Ruban rond: English translation - round ribbon.
The term originated in 17th century France where government officials signed petitions of grievances on ribbons which were then attached to the document in a circle to conceal the order of signing. The British Royal Navy later adopted the practice when appeals were signed with signatures arranged like spokes of a wheel.
During the 19th century, ruban rond influenced a different way of storytelling that quickly gained popularity as a parlor game known as Round Robin. Participants sat in a circle with the host or hostess beginning the evening’s oratorical tale, stopping after a few sentences so the next person could continue the story with their own improvised contribution. As the tale worked its way around the room the storyline grew and, depending on the party guests’ imaginations, provided enjoyable entertainment.
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When not catapulting spoons into a Toby for pub money, Scott Lancer and George McCallister would gather a few other Harvard lads for a rousing game of Round Robin which they aptly renamed Round Rye’n to reflect the cheap bottle of rye whiskey that accompanied the circular path of their storytelling. Needless to say, consumption of the John Barleycorn inspired riotous tales, most often involving Tillie the Tassel’s voluminous bosom and swaying hips.
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The pub-pastime memory tumbled into Scott’s brain as The Merchant Bank of Green River’s president repeated what was to be the prompt for an improvisational story that held the possibility of an unfortunate ending.
“A financial advisor from Melbourne?” Leonard Sussman’s heavily waxed handlebar mustache cracked slightly upon the frowning query while his eyes settled on Kinsey’s trustee for an answer.
Oh, what Scott would give for a bottle of rot-gut rye. Instead, a reassuring smile was mustered up. “Sir, perhaps we could have this conversation in a more private setting.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The bank president’s hand-shaking arm swept toward a closed door. “This way, please.”
Sussman’s office was quite modest when compared to the Boston and Sacramento banks Scott had done business with in the past. Leonard proudly displayed front and center on his desk for all to admire the room’s only noticeable item of opulence. Bestowed to him by Green River’s town council for outstanding community service sat a bronze inlaid rosewood inkstand with pen trays, a stamp box, and a pair of inkwells, over a single drawer raised on scrolling decorative feet - a worthy well-deserved gift, indeed. Although quiet talk of the town had it Sussman’s monetary contribution of generosity to the Methodist Ladies Ice Cream Social and Prayer Revival, organized each year by Mrs. Sussman, may have influenced the council’s decision of recognition.
“I apologize, Mr. Smith, for the limited seating.”
Scott hid a smirk at the fleeting sincerity in Leonard’s expression of regret. Sussman’s domain permitted only two chairs for visitors which he quickly offered to his bank’s high-end customers, leaving a possible fly in the ointment from Melbourne awkwardly standing.
“An apology is unnecessary, sir.” Mannheim donned his version of a congenial smile. “I’ve suggested to Miss Furlong that her explanation for our presence here today should be direct and to the point, thus making this visit brief.”
“Why Godfrey, once again your insightful counseling is nothing short of extraordinary.” Stifling their customary fluttering flight, the young lady’s hands folded and came to rest in her lap. “Mr. Sussman, I wish to close out my account.”
Kinsey’s direct and to the point statement plummeted Leonard’s stiffened mustache in a downward pout with such velocity Scott anticipated the pomade mouser to break away from the man’s lip and bounce off a thigh. “Ah, little one, perhaps we should pour some gravy on that meat and potatoes request of yours.”
“Yes. A bit of gravy would be most helpful.” Sussman’s peaky countenance signaled more than a bit would be required.
“Let’s see… where to begin.” Scott crossed ankle to knee while mentally downing a shot of rye. “As you know, in a few weeks my cousin will be marrying Seth Westcott, thus moving from Lancer to Westcott Vineyards.”
“I’m flying the coop!” And to prove it, Kinsey’s hands took to the air.
“I think you mean leaving the nest.” An eyebrow raised at the young lady while passing her the story’s imaginary bottle of rye.
“Nest. Yes, of course. I’ll be nesting a few miles outside of Stockton… as the crow flies one could say.” Kinsey’s polite titter highlighted her witticism. “So, Mr. Sussman, I want to thank you for your banking expertise but it’s time we parted ways.”
“Miss Furlong, I thought we discussed last month and agreed the closing of your account would be a gradual transfer of funds to the Bank of Stockton due to your active investments.”
“Oh. Where’s my head?” The young lady’s palm placed on her brow found the missing noggin. “So we did. However, a new opportunity has presented itself recently.”
“Guilty as charged.” From behind, Mannheim’s hand patted Kinsey’s shoulder, ending with a squeeze. “I wouldn’t miss this little girl’s nuptials for all the tea in China and, in doing so, offered my services with inside information regarding a very lucrative venture as a wedding gift. However, having immediate funding is essential.”
