From legendary short seller to god of American capital

Chapter 407 The Crisis of The Wall Street Journal: Livingston's Call

On April 15, 1893, at four o'clock in the afternoon, dark clouds covered the sky, and the sky was so gloomy that it seemed as if a downpour could come at any moment.

The editorial office of The Wall Street Journal, located on the second floor of 71 Broadway in New York City, is currently in the midst of its usual busy activity.

The editorial office room was less than 20 square meters, yet it was crammed with a mahogany table, three chairs, a Remington typewriter, a Bell telephone, and piles of newspaper proofs.

Charles Henry Dow stood before the long table, a sharpened pencil in his right hand and his left hand pressing against the newly printed copy of "The Book of Dow".

Proof of the Wall Street Journal.

Because the light was too dim, he had to light two kerosene lamps and use the dim light to make the test.

At 43, he was tall and slightly hunched, like an oak tree that had endured too long in a storm. At this moment, his gray eyes behind his glasses were focused yet weary, meticulously checking the front page headline word by word:

The Philadelphia and Reading Railroad went bankrupt, and gold reserves fell below the warning line—a prelude to panic.

"Charles."

Edward Jones walked in through the door, carrying an account book. Jones was 37 years old, but he had the youthful appearance of a college graduate, though fine lines had appeared at the corners of his eyes.

But his lips were tightly pursed, clearly indicating that he wasn't in a good mood.

With a thud, Jones slammed the ledger on the table, his face turning ashen.

"GG ​​revenue dropped another 30% this month. New England Railroad withdrew its entire GG ad, and Morgan Stanley said—they're not considering placing any bond issuance announcements with us for the time being!"

Dao didn't look up or respond to his companion's complaints. Instead, he circled the words "prelude to panic" and changed them to "crisis that has already broken out".

"Say something, Charles!"

"News value is more important than GG, Edward."

"But the newspapers can't pay the printing presses!" Jones raised his voice. "Do you know how much paper costs went up last month? 15%! Because the paper mills are worried about not getting paid and are demanding cash, while our biggest clients—those Wall Street brokers—are busy dealing with their clients' losses and complaints! They're practically bankrupt now, who's going to read the newspapers?"

Dao finally raised his head, seemingly casually gazing at his companion.

"It is precisely because they are in crisis that they need to see this even more!" Dao's voice was calm, yet it seemed to carry an undeniable authority. "When everyone is panicking, the truth is the only lifeline. Our duty is to make that lifeline stronger, not to consider whether it can be sold for money."

Jones opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but in the end it turned into a weary sigh.

He pulled up a chair and sat down, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the cover of the ledger.

"Bergstriser went to see Morgan's people yesterday—"

Jones said in a low voice, "Senior Partner Koster said that Morgan Stanley is willing to invest $5 in exchange for 40% of the company's equity and priority access to the front page of GG."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

The pencil stopped in Dao's hand. He slowly took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt. He did this whenever he needed to think.

"Did you agree?" Dao's voice was devoid of emotion.

"Not yet." Jones gave a wry smile. "I said I needed to discuss it with you. But Charles, we need to be realistic. Banks are already starting to fail, and many businesses are facing liquidity crises—"

你知道吗？昨天《纽约论坛报》裁掉了1/3的记者，《商业评论》据说撑不过下个月。我们呢？发行量从去年的1万2000份跌至现在的7000份，而且还在跌。」

As he spoke, Jones leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his eyes filled with a mixture of pleading and resentment. "$5 can get us through this year. With Morgan's name backing us, other GG merchants will come back, and we can survive until the economy recovers—"

"And then?" Dao interrupted him, putting his glasses back on. "Become Morgan's mouthpiece? Turn the front page into their propaganda column—make our Wall Street Journal just another puppet on Wall Street?"

Although his voice was calm, every word struck Jones's heart like a hammer.

"Edward, why did we start this newspaper? It's not just to make money, at least not entirely."

