Cowperwood smiled his inscrutable smile.  There were so many ins and outs to this financial life.  It was an endless network of underground holes, along which all sorts of influences were moving.  A little wit, a little nimbleness, a little luck-time and opportunity—­these sometimes availed.  Here he was, through his ambition to get on, and nothing else, coming into contact with the State treasurer and the governor.  They were going to consider his case personally, because he demanded that it be considered—­nothing more.  Others more influential than himself had quite as much right to a share, but they didn’t take it.  Nerve, ideas, aggressiveness, how these counted when one had luck!

He went away thinking how surprised Drexel & Co. and Cooke & Co. would be to see him appearing in the field as a competitor.  In his home, in a little room on the second floor next his bedroom, which he had fixed up as an office with a desk, a safe, and a leather chair, he consulted his resources.  There were so many things to think of.  He went over again the list of people whom he had seen and whom he could count on to subscribe, and in so far as that was concerned—­the award of one million dollars—­he was safe.  He figured to make two per cent. on the total transaction, or twenty thousand dollars.  If he did he was going to buy a house out on Girard Avenue beyond the Butlers’, or, better yet, buy a piece of ground and erect one; mortgaging house and property so to do.  His father was prospering nicely.  He might want to build a house next to him, and they could live side by side.  His own business, aside from this deal, would yield him ten thousand dollars this year.  His street-car investments, aggregating fifty thousand, were paying six per cent.  His wife’s property, represented by this house, some government bonds, and some real estate in West Philadelphia amounted to forty thousand more.  Between them they were rich; but he expected to be much richer.  All he needed now was to keep cool.  If he succeeded in this bond-issue matter, he could do it again and on a larger scale.  There would be more issues.  He turned out the light after a while and went into his wife’s boudoir, where she was sleeping.  The nurse and the children were in a room beyond.

“Well, Lillian,” he observed, when she awoke and turned over toward him, “I think I have that bond matter that I was telling you about arranged at last.  I think I’ll get a million of it, anyhow.  That’ll mean twenty thousand.  If I do we’ll build out on Girard Avenue.  That’s going to be the street.  The college is making that neighborhood.”

“That’ll be fine, won’t it, Frank!” she observed, and rubbed his arm as he sat on the side of the bed.

Her remark was vaguely speculative.

“We’ll have to show the Butlers some attention from now on.  He’s been very nice to me and he’s going to be useful—­I can see that.  He asked me to bring you over some time.  We must go.  Be nice to his wife.  He can do a lot for me if he wants to.  He has two daughters, too.  We’ll have to have them over here.”