“Lucrative venture?” Leonard’s eyebrows shot upward to counterbalance his frown.
“Yes.” With a slight flinch of repulsion from Godfrey’s touch, a bride-to-be’s brown-eyed side glance tossed the Round Rye’n back to her older cousin. “Horse breeding. Scott, please fill in the details for Mr. Sussman, won’t you?”
“Right.” Readjusting his backside in a chair that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, the storyteller tipped the invisible liquor bottle and prayed Leonard knew very little about the topic of breeding horses. “My brother, Johnny, recently gifted this lucky young lady with a very rare and unique stallion - a brindle.”
Sussman’s silence confirmed Scott continued to be a good guesser. The word brindle, not being a finance term, hung meaninglessly in the stuffy air.
“His name is D’Artagnan.” Kinsey’s reference to the valiant musketeer only dropped Sussman further down a rabbit hole, indicated by the man’s pained look of confusion.
“The brindle has piqued my little cousin’s interest in horse breeding. Also, her connections with the stable in Melbourne haven’t lessened as Garrett’s Gallop maintains his blue ribbon finishes at the racetrack.”
“Ah, now Scott.” Leonard’s slight smile returned as an index finger waggled in admonishment to a subject he understood. “I think we are all aware that Garrett's Gallop bestows more than just blue ribbons. Miss Furlong’s investment portfolio reflects substantial gains due to the fine steed.”
“Investment portfolio. Exactly.” Scott wagged his own finger in celebration of Sussman's contribution to the tale. “You, sir, are an astute mind reader. So, after hearing Mr. Smith’s proposition, Kinsey wishes to expand her equities.”
“And what does our lovely Miss Furlong have in mind?”
“By establishing her own prestigious and profitable stable in Melbourne. The brindle, of course, would sire the beginnings of a fine, aristocratic lineage of horse breed. In turn, Mr. Smith has gifted Kinsey with his knowledge of a mismanaged stables estate declaring bankruptcy which can be purchased at a minimal cost.”
“I’m still confused over the need for expeditious cash.” It was clear Leonard was in no hurry to open his bank’s safe.
“Horses don’t sail on steamers for free, Mr. Sussman.”
The serious delivery of Kinsey’s revelation brought a smile to a waxed mustache. “No, Miss Furlong, I suppose they don’t. Has D’Artagnan booked a room in first class?”
“Would a horse of mine travel any other way?“
Leonard’s belly laugh danced around the room. “Very good, young lady! Please continue.”
“You see, Godfrey will not only take on the fiscal responsibilities of the brindle’s transportation to Melbourne but once arriving he will finalize the purchase and payment of my new stables.” Kinsey leaned in. “I can assure you, Mr. Sussman, the man standing behind me has built quite a reputation for himself in certain circles of the financial world. I dare say priceless doesn’t begin to describe his talents with handling money.”
“Well, then.” Sussman splayed his hands out in a gesture of acceptance. “Give me a moment to acquire Miss Furlong’s portfolio and we’ll see what finances are available.”
“Available?” Godfrey’s one-worded query carried a sharp edge.
Leonard cocked his head as Scott rolled his eyes at Mannheim’s blunder. “As a financial advisor, Mr. Smith, you must be aware a large portion of Kinsey’s inheritance consists of stocks and real estate. I believe Mr. Sussman is simply giving us a friendly reminder that a tangible cash flow can be limited.”
“Yes. Of course.” Godfrey’s cordial demeanor returned. “Confidence is high the funds will be adequate. If not, there are always other venues we can explore.”
After papers were shuffled about and calculations double-checked, Leonard Sussman wrote numbers down on a slip of paper. Proper etiquette demanded he hand the figure first to the young lady who showed very little reaction upon viewing before passing it to her older cousin.
As trustee, Scott had kept a close eye on Kinsey’s investments and a running tally of the quarterly interest each generated since the finalization of Fletcher Garrett’s will. The bank president’s written total was on the mark.
The slip of paper then made its journey upward and into the waiting grasp of Mannheim. “My yes. This should cover all the costs quite nicely.” Kinsey’s carpetbag landed next to Sussman’s bronze inlaid rosewood inkstand. “At your convenience, sir.”
Lacing his fingers across a podgy midsection, Leonard leaned back and ignored Godfrey. “Scott, you have been an exemplary trustee for Miss Furlong with your guidance on sound business decisions. So, I ask you now - what is your honest opinion regarding Mr. Smith’s proposition?”
“My honest opinion?” A pause was taken for reflection. “I’d have to say what Mr. Smith has presented to us today would be considered as a real steal.”
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