"All of us? Have I been consulted? Have I decided? Have I consented to the breaking of your word, Mr. Rockefeller's word? What have Stillman and the rest to say about this? What have they to do with the promises I have made the people? I have been trapped just as all the others you and I have dealt with have been trapped. I see it all now. Trapped, trapped until now it is too late for me even to save my reputation. To think I should have been fool enough to allow myself to be made a stool-pigeon for 'Standard Oil,' and all because I took your word."
My rage was exhausted, and then, heartbroken, I turned and plead, plead for fair treatment, for an honest deal for my friends and associates—plead for my good name in his keeping—plead as I never before plead to any man. I had lost control of myself—begged as no man should beg another even for life, though the things I sought were more than life. He calmly awaited the end of my feverish, broken petition; then he went to work as the expert diamond cutter goes at a crystal. He focussed my position, twisted and turned my arguments, chipped and split my reasoning, smoothed off the corners, and then polished up the subject so that it might retain its old-time lustre for the bedazzlement of the customer whose favorable decision he meant to have.
As ever, Mr. Rogers' arguments were plausible and intelligent. The subscriptions were coming in at such a rate it would be dangerous to allot as little as five millions; there might be talk, and an investigation which would so affect the market later that we could have no second section. Then where should we be with our millions of Butte, Montana, and other Boston stocks? And where would our friends be—and the public? On and on he spun, lulling my fagged brain with his specious arguments until the change of plan seemed robbed of its poison and I swallowed it.
"Lawson," he concluded, "every dollar of the additional five millions will be kept intact and, with the first five millions, will be at all times behind