It's because we've seen the ills of this market: information is monopolized, the truth is manipulated, and small investors are slaughtered like lambs. We want to establish—a fair record system, a window that lets the sunlight shine into the dark corners of Wall Street.

"Ideals can't fill your stomach!" Jones finally exploded. He slammed his fist on the table, glaring at Charles, and said, "Charles, I respect your principles, but principles can't be printed in newspapers. Look outside!" His finger pointed sharply out the window, as if at that moment, the commotion outside suddenly burst into the room—

"Who isn't being kept by the big shots on Wall Street? If you don't say what the bosses want to hear, you're doomed sooner or later—and yet you're going to keep exposing crises and shady dealings! Your attacks are all aimed at our big financial backers! Business is tough right now, and if you keep clinging to your journalistic ideals, we might be the first newspaper to go bankrupt in this panic!"

Dao looked at him silently, the flame of the kerosene lamp flickering between the two, casting their shadows on the wall piled with proofs.

The standoff was like that of those gunmen in the West, who should have drawn their guns at each other at any moment.

After a full three minutes, Dao finally spoke slowly, "So you think we should kneel down?"

Jones was stunned.

"Kneel down and lick Morgan's boots. In exchange for scraps." Dao's voice was soft, but his words were sharp. "And then what? When he no longer needs us, he kicks us aside? Or worse, he uses our credibility to carry out some market manipulation and then makes us take the blame?"

Jones froze for a few seconds, offering no rebuttal. He knew that in the eyes of a powerful corporation like Morgan, the most important function of the *Wall Street Journal* was that it was a virgin—

Once its integrity was tarnished, the Wall Street Journal's mission was accomplished; its value vanished, and it was reduced to a streetwalker, waiting in line for capitalists' press releases.

Dao stood up, his tall figure almost touching the low ceiling—he moved to the wall where a hand-drawn chart was pasted.

The horizontal axis represents time, and the vertical axis represents valuation. The trend of more than a dozen railway companies is marked in red and blue.

"I'm researching something." Dao's fingers traced the curves. "A kind of market thermometer. By adding up the stock prices of several or even dozens of important companies and taking the average, calculating and recording it continuously every day, we can see the pulse of the entire market, instead of being misled by the sharp rises and falls of a single stock."

Jones stared blankly at the chart. They had discussed this idea many times, but it had never been as clear as it was now.

"If successful," Dao turned around, his eyes gleaming, "this will be Wall Street's first true market index. It will become a compass for all investors, a benchmark for measuring the health of the economy. And the Wall Street Journal will be the sole publisher of this index."

He walked back to the table, picked up the proof with both hands, and looked down at Jones. "Edward, you asked me why I persist. This is the answer. It's not because of arrogance, not because of foolish idealism, but because I believe—no! I know—that what we are creating is more valuable than all of Morgan's money combined."

"But we need money to create it!" Jones's voice had weakened.

"Then let's find money that doesn't require us to kneel!" Dao's voice was resolute. "Find people who recognize this value."

We're looking for people who, like us, believe the market needs transparency.

Just then, the phone on the wall suddenly rang.

The sharp ringing of the bell echoed in the cramped space, startling everyone.

Jones and Dao exchanged a glance, then stood up and answered the phone.

"Dow Jones & Company. Yes, I am Edward Jones—who?—Livingston? Which Livingston?"

Jones looked up as he spoke, his face full of surprise, "—Larry Livingston?!"

Dao suddenly turned his head.

Jones covered the microphone and mouthed silently: "That wheat king of Chicago. He said—he wants to meet you."

"For my article from February?" Dao asked, frowning.

"No—" Jones spoke a few more words to the person on the other end of the microphone, and said again, "He heard that we are selling shares of the newspaper to raise funds—he said he has a plan that can keep The Wall Street Journal alive without having to bow to Morgan."

Dao's eyes were solemn, and he nodded.

Jones hurriedly relayed Dao's decision to the middleman—fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

Jones answered the phone again, and upon hearing the other person introduce themselves, his expression changed slightly.

