Chapter Eight: The Glittering World of Wall Street

The symphony of animals easily awakened William White. He shook his sore neck and walked naked into the bathroom.

Admittedly, this sleeping habit was rather unbefitting of nobility. Aristocrats were supposed to sleep in nightwear; one would never see them like this.

“Uncle Ford, I’ve finished writing. Take it to the publisher.”

“Very well, young master. I’m sure this book will be popular.”

“Let’s hope so. If it sells well, I can keep writing.”

“It will, certainly.”

After breakfast, he rode his horse for a stroll around the farm. This, too, counted as part of his work. In Texas, few people couldn’t ride; men and women alike. In this era, horses were still viable transport—perhaps only in Texas.

“Uncle Ford, tomorrow we’re going to New York. I want to experience the atmosphere there.”

“Certainly, young master. The traders are all arranged, ready to begin whenever you wish.”

“Good, I understand.”

His young master had, overnight, grown up. Uncle Ford felt reassured now. In his view, the oil company was the root of all trouble; giving it up was no loss at all.

Nothing happened that day. Early the next morning, five large pickups sped out of the farm, heading straight for Houston.

Although he had his father’s Rolls-Royce at home, he didn’t care for it. To him, it was more like an antique.

Texas pickups were more like trucks, and people here preferred larger vehicles. Japanese compacts were unwelcome; even the girls disliked driving them.

As an important oil-producing region, Texas had the cheapest fuel in America. Gasoline and diesel were at least twenty percent cheaper than in California. Energy-saving and emission reduction meant nothing here.

The planes of this era were a real source of anxiety. Wasn’t this thing supposed to be one hundred percent safe?

The more advanced the aircraft, the more disastrous an accident. Propeller planes could still make emergency landings. Jet planes were simply hunks of metal; if they lost power, it was basically free fall.

By comparison, the safety of the 747 was probably the best. When he got rich, he would get himself a 747.

His business couldn’t possibly be centered in Texas. Flying back and forth was inevitable; a reliable plane was of utmost importance.

The first-class seat was very comfortable, and the flight attendants’ service was excellent, but after all, it was several hours in the air. Travel fatigue was unavoidable.

By the time they arrived in Manhattan, it was already evening. The group quickly left the airport and sped toward the Long Island villa.

That villa had been bought by his father, but no one usually lived there. Now, of course, it had already been tidied up. Even the bodyguards who came to meet him had arrived yesterday. If not for these arrangements, they’d have ended up in a hotel tonight.

After this journey, William White was somewhat tired. He ate a simple dinner and went straight to bed. Those bastards were tough to deal with, and keeping a clear mind was essential.

Long Island’s morning lacked the cries of animals but was far from quiet. All manner of unknown birds tried to rouse every sleeping creature.

“Uncle Ford, everyone else is opening accounts as planned.”

“Yes, young master.”

“After breakfast, let’s go to Manhattan for a look.”

“Very well.”

William White didn’t like Manhattan; its streets were excessively narrow. The towering buildings on either side pressed in, making the mood oppressive.

And that ridiculous bull. However he looked, it seemed a little spiritless.

On Wall Street these years, a big brown bear would have been more fitting. The stock market had been in a slump for a long time. To have a bull here was laughable. And this joke was set to continue for quite a while.

Wall Street began its daily clamor; even in a depressed market, its lively scenes never changed.

The current trading methods seemed like a joke to William White. He could not fathom how, with all the shouting, the parties ever confirmed delivery.

Institutional seats were well organized, but individual investors were better off staying away; they would be slaughtered.

Fortunately, America truly didn’t have many retail investors—most trades were handled by brokers. Ordinary people couldn’t handle this.

Even now, before any wild swings, these people acted as though they were pumped full of adrenaline. If the market soared or crashed, those with weak hearts would be finished.

The futures market was clearly more lively. The depreciation of the dollar had directly fueled a surge in precious metals trading. Capital always chased profit, and this money needed a place to vent.

Silver was priced at only 5.6 dollars per ounce. Clearly, these scoundrels hadn’t acted yet. William White remembered well—by early June, silver easily broke the six-dollar mark, then surged ahead.

Why things later turned out as they did, William couldn’t understand. Silver was indeed undervalued. When it rose to twenty dollars, it was still within a reasonable range.

If the final price had stayed around nineteen, there would have been no issue. The Hunt family would have become as fat as pigs.

Futures contracts carried leverage; forget tripling your money—even a thirty percent rise was terrifying.

One thing William White was sure of: the desert tycoons were utterly fleeced. The money they made from years of oil drilling was wiped out in an instant.

Could it be that the target this time was the desert tycoons, and the Hunt family were patriots? To ruin the oil princes, they even destroyed themselves.

Seeing the grim faces of the traders, William could only sigh. It wasn’t their own money, so why drive themselves mad?

Some claimed this was paradise—well, they must have been lucky. Others called it hell—clearly, those were the ones who had lost everything.

The securities market was a highly conservative place. There was no online trading yet; even when people later bought stocks from their computers, the New York trading center looked the same. He truly couldn’t understand the necessity of it all.

William White now understood why Buffett had always stayed in the countryside.

A normal person would go mad here. The so-called rational valuation was a joke. Best to stay far from Wall Street, if one wanted to remain unaffected.

“Let’s go, Uncle Ford. We’re leaving.”

“Yes, young master.”

Glancing once more at the distant, plump bull, William White couldn’t help but smile wryly. In an era of rampant inflation, where was the bull market?

But it wasn’t true that no one made money—at least you could short-sell. If you had the guts and luck, bull or bear didn’t matter.

To avoid alerting the Hunt family, William decided to use twelve accounts, settling through different futures brokers.

The precious metals market had plenty of issues. At the very least, one thing was off—the margin requirements were far too low. Any small fluctuation could trigger a wave of margin calls.

One silver contract had a face value of a thousand dollars, corresponding to five thousand ounces of silver. When silver was two dollars, it was nothing—the underlying asset was worth ten thousand dollars, about ten times leverage.

Now, with silver close to six dollars, leverage was thirty times. A movement over three percent would liquidate an account. Calling this investment was a joke—the metals futures center was more like a gambling den.

The regulators certainly knew the risks, but with money tight, raising margin requirements would shrink trading volume. Their income depended on transaction volume, after all. The risks weren’t theirs to bear; besides, other people’s kids could die forever.