New York - The Novel

speculated some more with that. The higher you could build the house of cards, the better you did. Obviously.
    He’d still been riding high when he read about the new Rolls-Royce. But even then, the cracks in the system had begun to appear. That spring, when the market had been shaken and credit had been tight, a number of the biggest men in American industry had come together to discuss the situation. Coal was represented by Frick, railroads by Harriman, oil by Rockefeller, banking by Schiff and the Morgans. They’d wanted to form a consortium to support the market. Jack Morgan had agreed, but old Pierpont had not, and the proposal had come to nothing.
    All through the summer, William had watched as the market dithered, hoping it would strengthen, or at least send him a sign. Wasn’t the market supposed to be wise? So people said, but William wasn’t so sure. Sometimes, it seemed to him, the market was nothing more than an aggregate of individuals, like a great school of fish, feeding upon small hopes until some fright causes them all to swerve together. Amid all this doubt, the thought of the Rolls-Royce on its way to him had kept his spirits up. And when it was delivered, the solid magnificence of the thing seemed to say: No man who owns a Rolls-Royce can be in trouble.
    How ironic then that the rotten timber that was about to bring the whole market crashing down should be the one with the most splendid name.
    The Knickerbocker Trust. By the sound of its name, you’d have thought it was as solid as a rock. Knickerbocker meant tradition, his father’s club, old money, old values. Well, by noon today, the word on the street was that the Knickerbocker was in trouble.
    At three o’clock, the partners of William’s trust had reached a terrible conclusion.
    “If the Knickerbocker goes, it’ll start a panic. Everyone’ll want their money. The trusts will start going down like ninepins. Ours included.” And that would only be the start of things.
    After the meeting, he’d gone into his office and closed the door. He’d taken a piece of paper and tried to figure things out. What did he owe? Hereally wasn’t sure, but more than he had. And what was he going to do about it? Nothing he could do.
    Pray.

    That weekend, on Saturday, William Master took his wife and children out in the Rolls. They drove up into Westchester County. It was quite warm, and with the fall leaves turning to red and gold, it was a beautiful drive. They went up to Bedford, and had a picnic there. A perfect day.
    On Sunday, of course, they all went to church. The service was all right. A bit insipid. The vicar was away, down at a liturgical conference in Virginia with the great men of the Episcopal Church, including J. P. Morgan. The curate gave a sermon on Hope.
    That evening, he read to his children. For no particular reason, he chose the tale of Rip Van Winkle. As they came to the place where the ghostly Dutchmen play ninepins in the mountains over the Hudson, he could not help thinking of the terrible crash of financial ninepins that was probably coming on Wall Street, but his face gave nothing away. Let his family remember one last, happy weekend.
    And that night, when Rose remarked that two of the wives she’d met at church had whispered that there was likely to be big trouble ahead in the market that week, he smiled and said: “I dare say it’ll get sorted out.”
    Not much point in saying anything else.

    Sometimes William wondered if all things in the world were connected. But he hadn’t thought about Alaska. He was in the brokerage house the next morning when he saw the message on the wires. It looked innocent enough. The Guggenheims, the mighty German Jewish mining family, were going to develop huge copper reserves in Alaska. A good thing, one might think. But when William saw it, he cried out: “It’s all over.”
    It was some time since a small group of speculators had decided to corner the copper market. He knew the men. The copper supply was limited, and the price was soaring. There hadn’t been a word about these damned Alaska mines. To buy the copper, they’d borrowed a fortune from the Knickerbocker Trust; but with huge new supplies from the Guggenheims in prospect, copper prices would fall through the floor. The corner, and the speculators, were surely bust.
    It took just two hours for the price of copper to collapse. William went over to the trust offices. He’d no sooner walked through the door when one of the