From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 376 Chicago's Autumn Rain: A Seemingly Useless Visit

October 9, Wednesday.

The gloomy clouds, like a gray cloth soaked with water, pressed heavily on the low shanty roofs of Chicago's South Side. The afternoon autumn rain had been falling for two days, the rainwater mixing with the factory dust and smoke, forming muddy streams on the slushy streets.

The air was filled with a damp, musty smell, the pungent odor of coal ash, and a faint, lingering scent of blood wafting from the slaughterhouse by the river.

This was the first time Larry had worn a wool coat this year, and the boots he was wearing were also brand new. But the brand-new boots quickly turned into rain boots, making a splashing sound as they sank into the mud, and it took some effort to pull his feet out.

Matthew and Dunbar followed behind him, dressed almost identically, except they each carried a large backpack in one hand and held an umbrella in the other, carefully avoiding the rotten vegetable leaves and coal fragments floating in the deep water.

"Didn't they say that the city of Chicago was rebuilt after the Great Chicago Fire? How come there are still places like this?"

Larry squinted and wiped his face, looking through the rain at the wooden shacks crammed together next to the railroad branch line, forming a large, separate low-rise shantytown from Chicago.

"Well, glory belongs to the United States of America!" Dunbar sneered, pulling the umbrella over Larry's head to shield his eyes, before continuing, "I guarantee that even if one day America becomes the most civilized and prosperous country in the world—its lower classes will still be just as impoverished."

Matthew touched his face and said with a smile, "I wonder how much they earn per week? It's easy to find a job in Chicago, after all. A man working outside should earn enough to support his family."

"Not necessarily!" Dunbar, who had never liked the US government, replied coldly, "Why do railroad workers strike? Isn't it because they don't earn enough to support their families?"

Matthew nodded, then turned to Larry. "My brother! Didn't you say there was an urgent telegram from Goldman Sachs this morning?"

How come you still have the leisure to come here?

Larry smiled and said, "This is more important than what's happening in New York. I'd like to see Mr. Eugene Debbs!"

The three of them trudged along the muddy road, gradually approaching the shantytown.

This area was Chicago's earliest working-class neighborhood, filled with rows of wooden houses, even the pillars of which were made of railway sleepers, and the walls were covered with newspapers to keep out the cold wind.

A few households with leaky roofs were barely covering their leaks with scraps of tin and burlap sacks. Rainwater dripped from the eaves into rusty iron buckets, making a monotonous dripping sound.

Several emaciated children, barefoot, chased a lame stray dog ​​in the rain. When they saw Larry and his group approaching, they immediately shrank back behind the door, revealing only their wary eyes.

Larry stopped in front of a relatively intact wooden cabin, the home of Eugene Debs, one of the railroad workers' leaders.

Bang Bang Bang!

Larry slammed his hand on the door, and shortly after, a tall, thin man with a full beard, around 40 years old, pushed the door open.

"Who are you looking for?" The tall, thin man looked at the three uninvited guests with wary eyes.

"Mr. McMillan should have already spoken to you. My name is Larry Livingston, and we need workers to help process a batch of wheat—" Larry said with a warm smile.

"Oh, I see—"

The tall, thin man visibly relaxed his guard and turned to invite the three of them into the room to chat.

Larry then noticed that he had been holding a light wood-chopping axe behind his back, but he had already tossed the axe aside next to the door.

The fireplace crackled inside, and a hand-drawn map of the Chicago railroad network was pinned to the wall, with several warehouse locations circled in red standing out.

Inside the door, Eugene Debs' wife was cooking a pot of hot potatoes. She looked up at the three of them and gave a slight smile as a greeting.

Debus's two children stared at the three of them.

The four of them sat down by the fireplace. Larry glanced at the large pot of stewed potatoes, then slapped his forehead and exclaimed, "Speaking of which—the three of us were originally going to have lunch anyway, but since we're here, why don't we just share a pot!"

Eugene raised an eyebrow. "Sure!"

"Gathering pot" was a custom among the lower classes in America at that time. It was a custom where a group of strangers would eat together for various reasons, and everyone would contribute their ingredients, which would then be stewed together in one pot and shared among everyone.

