May

17

A Tale of Two Brokers

May 17, 2022 |

It was the best of brokerage houses. It was the worst of brokerage houses. It was the age of brokers refusing to let their customers panic. It was the age of giving customers 1 second to meet their 10-times-as-high margins. it was the season of raising money for the great coming industries: the railroads, the autos, the chain stores. It was the age of assuring customers that there was nothing before us but inevitable declines. It was the time when brokers would fight for the best executions for their customers. It was the time when it was impossible to speak to a human.

one brokerage house was memorialized by Edwin Lefevre in The Making of a Stock Broker, written in 1909, and is apparently the forerunner of Merrill Lynch. The other is the notorious present day options leader.

Lefevre tells the story of a dentist. he was long steel at 40. it reached 39 7/8. the dentist did a 4-inute mile to the broker's office. "sell everything!" he shouted. he was still studying the quotation and smiling, not because he had lost but because everything had gone still lower. Next to making money is the pleasure of watching others lose much more. "what did you do with your patient? leave him in the chair?" "Like hell! He heard you say 39. He was long one thousand steel. He beat me to the building by 20 yards."

A lot of the business of the Street in my youth was done in the open air, particularly in Broad Street, where we had the original and real curb market. Business there began right after the close of the Exchange at three, and lasted about an hour and a half. It was a sort of postscript market and at times the volume of business was quite large, almost as much as we did on the floor. In a way it was like a big fair, where everybody was acquainted. The small fry may have admired the big fish, but they usually called them by their first names. Most of the habitués were members of the I-Knew-Him-When Club. The ticker did a lot of social leveling in those days. I might be walking down Wall Street and I’d hear somebody yell ‘J.G.! J.G!’ Looking up, I’d see one of the alert split-commission brokers hurrying after a dark little man with very bright eyes and a black beard - the great Jay Gould, one of the greatest geniuses that ever operated in Wall Street, the sinister figure of whom old Daniel Drew in a moment of financial agony said, ‘His touch is death!’ A very rich and very powerful person, and yet all a man had to do if he wished to speak to him was to yell ‘Jay Gould!’ and the great Jay Gould would wait for him there in the Street.

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