Business Adventures: Twelve Classic Tales from the World of Wall Street

by John Brooks

The crisis ran its course in three days, but, needless to say, the post-mortems took longer. One of de la Vega’s observations about the Amsterdam traders was that they were “very clever in inventing reasons” for a sudden rise or fall in stock prices, and the Wall Street pundits certainly needed all the cleverness they could muster to explain why, in the middle of an excellent business year, the market had suddenly taken its second-worst nose dive ever up to that moment.

In brokerage offices, employees were kept busy—many of them for most of the night—at various special chores, of which by far the most urgent was sending out margin calls. A margin call is a demand for additional collateral from a customer who has borrowed money from his broker to buy stocks and whose stocks are now worth barely enough to cover the loan. If a customer is unwilling or unable to meet a margin call with more collateral, his broker will sell the margined stock as soon as possible; such sales may depress other stocks further, leading to more margin calls, leading to more stock sales, and so on down into the pit. This pit had proved bottomless in 1929, when there were no federal restrictions on stock-market credit.

Probably the most scholarly and detailed report on who did the selling that caused the crisis was furnished by the New York Stock Exchange itself, which began sending elaborate questionnaires to its individual and corporate members immediately after the commotion was over. The Exchange calculated that during the three days of the crisis rural areas of the country were more active in the market than they customarily are; that women investors had sold two and a half times as much stock as men investors; that foreign investors were far more active than usual, accounting for 5.5 per cent of the total volume, and, on balance, were substantial sellers; and, most striking of all, that what the Exchange calls “public individuals”—individual investors, as opposed to institutional ones, which is to say people who would be described anywhere but on Wall Street as private individuals—played an astonishingly large role in the whole affair, accounting for an unprecedented 56.8 per cent of the total volume. Breaking down the public individuals into income categories, the Exchange calculated that those with family incomes of over twenty-five thousand dollars a year were the heaviest and most insistent sellers, while those with incomes under ten thousand dollars, after selling on Monday and early on Tuesday, bought so many shares on Thursday that they actually became net buyers over the three-day period. Furthermore, according to the Exchange’s calculations, about a million shares—or 3.5 p...

Paradoxical as it may seem, the evolution of our income tax has been from a low-rate tax relying for revenue on the high income group to a high-rate tax relying on the middle and lower-middle income groups.

What the provision says, in essence, is that a taxpayer who makes a capital investment (in real estate, a corporation, a block of stock, or whatever), holds on to it for at least six months, and then sells it at a profit is entitled to be taxed on the profit at a rate much lower than the rate on ordinary income; to be specific, the rate is half of that taxpayer’s ordinary top tax rate or twenty-five per cent whichever is less. What this means to anyone whose income would normally put him in a very high tax bracket is obvious: he must find a way of getting as much as possible of that income in the form of capital gains. Consequently, the game of finding ways of converting ordinary income into capital gains has become very popular in the past decade or two. The game is often won without much of a struggle.

For example, one might think that a taxpayer would need to have capital before he could have a capital gain. Yet a way was discovered—and was passed into law in 1950—for him to get the gain before he has the capital. This is the stock-option provision. Under its terms, a corporation may give its executives the right to buy its shares at any time within a stipulated period—say, five years—at or near the open-market price at the time of the granting of the option; later on, if, as has happened so often, the market price of the stock goes sky-high, the executives may exercise their options to buy the stock at the old price, may sell it on the open market some time later at the new price, and may pay only capital-gains rates on the difference, provided that they go through these motions without unseemly haste. The beauty of it all from an executive’s point of view is that once the stock has gone up substantially in value, his option itself becomes a valuable commodity, against which he can borrow the cash he needs in order to exercise it; then, having bought the stock and sold it again, he can pay off his debt and have a capital gain that has arisen from the investment of no capital.

While he was engaged in this redundant recital various reporters began to drift away (“they began sort of leaking out of the room” was the way Lamont put it later) to telephone the sensational news to their publications; still more of them slipped away during the events that subsequently rounded out the press conference—the showing of some innocuous colored slides of the countryside around Timmins, and an exhibition and explanation by Holyk of some drill cores—and by the time it ended, at around 10:15, only a handful of reporters were left. This certainly didn’t mean that the affair had been a flop. On the contrary, a press conference is perhaps the only kind of show whose success is in direct proportion to the number of people who leave before it is over.

In any case, office reproduction began to grow very rapidly. (It may seem paradoxical that this growth coincided with the rise of the telephone, but perhaps it isn’t. All the evidence suggests that communication between people by whatever means, far from simply accomplishing its purpose, invariably breeds the need for more.) The typewriter and carbon paper came into common use after 1890, and mimeographing became a standard office procedure soon after 1900. “No office is complete without an Edison Mimeograph,” the Dick Company felt able to boast in 1903. By that time, there were already about a hundred and fifty thousand of the devices in use; by 1910 there were probably over two hundred thousand, and by 1940 almost half a million.

In any event, the Xerox offices and directors declined to be persuaded or intimidated; the U.N. series appeared on the American Broadcasting Company network in 1965, to plaudits all around. Wilson later maintained that the series—and the decision to ignore the protest against it—made Xerox many more friends than enemies. In all his public statements on the subject, he insisted on characterizing what many observers considered a rather rare stroke of business idealism, as simply sound business judgment.