Larry smiled at Matthew, who took out his satchel and pulled out German sausages, corned beef, and salted fish, spreading them all over the floor. Finally, he took out two bottles of whiskey and placed them on the ground.

Debbs' eyes widened. "Mr. Livingston, are you just putting together a pot? How many potatoes do I have to use to match your ingredients?"

Larry smiled and waved his hand.

Matthew then kindly handed the food to Mrs. Debbs and helped her put it all into the iron pot.

Larry opened his whiskey glass and poured a glass for each of them, handing one to Eugene Debbs.

"You workers have it very tough too. You have no income during the strike, so how do you support yourselves?"

Debus took the glass, involuntarily sniffing the whiskey before saying, "High-quality stuff! Hmm—we have no choice but to do odd jobs, but wheat exports to Europe are down, and work at the docks isn't very profitable."

"Then why go on strike?" Matthew asked curiously, "Since you don't earn much money outside."

Debbs said with a wry smile, "It's so hard being a railroad worker! We put in so much hard work, but we only get so little in return—from Cincinnati to Chicago, even to Seattle. Railroad workers' wages haven't increased in 20 years. If we don't strike, we won't get the pay we deserve."

Larry nodded and asked, "Since you've been working odd jobs at various warehouses, I'd like to ask, besides Cargill at McMillan, what other warehouses have high-quality wheat?"

"Do you want to stock up?" Debs asked.

"Yes! We've handled a deal with the Swedish royal family; they want the highest quality wheat!" Larry blurted out, making it up on the spot.

Eugene Debbs shook his head slightly. "Last summer's rainy season was too long, and the roofs of the dock warehouses leaked terribly. Don't be fooled by the abundance of wheat in Chicago; if you're looking for top-quality wheat that hasn't gone moldy, it's actually quite difficult. Cargill is very careful about its grain, and well, there are two other companies—but certainly not many."

Hearing Debs say this, Larry nodded and smiled, pointing to the warehouse map on the wall and asking, "Is this the wheat warehouse in the area? It seems you know it quite well."

"We who go out to make a living must know our goals. Besides, I'm also responsible for notifying other striking workers who are facing difficulties—helping them find some work to make ends meet," Debbs continued, raising his whiskey.

Larry stopped teasing him; he had already realized that Debs had his eye on the whiskey in his hand, but hadn't drunk it out of politeness.

"We'll talk about the wheat later. God, it's so cold, let's have a drink first!" Larry laughed, gesturing for everyone to raise their glasses.

Debbs smiled, and the four of them wished each other good health before drinking a glass of whiskey.

Debbs took a sip of his whiskey, a relaxed smile on his face. Clearly, he hadn't tasted whiskey in a long time.

The four chatted for a while, and the stewed potatoes and red sausage were ready. Mrs. Debussy served each of them a plate and placed them in front of them for them to eat together.

At that moment, a series of footsteps approached, and a person walked over. Debus's face turned serious again. He stood up and looked through the door, but then opened it.

"Mr. Danno, what brings you here on such a rainy day?"

The person who appeared at the door was dressed fairly well. He went inside, took off his soaked top hat, and revealed a tired face.

But then he saw Larry and his two companions, and a look of confusion appeared on his face.

"A major client introduced by Cargill was looking for top-quality wheat and asked us to help vacate two wheat warehouses, 7..."

Debus explained.

Larry stood up with a smile. "You must be Mr. Clarence Darrow, the lawyer. It's an honor to meet you?"

Danno paused for a moment, "How do you know my name, sir?"

"I have great respect for your work as a legal advisor for the proper conduct of railway workers," Larry said, extending his hand to shake hands with the lawyer.

The five people sat down to talk again, and the lawyer also got his share of stewed potatoes and salted meat.

The lawyer, spoon in hand, ate while recounting the intelligence he had gathered to Debs: "—Illinois officials still want the railroad to resume operations as soon as possible, but I want to emphasize that the thugs and bastards who came from St. Louis and the western states haven't gone away—Eugene, you have to be prepared for the worst."

Debs nodded, raising his whiskey glass, but his eyes were on the lawyer. "The workers' demands are reasonable, and I will ensure the situation remains under control. I believe the final solution may not require bloodshed, but only a little financial pressure."

