Chapter Nine: I Will Take This Sedan Chair

From the second day onward, William White’s people began to intervene in the silver market. Without a doubt, their approach was all long positions. Recently, silver had been extremely popular, and for the time being, no one paid much attention. Uncle Fu was also curious; logically, gold was hotter, so why did the young master favor silver?

Silver futures were not easy to trade—this was the Hunt family’s domain.

Wait a moment, the Hunt family? The young master couldn’t possibly be unaware!

“Young master, silver is controlled by the Hunt family. Are you sure this won’t be a problem?”

“Heh, don’t worry. They’re bound to push the price higher. I’ve received word that the Mexican government has struck a deal with them, and they’ll be buying a large amount of spot silver.”

“So, they’ll only be going long.”

“We’re small players. Just picking up some crumbs.”

The Hunt family’s investment in silver wasn’t a secret. No one could single-handedly move the market; they needed plenty of cannon fodder.

One had to admit, America was truly the chosen land. They lacked nothing in terms of resources. The reserves of all kinds of metal ores were astonishing.

The surprising part was, given such resources, why didn’t they exploit them?

Having lived another life, William understood well. The cost of printing dollars was far lower, and Americans had no need to mine. This was the hegemony of an international settlement currency. No one could do anything about it.

“Boss, buy-in capital has appeared in London. The amount isn’t large, but it’s very resolute.”

“There’s been no favorable news lately. Why is this happening?”

“I suspect it’s just hot money—here for a quick profit, then gone.”

“Let’s hope so. Keep a close watch. See who they really are.”

“Understood, boss.”

It had to be said, the Hunt family was quite cautious. Even scattered funds drew their attention.

Investigating was a joke—London was not their turf. American funds were even smaller and more dispersed. Trying to investigate was pure fantasy.

Another major issue: all these were offshore companies. The clients were mostly mining firms. Even finding the futures broker was useless.

This was William White’s meticulous design; how could he let them crack it so easily? To uncover the whole story wouldn’t be done in a few days—at least a few months. By the time the Hunt family realized it, they’d probably be quite frustrated.

The Academic Press was equally frustrated. Initially, they thought it was just a wealthy man’s self-indulgence, but they discovered the quality of the book was excellent. If not for being a newcomer’s work, it would easily be a bestseller.

Their current dilemma was that the royalties were utterly outrageous. Even bestselling authors can’t get twenty percent royalties!

Well, maybe a handful, but only a few worldwide.

The crux of the issue was, they really had no options. All initial costs were borne by the other party—if the novel flopped, tens of thousands of books would be hauled away by the client, not the publisher.

Now the real problem was, the book’s quality was truly outstanding. At the time, the editor was indeed reckless. How could one agree to such terms?

Such thoughts were overly harsh; contracts differed for different clients. The books of wealthy patrons, written for self-amusement, all followed this pattern.

Back out?

Don’t be ridiculous. The author hadn’t even appeared in person, just sent a lawyer to sign the contract. The signing attorney was no fresh graduate. If the publisher dared to renege, they’d be sued into bankruptcy.

In truth, these people were just greedy. What’s the harm in twenty percent royalties? As long as sales are strong, profits would pile up. And it was a sure bet—if the books didn’t sell, they’d still make money. So, it was all just petty fussing.

April in Manhattan brought pleasant weather. Though still a bit cold, it was nothing to worry about.

Texans were tough-skinned and thick-hided, indifferent to harsh weather. It really did relate to their environment. Half of America’s natural disasters struck Texas—hurricanes, floods.

People in China could play mahjong during floods; Texans could fall in love during them.

Despite so many disasters, Texans lived vibrantly. That rebellious spirit was ingrained—others couldn’t imitate it.

Texans were headstrong, never patient. If not necessary, it was best not to offend them.

Just look at the Bush father and son. They really did fire at will. Poor Saddam—after being targeted by both, he ended up dangling.

“Young master, half the position has been built. What’s next?”

“Keep building. Anything below $5.80 is fine. Maintain a thirty percent position, buy low and sell high. The six-dollar mark won’t be breached for now.”

“Understood, young master. I’ll notify them immediately.”

William White had already noticed that he couldn’t remain calm at the trading center. Best to stay far from that damned place.

Those with cheats always suffered external influences. Others shouldn’t try this game; you’d soon get lost in it, becoming a slave to money.

Those holding the parchment scrolls wouldn’t, for they had tradition.

According to William White, Jewish families taught their children not how to make money first, but how to resist the lure of wealth.

William White had no such guidance, which is why he kept his distance, so his judgment wouldn’t be clouded.

One thing he was certain of: his capital was woefully insufficient. Funds at this level might draw attention, but not serious concern.

Yet the reality differed. As soon as his funds entered, the opposition noticed.

The good news was, because the sources were so scattered, the other side was misled. They now believed these funds belonged to the coffers of desert tycoons.

The logic was simple: though they cooperated, no one put all their eggs in one basket. Using their foresight to earn a bit was perfectly normal. No one could object.

This mistaken judgment let William White dodge a bullet. His capital was so meager that if the opposition chose to shake the market, he’d be powerless to resist.

The Hunt family and the desert tycoons’ cooperation was simple: each had their own agenda. Neither saw the other as trustworthy.

For this reason, the Hunt family couldn’t inquire. Even if they asked, the answer might not be truthful, or even believable. It would only invite humiliation. So, the matter was dropped.

“Young master, in a week your new book will be on the shelves.”

“Good. Buy a copy for me. Let’s hope they don’t make any mistakes.”

“They shouldn’t; we’ve sent another round of reviewers.”

“All right, hopefully it will sell well.”

Unaware he had narrowly escaped disaster, William White was quite pleased. His people had done well, continually buying low and selling high, successfully keeping costs at about $5.65.

At this point, victory was assured. Anyone wanting to force him out would have to drive the price down to around five dollars.

The Hunt family certainly had the power, but they’d never dare. Seventy percent of America’s physical silver was in their hands. If the price dropped more than ten percent, their losses would be measured in billions.

If all that money was theirs, it wouldn’t matter. They could just drive the price back up. Sadly, most of it didn’t belong to them.