For, as the testimony shows, the clear waters of moral responsibility at G.E. became hopelessly muddied by a struggle to communicate—a struggle so confused that in some cases, it would appear, if one of the big bosses at G.E. had ordered a subordinate to break the law, the message would somehow have been garbled in its reception, and if the subordinate had informed the boss that he was holding conspiratorial meetings with competitors, the boss might well have been under the impression that the subordinate was gossiping idly about lawn parties or pinochle sessions. Specifically, it would appear that a subordinate who received a direct oral order from his boss had to figure out whether it meant what it seemed to or the exact opposite, while the boss, in conversing with a subordinate, had to figure out whether he should take what the man told him at face value or should attempt to translate it out of a secret code to which he was by no means sure he had the key. That was the problem in a nutshell, and I state it here thus baldly as a suggestion for any potential beneficiary of a foundation who may be casting about for a suitable project on which to draw up a prospectus.

The cartoonist Jules Feiffer, contemplating the communication problem in a nonindustrial context, has said, “Actually, the breakdown is between the person and himself. If you’re not able to communicate successfully between yourself and yourself, how are you supposed to make it with the strangers outside?” Suppose, purely as a hypothesis, that the owner of a company who orders his subordinates to obey the antitrust laws has such poor communication with himself that he does not really know whether he wants the order to be complied with or not. If his order is disobeyed, the resulting price-fixing may benefit his company’s coffers; if it is obeyed, then he has done the right thing. In the first instance, he is not personally implicated in any wrongdoing, while in the second he is positively involved in right doing. What, after all, can he lose? It is perhaps reasonable to suppose that such an executive might communicate his uncertainty more forcefully than his order.

He sold that after a few years, did a stint as a wholesale grocer on his own, and then, in 1919, began to build a chain of retail self-service markets, to which he gave the engaging name of Piggly Wiggly Stores. (When a Memphis business associate once asked him why he had chosen that name, he replied, “So people would ask me what you just did.”) The stores flourished so exuberantly that by the autumn of 1922 there were over twelve hundred of them. Of these, some six hundred and fifty were owned outright by Saunders’ Piggly Wiggly Stores, Inc.; the rest were independently owned, but their owners paid royalties to the parent company for the right to adopt its patented method of operations. In 1923, an era when a grocery store meant clerks in white aprons and often a thumb on the scale, this method was described by the New York Times with astonishment: “The customer in a Piggly Wiggly Store rambles down aisle after aisle, on both sides of which are shelves. The customer collects his purchases and pays as he goes out.” Although Saunders did not know it, he had invented the supermarket.

In a Keedoozle store, the merchandise was displayed behind glass panels, each with a slot beside it, like the food in an Automat. There the similarity ended, for, instead of inserting coins in the slot to open a panel and lift out a purchase, Keedoozle customers inserted a key that they were given on entering the store. Moreover, Saunders’ thinking had advanced far beyond the elementary stage of having the key open the panel; each time a Keedoozle key was inserted in a slot, the identity of the item selected was inscribed in code on a segment of recording tape embedded in the key itself, and simultaneously the item was automatically transferred to a conveyor belt that carried it to an exit gate at the front of the store. When a customer had finished his shopping, he would present his key to an attendant at the gate, who would decipher the tape and add up the bill. As soon as this was paid, the purchases would be catapulted into the customer’s arms, all bagged and wrapped, by a device at the end of the conveyor belt.

Although its top officers take a federal oath, they are not appointed by the President of the United States, or even by the Federal Reserve Board, but are elected by the bank’s own board of directors, and their salaries are paid not out of the federal till but out of the bank’s own income. Yet that income—though, happily, always forthcoming—is entirely incidental to the bank’s purpose, and if it rises above expenses and dividends the excess is automatically paid into the United States Treasury. A bank that considers profits incidental is scarcely the norm in Wall Street, and this attitude puts Federal Reserve Bank men in a uniquely advantageous social position. Because their bank is a bank, after all, and a privately owned, profitable one at that, they can’t be dismissed as mere government bureaucrats; conversely, having their gaze fixed steadily above the mire of cupidity entitles them to be called the intellectuals, if not actually the aristocrats, of Wall Street banking.

Mystifyingly complex though it may appear, what actually happens in international financial dealings is essentially what happens in private domestic transactions. The money worries of a nation, like those of a family, are the consequence of having too much money go out and not enough come in. The foreign sellers of goods to Britain cannot spend the pounds they are paid in their own countries, and therefore they convert them into their own currencies; this they do by selling the pounds in the foreign-exchange markets, just as if they were selling securities on a stock exchange. The market price of the pound fluctuates in response to supply and demand, and so do the prices of all other currencies—all, that is, except the dollar, the sun in the planetary system of currencies, inasmuch as the United States has, since 1934, stood pledged to exchange gold in any quantity for dollars at the pleasure of any nation at the fixed price of thirty-five dollars per ounce.

Ultimately, it appeared, the nation had just three possible economic courses: to somehow end the Vietnam war, root of the payments problem and therefore heart of the matter; to adopt a full wartime economy, with sky-high taxes, wage and price controls, and perhaps rationing; or to face forced devaluation of the dollar and perhaps a depression-breeding world monetary mess. Looking beyond the Vietnam war and its incredibly broad worldwide monetary implications, the central bankers went on plugging away. Two weeks after the stopgap solution of the dollar crisis, those of the ten most powerful industrial countries met in Stockholm and agreed, with only France dissenting, on the gradual creation of a new international monetary unit to supplement gold as the bedrock underlying all currencies. It will consist (if action follows on resolution) of special drawing rights on the International Monetary Fund, available to nations in proportion to their existing reserve holdings. In bankers’ jargon the rights will be called S.D.R.’s; in popular jargon they were at once called paper gold. The success of the plan in achieving its ends—averting dollar devaluation, overcoming the world shortage of monetary gold, and thus postponing indefinitely the threatened mess—will depend on whether or not men and nations can somehow at last, in a triumph of reason, achieve what they have failed to achieve in almost four centuries of paper money: that is, to overcome one of the oldest and least rational...