proved the simplest of the five to deal with, for he was an enthusiast about michelite. He was a Scotsman from Berwickshire, who had had a sound university training and knew a good deal about metallurgical chemistry as well as about engineering. He had been employed at the Daphne mine when it first began, and had believed so firmly in its prospects that he had scraped up every penny he could muster at the time and bought a biggish holding. Then he had quarrelled with the manager, but his faith in the concern had not wavered. He declared that it was abominably managed, that the costs were far too high, and the marketing arrangements rudimentary, but nevertheless, he was convinced that before long it would be one of the most lucrative concerns in the country. He anticipated, for one thing, some discovery which would bring down the smelting costs. “I’ll hold on,” he said, “though I should have to go wanting the breeks to do it.”
Tavanger, seeing the sort of man he had to deal with, put his cards on the table. He told Greenlees frankly that he meant to control Daphne. He described, as only Tavanger could describe, the manoeuvres by which he had acquired the big London block, his journey to South Africa (“God, but you’re the determined one,” said Greenlees), his doings at the Cape and in Johannesburg, and his wild trek in the Rhodesian rains.
“I want to buy your holding, Mr Greenlees,” he concluded. “I will pay any price you fix, and will contract to sell you the shares back on demand any time after next June at the price I gave for them. What I want is control of the stock till then, and for the privilege I am ready to pay you a bonus of one thousand pounds.”
Of course Greenlees consented, for he saw that Tavanger was a believer like himself, and so far he had not met another. He asked various questions. Tavanger said nothing about the coming combine, but let him think that his views were the same as his own, a belief that presently a scientific discovery would make michelite a commodity of universal use. He mentioned having talked with Sprenger in Berlin, and Greenlees nodded respectfully.
They sat late into the night discussing the future. Greenlees explained the system at work at the Daphne mine, and how it could be bettered, and Tavanger then and there offered him the managership. It was a London company, and its annual shareholders’ meeting fell in January; Tavanger proposed drastically to reconstruct both the English and South African boards and to reform the management.
“What about having a look at the place?” Greenlees asked. “You could easily look in on your way down country.”
Tavanger shook his head. “I’m not a technical expert,” he said, “and I would learn very little. I’ve always made it a rule never to mix myself up with things I don’t understand. But I reckon myself a fair judge of men, and I shall be content to trust you.”
As they went to bed Greenlees showed him a telegram. “Did you ever hear of this fellow? Steinacker or Stemacker his name is. He wants to see me — has an introduction from the chairman of my company. I wired to him to come along, and he is turning up the day after tomorrow.”
This was the story which Tavanger told me that night in my rooms. His adventures seemed to have renewed his youth, for he looked actually boyish, and I understood that half the power of the man — and indeed of anyone who succeeds in his line — lay just in a boyish readiness to fling his cap on the right occasion over the moon.
“I deserve to win out, don’t you think?” he said, “for I’ve risked my neck by air, land and water — not to mention black mambas . . . I should like to have seen Steinacker’s face when he had finished gleaning in my tracks . . . The next thing is to get to grips with Glaubsteins. Oh yes, I’ll keep you informed. You’re the only man I can talk to frankly about this business, and half the fun of an adventure is to be able to gossip about it.”
III
I saw nothing of Tavanger again till the end of February, when he appeared as a witness for the defence in a case in which I led for the plaintiff, and I had the dubious pleasure of cross-examining him. I say “dubious,” for he was one of the most formidable witnesses I have ever met, candid, accurate, self-possessed and unshakable. Two days later I had to make a speech — an old promise to him — at the annual meeting, in the hall of the Fletchers’ Company, of the children’s hospital of which he was chairman. There I saw a new Tavanger, one who spoke of the hospital and its work as a man speaks of his family in a moment of expansion, who had every detail at
his fingers’ end and who descanted on its future with a sober passion. I was amazed, till I remembered that this was one of his two hobbies. He was Master of the Company, so he gave me tea afterwards in his private room, and expanded on the new dental clinic which he said was the next step in the hospital’s progress.
“I mean to present the clinic,” he told me, “if things turn out well. That is why I’m so keen about this Daphne business . . .”
He stopped and smiled at me.
“I know that I’m reputed to be very well off, and I can see that you’re wondering why I don’t present it in any case, since presumably I can afford it. Perhaps I can, but that has never been my way. I have for years kept a separate account which I call my ‘gambling fund,’ and into it goes whatever comes to me by the grace of God outside the main line of my business. I draw on that account for my hobbies — my pictures and my hospital. Whatever I make out of Daphnes will go there, and if my luck is in I may be able to make the hospital the best-equipped thing of its kind on the globe. That way, you see, I get a kind of sporting interest in the game.
“Oh, we have brisked up Daphnes a bit,” he said in reply to my question. “I’m chairman now — my predecessor was an elderly titled nonentity who was easily induced to retire. We had our annual meeting last month, and the two vacancies on the directorate which occurred by rotation were filled by my own men. We’ve cleaned up the South African board too. Greenlees is now chairman, as well as general manager of the mine. He has already reduced the costs of mining the stuff, and we’re getting a bigger share of the British import . . . No, there’s been no reduction of price, though that may come. We stick to the same price as the other companies. There is a modest market for our shares, too, when they’re offered, which isn’t often. The price is about fifteen shillings, pretty much the same as Anatillas.
“I own fifty-two thousand shares out of the hundred thousand ordinaries,” he went on, “just enough to give me control with a small margin. They have cost me the best part of seventy thousand pounds, but I consider them a good bargain. For Glaubsteins have opened the ball. They’re determined to get Daphne into their pool, and I am quite willing to oblige them — at my own price.” Tavanger’s smile told me the kind of price that would be.
