There was a long conversation—­a long wait.  His father came back to say it was doubtful whether they could make the loan.  Eight per cent., then being secured for money, was a small rate of interest, considering its need.  For ten per cent.  Mr. Kugel might make a call-loan.  Frank went back to his employer, whose commercial choler rose at the report.

“For Heaven’s sake, is there no money at all in the town?” he demanded, contentiously.  “Why, the interest they want is ruinous!  I can’t stand that.  Well, take ’em back and bring me the money.  Good God, this’ll never do at all, at all!”

Frank went back.  “He’ll pay ten per cent.,” he said, quietly.

Tighe was credited with a deposit of fifteen thousand dollars, with privilege to draw against it at once.  He made out a check for the total fifteen thousand at once to the Girard National Bank to cover a shrinkage there.  So it went.

During all these days young Cowperwood was following these financial complications with interest.  He was not disturbed by the cause of slavery, or the talk of secession, or the general progress or decline of the country, except in so far as it affected his immediate interests.  He longed to become a stable financier; but, now that he saw the inside of the brokerage business, he was not so sure that he wanted to stay in it.  Gambling in stocks, according to conditions produced by this panic, seemed very hazardous.  A number of brokers failed.  He saw them rush in to Tighe with anguished faces and ask that certain trades be canceled.  Their very homes were in danger, they said.  They would be wiped out, their wives and children put out on the street.

This panic, incidentally, only made Frank more certain as to what he really wanted to do—­now that he had this free money, he would go into business for himself.  Even Tighe’s offer of a minor partnership failed to tempt him.

“I think you have a nice business,” he explained, in refusing, “but I want to get in the note-brokerage business for myself.  I don’t trust this stock game.  I’d rather have a little business of my own than all the floor work in this world.”

“But you’re pretty young, Frank,” argued his employer.  “You have lots of time to work for yourself.”  In the end he parted friends with both Tighe and Rivers.  “That’s a smart young fellow,” observed Tighe, ruefully.

“He’ll make his mark,” rejoined Rivers.  “He’s the shrewdest boy of his age I ever saw.”

Chapter VIII

Cowperwood’s world at this time was of roseate hue.  He was in love and had money of his own to start his new business venture.  He could take his street-car stocks, which were steadily increasing in value, and raise seventy per cent. of their market value.  He could put a mortgage on his lots and get money there, if necessary.  He had established financial relations with the Girard National Bank—­President Davison there having taken a fancy to him—­and he proposed to borrow from that institution some day.  All he wanted was suitable investments—­things in which he could realize surely, quickly.  He saw fine prospective profits in the street-car lines, which were rapidly developing into local ramifications.