From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 391 Keane visits the grain convoy that the Wutong Society is turning around

Dark as ink.

Keane's carriage stopped in Lower Manhattan, next to a Georgian-style building without any address.

The wind whistled through the narrow streets, carrying withered leaves. Keane stood before the cast-iron gate, raised the knocker, and gently tapped it.

The old man who opened the door seemed to ignore him, simply opening it quietly and turning to walk ahead through the garden filled with withered roses.

Upon entering the building, Keane's vision cleared up. Following the old man through the heavily guarded first floor, Keane arrived at the library on the second floor.

"Wait here!" the old man said simply, then turned and left.

James Keane straightened his back somewhat awkwardly, standing with his hands at his sides in the center of the Persian carpet. The air was filled with a mixture of cigar, aged whiskey, and herbal aromas.

A moment later, a wheelchair was pushed in by two burly young men. A bald, tall, thin old man with a full beard sat in the wheelchair, which had been made from an armchair. His withered fingers were stroking a gold coin, and his face was ashen.

"I saw your letter, Mr. Keane!" the old man said weakly, but his tone still held its own authority. "You come to see me smelling of gunpowder from Chicago—all for that young man named Livingston?"

Keane took a deep breath and pressed his top hat to his chest. "Yes, Mr. Gould! I need the support of the Sycamore Society."

"Absurd!" Gould sank into the armchair, his face so thin it resembled a skeleton wrapped in black velvet, only his eyes remained sharp.

"James, you used to be one of my most promising young players. But today, you're like a brute who starts chopping down trees after getting bitten by a mosquito."

Keane's Adam's apple twitched slightly, but he offered no explanation.

"Livingston was just a greenhorn who squeezed the market during a bumper harvest—foolish! But you're even more foolish—"

"Mr. Gould, Livingston used charity as a pretext to buy up grain and create a short squeeze. There are still deliverable warehouse receipts for wheat in September—"

"1160 million bushels—" Gould interrupted him, a hint of a sigh in his voice, "That's no reason to keep shorting, James. Anger has turned you into a gambler."

Keane's knuckles tightened again, and before he could finish explaining his reasons, Gould interrupted him.

"We can make the fleet turn around—" Keane emphasized.

"That's even dumber; the shipping costs back to Chicago will eat up 2 cents of profit per bushel."

Gould twisted his head sharply, trying to see Keane clearly. "Livingston's short squeeze is just like the method I used to deal with gold short sellers back then. He's not afraid of spot market suppression at all, because what's truly fatal is time!"

Keane's face paled. "That's precisely why, Mr. Gould. I need your wisdom! Sooner or later, Livingston will break the rules of Wall Street."

"Rules?" Gould laughed. "When the Wutong Society signed the agreement in 1792, those people were just brokers who wanted to monopolize commission rates."

Keane thought for a moment and said, "But his methods were clean and efficient; he made the market believe that prices could speak for themselves. If this trend is allowed to continue, no one will respect the rules or the Wutong Association anymore."

Gould raised his eyelids slightly, a faint hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

"You've finally hit the nail on the head, okay?"

Gould gripped the gold coin in his hand, straightened up slightly, and continued, "It's not about money, it's about order. He used a few hundred long positions to manipulate the herd mentality of millions—today it's wheat, tomorrow? Railroads, steel, government bonds—if everyone followed his example of using small bets to make big profits," Wall Street would become a gambler's playground.

Keane quickly nodded in agreement.

"Alright, James." Gould gazed blankly out the window at the dark night. "I don't have much time left. The doctor said I might not make it through the winter. The sycamores need fresh blood. You have guts, you have skill, but you lack one last lesson—control."

Helping you today might not be a good thing. But regardless of success or failure, you need to know: a true hunter never loses composure when provoked by his prey; he only pulls the trigger when the prey is most complacent and relaxed.

"I will never forget your teachings!" Keane quickly nodded in agreement.

Gould looked at Keane, his finger resting on the gold coin. "Back in 1792, when 24 brokers signed an agreement under the sycamore tree, they weren't doing it for money, but to establish rules that would allow everyone to live well. Rules that would provide a path for the weak and boundaries for the strong. Livingston's 'cleverness' is tearing those boundaries apart. If you're acting out of this consideration—you're not acting out of personal vendetta, but rather to protect those boundaries."