“Oh yes, they’re nibbling hard. I hear that Steinacker managed to pick up about ten thousand shares in South Africa, and now they are stuck fast. They must come to me, and they’ve started a voluptuous curve in my direction. You know the way people like Glaubsteins work. The man who approaches you may be a simple fellow who never heard of them. They like to have layers of agents between themselves and the man they’re after. Well, I’ve had offers for my Daphnes through one of my banks, and through two insurance companies, and through” — he mentioned the name of a solid and rather chauvinistic British financial house which was supposed to lay a rigid embargo on anything speculative. His intelligence department, he said, was pretty good, and the connection had been traced.
“They’ve offered me par,” he continued. “The dear innocents! The fact is, they can’t get on without me, and they know it, but at present they are only manoeuvring for position. When we get down to real business, we’ll talk a different language.”
As I have said, I had guessed that Tavanger was working on a piece of knowledge which he had got at Flambard, and I argued that this could only be a world-wide merger of michelite interests. He knew this for a fact, and was therefore gambling on what he believed to be a certainty. Consequently he could afford to wait. I am a novice in such matters, but it seemed to me that the only possible snag was Sprenger. Sprenger was a man of genius, and though he was loyal to the German company, I had understood from Tavanger that there was a working arrangement between that company and the Anatilla. At any moment he might make some discovery which would alter the whole industrial status of michelite, and no part of the benefit of such a discovery would go to the Daphne Concessions. I mentioned my doubt.
“I realise that,” said Tavanger, “and I am keeping Sprenger under observation. Easy enough to manage, for I have many lines down in Berlin. My information is that for the moment he has come to a halt. Indeed, he has had a breakdown, and has been sent off for a couple of months to some high place in the Alps. Also Anatilla and Rosas are not on the friendliest terms at present. Glaubsteins have been trying to buy out the Germans, and since they have lent them money, I fancy the method of procedure was rather arbitrary. They’ll get them in the end, of course, but just now relations are rather strained, and it will take a fair amount of time to ease them.”
The word “time” impressed me. Clearly Tavanger believed that he had a free field up to the tenth of June — after which nothing mattered.
“I’m a babe in finance,” I said. “But wouldn’t it be wise to screw up Anatilla to a good offer as soon as possible, and close with it. It’s an uncertain world, and you never know what trick fortune may play you.”
He smiled. “You’re a cautious lawyer, and I’m a bit of an adventurer. I mean to play this game with the stakes high. The way I look at it is this. Glaubsteins have unlimited resources, and they believe firmly in the future of michelite. So for that matter do I. They want to have control of the world output against the day when the boom comes. They can’t do without me, for I own what is practically the largest supply and certainly the best quality. Very well, they must treat.”
“Yes, but they may spin out the negotiations if you open your mouth too wide. There is no reason why they should be in a hurry. And meantime something may happen to lower the value of your property. You never know.”
He shook his head.
“No. I am convinced they will bring things to a head by midsummer.”
He looked curiously at something which he saw in my face. In that moment he realised, I think, that I had divined his share in that morning session at Flambard.
IV
A few weeks later I happened to run across a member of the firm of stockbrokers who did my modest business.
“You were asking about michelite in the autumn,” he said. “There’s a certain liveliness in the market just now. There has been a number of dealings in Daphnes — you mentioned them, I think — at rather a fancy price — round about eighteen shillings. I don’t recommend them, but if you want something to put away you might do worse than buy Anatillas. For some reason or other their price has come down to twelve shillings. In my opinion you would be perfectly safe with them. Glaubsteins are behind them, you know, and Glaubsteins don’t make mistakes. It would be a lock-up investment, but certain to appreciate.”
I thanked him, but told him that I was not looking for any new investments.
That very night I met Tavanger at dinner and, since the weather was dry and fine, we walked part of the way home together. I asked him what he had been doing to depress Anatillas.
“We’ve cut prices,” he replied. “We could afford to do so, for our costs of getting michelite out of the ground have always been twenty-five per cent lower than the other companies’. We practically quarry the stuff, and the ore is in a purer state. Under Greenlees’ management the margin is still greater, so we could afford a bold stroke. So far the result has been good. We have extended our market, and though we are making a smaller profit per ton, it has increased the quantity sold by about twenty per cent. But that, of course, wasn’t my real object. I wanted to frighten Anatilla and make them more anxious to deal. I fancy I’ve rattled them a bit, for, as you seem to have observed, the price of their ordinaries has had a nasty jolt.”
“Couldn’t you force them down farther?” I suggested. “When you get them low enough you might be able to buy Anatilla and make the merger yourself.”
“Not for worlds!” he said. “You don’t appreciate the difference between the financier and the industrialist. Supposing I engineered the merger. I should be left with it on my hands till I could sell it to somebody else. I’m not the man who makes things, but the man who provides the money for other people to
make them with. Besides, Glaubsteins would never sell — not on your life. They’ve simply got to control a stuff with the possibilities of michelite. With their enormous mineral and metal interests, and all their commercial subsidiaries, they couldn’t afford to let it get out of their hands. They’re immensely rich, and could put down a thousand pounds for every hundred that any group I got together could produce. Believe me, they’ll hang on to michelite till their last gasp. And rightly — because they are users. They have a policy for dealing with it. I’m only a pirate who sails in and demands ransom because they’ve become a little negligent on the voyage.”
I asked how the negotiations were proceeding.
“According to plan. We’ve got rid of some of the agency layers, and have now arrived at one remove from the principals. My last step, as I have said, woke them up. Javerts have now taken a hand in it, and Javerts, as you may or may not know, do most of the English business for Glaubsteins. They are obviously anxious to bring things to a head pretty soon, for they have bid me sixty shillings a share.”