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Reminiscences of a Stock Operator
the manager had been studying these inactive-stock plays of mine and when he got my
order he actually bought the stock for me and then some for himself in the Little Board,
and he made some money. These fellows didn't mind being sued by customers on
charges of fraud, as they generally had a good technical legal defense ready. But they
were afraid I'd attach the furniture the money in the bank I couldn't because they took
care not to have any funds exposed to that danger. It would not hurt them to be known as
pretty sharp, but to get a reputation for welshing was fatal. For a customer to lose money
at his broker's is no rare event. But for a customer to make money and then not get it is
the worst crime on the speculators' statute books.
I got my money from all; but that ten-point jump put an end to the pleasing pastime of
skinning skinners. They were on the lookout for the little trick that they themselves had
used to defraud hundreds of poor customers. I went back to my regular trading; but the
market wasn't always right for my system that is, limited as I was by the size of the
orders they would take, I couldn't make a killing.
I had been at it over a year, during which I used every device that I could think of to
make money trading in those wire houses. I had lived very comfortably, bought an
automobile and didn't limit myself about my expenses. I had to make a stake, but I also
had to live while I was doing it. If my position on the market was right I couldn't spend
as much as I made, so that I'd always be saving some. If I was wrong I didn't make any
money and therefore couldn't spend. As I said, I had saved up a fair-sized roll, and there
wasn't so much money to be made in the five wire houses; so I decided to return to New
York.
I had my own automobile and I invited a friend of mine who also was a trader to motor
to New York with me. He accepted and we started. We stopped at New Haven for
dinner. At the hotel I met an old trading acquaintance, and among other things he told
me there was a shop in town that had a wire and was doing a pretty good business.
We left the hotel on our way to New York, but I drove by the street where the bucket
shop was to see what the outside looked like. We found it and couldn't resist the
temptation to stop and have a look at the inside. It wasn't very sumptuous, but the old
blackboard was there, and the customers, and the game was on.
The manager was a chap who looked as if he had been an actor or a stump speaker. He
was very impressive. He'd say good morning as though he had discovered the morning's
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