"I will do my best! Mr. Gould!"

Gould closed his eyes, seemingly utterly exhausted. After a while, he held up the gold coin. "Take this, Elder of the Wutong Society. Your name should be on it now."

Keane's expression changed slightly, and he quickly accepted the gold coins.

"If he has someone behind him, or is just a front man for an outsider, then don't disturb him or his master."

"Gould gave the order."

Keane nodded, but he knew Gould hadn't finished speaking.

"But if he truly got to where he is today through his own abilities, you must do everything you can to crush him, because he can shake the foundation of the Wutong Society," Gould said slowly.

Keane's expression was grave, slightly surprised by Gould's sudden change in attitude, which seemed to be aimed at "eliminating all threats".

Keane wanted to ask a few more questions, but Gould looked extremely tired and waved his hand, indicating that Keane could leave.

After Keane left, Gould returned to his bedroom. The firewood burning in the fireplace slowly cooled him down.

Like a snake that has just crawled out of its cave, having gathered enough warmth, Gould slowly straightened up and placed a small, leather-bound manuscript on his lap.

This is the "Wutong Notebook" from the Wutong Society, with pages made of special moisture-proof paper. Gould opened the booklet; the pages were empty, as if nothing had ever been recorded there.

When Gould tilted the booklet slightly to the side, he could see the words, faintly visible in the ink mixed with silver powder, illuminated by the fireplace light.

Gould frequently turned to his own page in this handbook: "September 20, 1869, 15 million in gold was mobilized, and the Treasury's telegraph lines were cut off for three hours. Vanderbilt lost 2 million. Fisk died in a gunfight."

There was also a note he wrote himself: "This is a necessary sacrifice, not a human sacrifice, but an anchor of order! There is no truth."

"Truth—there aren't that many truths." Gould closed his eyes. "Order should not be disrupted. The panic of 1873 was not a natural disaster; we started it. The railroad bond collapse of 1884 was fueled by us—Wall Street doesn't care whether the world is going to end or not, but it must ensure that all members of the guilds can survive until the final judgment day."

Gould habitually reached for his gold coin, but then shook his head slightly, remembering that he had already given it to James Keane.

"Livingston—it's you again!"

Gould slowly opened his eyes, muttering to himself, "You ruined my plans before—otherwise, half of New York's richest people might have disappeared by now—the tides are silent, yet they have their own direction—we are the tides!"

A spark from the fireplace crackled and popped, illuminating his face.

Also on Monday evening, at Cargill's headquarters.

Larry only realized he had actually been starving after having steak for dinner.

Old Cargill frowned as he watched Larry wolf down his steak and slurp down expensive wine like water.

"He doesn't even eat properly—and he doesn't even pray before meals—this nouveau riche." Old Cargill muttered to his son-in-law.

Road.

McMillan smiled but didn't reply. He knew his father-in-law had always disliked Larry Livingston, but now the two sides were allies, and McMillan could also see that Larry was no ordinary man; he had actually orchestrated a counterattack on Monday's trading day.

By leveraging the linkage between spot and futures markets, he single-handedly altered market expectations. This ruthless tactic easily reminded McMillan, who had some knowledge of American financial history, of the renowned speculators, and this young man in front of him was very likely to become one of them.

After Larry finished his steak and sat down to rest, clutching his stomach, McMillan approached him and reported on Cargill's wheat purchases across the country that day.

Larry nodded, looked up at him with a smile, and said, "Everything's fine! Isn't it?"

"I don't think there's a big problem. Wheat futures prices should stabilize above 70 cents on Tuesday. If necessary, we can even raise the purchase price," McMillan said, looking Larry in the eye. "—But I think it will be very difficult to push wheat prices even higher!"

Larry shrugged and didn't answer the question.

McMillan knew that this was the other party keeping his trading plans a secret from him.

"Will you continue the attack tomorrow?" McMillan asked again.

Larry smiled, took out a cigar, cut off the end, and heated it with a special match as he said, "I want to see a counterattack from my opponent, otherwise I can't reveal all my cards."