"It's him—" Jones continued lip-reading.

Dao took the microphone. His hand was steady, but his fingertips were slightly white.

"Mr. Livingston. I am Charles Dow."

A young, clear voice, with a strange, magnetic quality, came from the other end of the phone.

"Mr. Dao! I've read all your reports over the past three months regarding the railroad company bankruptcies. I was particularly impressed by the article from February 24th, 'The Philadelphia and Reading Railroad Bankruptcy: An Overlooked Warning Sign of Crisis'!"

Dao felt his heart skip a beat. He had written the article himself, pointing out that the railway company's crisis was not just due to poor management by the owners, but rather a widespread problem of underutilized capacity across the United States' railway system.

After this issue was published, The Wall Street Journal was terminated by several railroad companies.

Of course, after the article was published, almost all Wall Street brokers scoffed at it, believing that he was exaggerating.

But Mr. Livingston was very interested—was this a test or a trial?

"So I thought," the voice on the other end of the phone continued, "that maybe we could talk about a collaboration. Tomorrow at 11:30 a.m., at Delmonico Restaurant on Fifth Avenue. My treat!"

After a two-second silence, he asked, "Mr. Livingston, I need to know your purpose!"

"Purpose?" The young voice chuckled lightly, seemingly unconcerned about being doubted. "I want to invest in a media outlet that tells the truth, it's that simple!"

Why?

"Because," Livingston paused, his voice suddenly becoming extremely serious, "I just beat some people in the futures market, and I know that if I want to beat the next opponent, I need a pair of eyes. A pair of eyes that are not blinded by Morgan, not by the Wutong Society, not by any vested interests."

After hanging up the phone, Dao slowly put down the receiver, his fingers lingering on the cold brass casing for a long time.

Jones looked at him nervously. "What did he say?"

Dao did not answer immediately. He walked back to the long table, picked up the newspaper proof, and his eyes fell on the headline on the front page again.

Then, he suddenly laughed.

"Edward!" He turned to look at his partner, his tone filled with pleasure. "Go tell Bergstriser to reply to Morgan's people: thank him for his kindness, but Dow Jones—does not need the investment for the time being."

"Why? Just because of Livingston's phone call?"

"Because—" Dao picked up a pencil and wrote a line on the edge of the proof. It wasn't a revision, but a person's name: Larry Livingston.

"We may have found a third option."

The next day at 11:30 a.m.

Private dining room at Delmonico restaurant on Fifth Avenue, New York.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns on the mahogany table. The air was filled with the aroma of grilled steak, Bordeaux wine, and fresh roses.

This is the most expensive food in all of New York City; one meal here is worth three months' salary for an average worker.

Larry sat in the head seat, wearing a perfectly tailored dark gray three-piece suit. His expression was slightly resolute, like that of a veteran who had been battling on Wall Street for over 20 years.

But his eyes were different—azure, sharp, and always carrying a hint of curious smile—revealing his true age.

Charles Dow sat opposite him, still wearing that slightly worn black suit, his back straight, like a soldier.

Edward Jones and Charles Bergstriser sat on either side of him, the former nervously fiddling with his napkin, while the latter curiously observed the legendary "King of Wheat."

"First of all," Larry raised his glass, "thank you all for coming. I know that time is more precious than gold for The Wall Street Journal right now."

Dao nodded slightly. "Mr. Livingston, we can skip the formalities. What exactly did you mean by 'cooperation' you mentioned on the phone?"

Should we get straight to the point?

Larry smiled and looked at Dao, putting down his wine glass. "Good! I've investigated your company—officially founded in 1889, with an initial capital of approximately $8000? Provided by Mr. Bergstriser."

The current circulation is 7000 copies, but it's declining. The main revenue comes from Google Play, but economic panic has led to Google Play distributors cancelling orders. The biggest potential investor is IPM Morgan, but on the condition of control of the front page—and you refused!

Larry turned to Dao and his two companions. "Why did you refuse?"

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