The Man Who Bought His Own Death

A gambler entered a restaurant last night, mounted a high stool, leaned over the counter and ordered a portentious steak, with eggs on the side, and some ale and oysters to begin on. In about half an hour he had finished his repast and was beginning to deliberate on what kind of a dessert he would wind up on, when a man walked in and tapping him on the shoulder, said to him:

"Is your name Hilly Hacker?"

"Yes, that's my name," said the man on the stool, as his hand stole down to his hip pocket, tumbling for the handle of a boker. "What do you want?"

"We had a little trouble once before in White Pine, and now I guess I've got you dead to rights," continued the new comer, pulling out a large-sized six-shooter.

"If you'll just step into the street and pass off your disease, I'm your man," said the feeder, who had just finished his pie, and whipping out his revolver leaped off his perch and rushed after the other into the street.

The fight was short. Hacker got behind the counter and shot his adversary full in the heart. He didn't hear anything then, but in about five minutes he recollected he was well off from the meal. Then he went out on the sidewalk to investigate.

"Was there any row out here a few minutes ago?" he inquired of a stranger on the sidewalk.

"Don't see any bodies here for the last hour or so."

"See two officers with trussed up fellows come out?"

"Mastard!" appeared now taking a drink.

The restaurant man went behind to clear up the dry dishes and revet his damnaphoniousness.

Another story from the same era illustrates the sheer audacity of Seattle's financial characters. Jim Keene, with his long white ulster reaching nearly to his feet, was a man noted wherever he went during the day. He had established a reputation for heavy transactions which indicated that he may become a power in the stock market.

As an illustration of his method of operating: Several evenings ago Lake Shore closed at Keene, a few days previous, had sold a "call" on 10,000 shares to a large operator in Wall street, D. P. Morgan. Morgan was a great bull on the stock, and in the evening dropped around at the Winsor, where he met Keene. He chided the latter for his imprudence in selling a call on such a number of shares which he did not possess.

Keene stated that when they were "called" he had no doubt but that the shares would be delivered. Morgan began to expatiate upon the value of Lake Shore, and urged the seller of the "call" to join the pool in the bull movement.

"Why," said Morgan, "this stock is worth 73, and is selling at only 58. I will give $1 for 5,000 shares. Do you want to sell them?"

Keene said that he cared neither to buy nor sell. He didn't care to trade; in fact he had no interest except in the "call" sold to Morgan.

At this the bull in Lake Shore felt that he was gaining a point. If Keene would not sell 5,000 shares at an eighth above the market, he must be weak on the bear side. So Morgan began to decry the Ashtabula disaster; said it amounted to nothing; would indict but half the loss on the company which had been imposed by popular rumor. In fact he was willing to bid for 5,000 shares. Would Mr. Keene sell them?

"No!" was the reply. "I don't care to trade; the Stock Exchange is the place to fix values. I can tell better in the morning. If I want to go short, I will sell when the Exchange opens."

Mere Morgan thought he had a good thing, and, without further parley, haled at his adversary (without the slightest idea of having his offer accepted) the still more favorable proposition:

"I will give you $58 1/4 for 5,000 shares."

"Sold," said Keene.

Morgan turned scarlet, and trying to blurt still higher, as a last resort, said: "Do you want to sell any more at these figures?"

"No," said Keene, "but I will sell you 20,000 shares at $58 if you want."

The game was over. In the morning Lake Shore opened down, and great haste was made by inside parties to drop their stock.