After thinking for a few seconds, Larry added, "Have you ever watched a boxing match?"

"I've seen it!"

Larry nodded. "Parry! You know, when two boxers are facing off, every second is a weighing of what to do next: continue defending, move your feet, or start attacking. But at this point, it's best to make decisions based on the opponent's response. For example, if the opponent is parrying, then you only need to guard against their right hook counter-punch, and you can attack with confidence."

In other words, if the opponent doesn't parry, it's usually just a probing jab; but if the opponent parries the jab, then you can follow up with ten punches in quick succession, ideally crushing them in one go!

snort!

Old Cargill, in the distance, snorted disdainfully.

McMillan's eyes narrowed. He hadn't expected Larry to be thinking so complexly. After a few seconds of thought, he cautiously asked, "Is it really that exaggerated?"

Larry ignored old Cargill and explained to McMillan, "Mr. McMillan, you need to understand that local Chicago brokers only do short-term trading. There are still so many short positions open on the exchange—and those who dare to short on a large scale are not simple people; most of them are traders from Wall Street. Do you expect them to obediently surrender?"

McMillan nodded. "Alright—but in my eyes, you're a manipulator too! Your planning and execution of this move on wheat is truly astounding—similar to Jay Gould, or his friend James Fix, who even fooled President Grant back then, making a fortune by going long on gold."

Upon hearing this, Larry burst into laughter, shaking his head as he laughed. "How could I become that kind of speculator? You know, Wall Street has its own circles; they all need to work together to make big money."

"I don't have the ability, and I can't fit into that circle."

McMillan frowned and asked, "Why?"

"There's no such thing as a free lunch!" Larry explained with a laugh. "Joining that circle means you have to stick with the people in it, but that's really foolish—that kind of circle will restrict your freedom."

"But doesn't having a circle also provide an extra layer of protection? Funds pooled together bring greater power." McMillan countered. "No, no!" Larry waved his hand firmly, his expression becoming serious. "A very important person gave me a book, *The Wealth of Nations*! You surely know it, written by the Englishman Adam Smith. I often read that book; in the first volume, chapter 10, there's a line: 'Even if people gather together for amusement, it will inevitably turn into a conspiracy that harms the public interest.'"

"What does this mean?" McMillan asked with interest.

Just then, Matthew walked over and whispered something to Larry. Larry nodded, then turned to McMillan and old Gaggi, "Tonight—or rather, these next few days, could we stay here for a few days?"

"Okay—what, you don't like the luxury hotel?" Old Cargill asked, frowning.

“No,” Larry replied with a laugh, “Taylor from St. Louis is staying at the same hotel as us, and he’s wanted by the Chicago Police Department. I’m afraid he might do something desperate, and it could cause a lot of trouble—”

"Alright! But we can only provide you with a temporary cot here." After saying that, Old Cargill turned around and asked the workers to arrange accommodations.

McMillan was also very interested in Larry's quote of Adam Smith, and he continued to ask what the quote meant.

Larry thought for a moment and said, "—I'll explain it to you after all this is over!"

Tuesday, April 1892, 9.

The Chicago Mercantile Exchange wheat futures contract entered its second day of delivery week.

At six o'clock in the morning, the thin mist on the surface of Lake Michigan had not yet dissipated, and the lake water stretched to the horizon like an iron-gray silk ribbon.

On a lake thirty nautical miles from the port of Chicago, a fleet of twelve large steamships was cutting through the waves at full speed on its way back. Each steam barge bore the blue and white logo of the "Atlantic-European Continental Express Company".

These twelve ships were all Great Lakes-class steam-powered grain carriers launched in 1889. Each ship had a deadweight tonnage of 95,000 bushels (approximately 2,400 tons), a draft of 18 feet, and was equipped with twin propellers and coal-fired boilers. The design speed was 12 knots (approximately 22 kilometers per hour).

Below deck, the cargo ship was loaded with 114 million bushels of grain shipped from major wheat-producing regions and destined for Liverpool and Hamburg.

This is the "Tidal Scepter" that James Keane received from Gould last night.

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