The lawyer hesitated and said, "But the spring wheat shipping season is just around the corner—the state government wants you to resume operations first."

Debbs stared at the brownish-yellow liquid of the whiskey, frowned, and remained silent.

Larry looked at the two men. "Mr. Debs, lawyer. I admire your courage. You remain calm and composed in the face of a federal injunction filed by the investors and someone as unscrupulous as Taylor."

But I'm a businessman, and my biggest worry right now is transporting my wheat. Can you guarantee the delivery of my wheat?

Debbs looked at him and said, "Mr. McMillan is usually very kind to us—since he has spoken, we will certainly help you. However, the Northern Pacific Railroad is also urging us to resume work—we don't want to get too entangled with them, and I'm hesitant right now."

The lawyer standing nearby turned to Larry and said, "The federal court might intervene in the strike on the grounds of obstructing interstate trade. You even know that scoundrel Taylor. You must also know how they deal with striking workers."

"You can be thankful you didn't have to send in the Pinkerton detectives," Dunbar suddenly said.

Debus's eyelids twitched, and he frowned, saying, "—They wouldn't, would they? If there's a strike in the future, they'll become unreasonable and just pull out guns?"

The air in the room suddenly became deathly still.

But Larry broke the awkward silence with a smile, "How about this—I don't care if you strike! But I'm willing to pay double the wages to hire workers for the wheat transport. It'll be the last week of September, and even after you return to work, you can't break your promise, okay?"

"Double the pay?! Really?" Debus's face showed an extremely surprised expression.

Larry nodded emphatically, pointed to the whiskey glasses and food on the table, and said with a smile, "Gentlemen, if I weren't sincere, I wouldn't have come here to help."

As Larry said this, he looked at Dunbar, who took two stacks of dollars from his bag and placed them on the table.

Two thick stacks of US dollars!

"Here's a $2000 deposit!" Larry laughed, pushing the green dollar bill forward. He continued, "It's a deal. I don't care if you go back to work or not, but you have to help me move wheat during the last week of September! Tell your coworkers it's double pay."

"Okay! No problem! We also need some money to prepare winter supplies!" Debus quickly stood up, his face full of smiles.

Larry and his two companions rose to say goodbye. By then, the rain outside had lessened, reduced to a light drizzle. Larry put on his hat and, before leaving, turned to Debbs and the lawyer, saying, "What you've done is very noble! But be careful how you do it, especially your safety—well, if you run into any trouble, especially from Taylor—you can come to Cargill to find me."

As he spoke, Larry smiled at the two of them, pulled his hat down, and walked out of the wooden house.

After returning to the hotel, the rain gradually intensified.

Larry had changed into a clean shirt and was standing at the window of his luxury suite, looking out.

Matthew walked in from outside the suite. He hadn't had time to change into his dry clothes yet, and was holding a document in his hand.

"Larry! This is a trading order from Stone Company. Wheat prices have already fallen below 95 cents today, and it looks like they'll continue to drop tomorrow!"

"What about our positions?"

"All the short positions are profitable! It's a pity we didn't sell enough." Matthew had a regretful smile on his face.

Matthew was still very happy to see the profit figures heavily marked in black ink on the transaction slip, even though he knew they weren't his own.

But Larry's face remained serious, as if he were contemplating a very difficult decision.

After a while, Larry turned to Matthew and said, "Tomorrow we'll continue our trip to the working-class community! I want to get more information from them."

Matthew looked puzzled. "This...isn't this inappropriate? I think the Chicago Mercantile Exchange needs you more! Larry, you know the market changes every moment, even your profits can fluctuate by hundreds or thousands of dollars every minute—"

But I don't understand you. Why did you take a liking to that shantytown? Is there some incredible secret hidden there?

Larry thought for a moment, then nodded and said, "Perhaps we can make some money now! But that's far from enough to achieve complete victory. I think the key to our victory will ultimately not be on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, but in that gray working-class neighborhood."

Matthew didn't say anything, but the expression on his face showed that he didn't believe it at all.

Larry laughed. "Want to make a bet? I can get far more profit from the working community than we are now."

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