You can spend half a million a year in leased wires and special service and subscriptions to news agencies, and you get the first smell of news like this right here on the floor.Remember that time when the Northwestern millers sold a hundred and fifty thousand barrels at one lick? The floor was talking of it three hours before the news slips were sent 'round, or a single wire was in.Suppose we had waited for the Associated people or the Commercial people then?""It's that Higgins-pasha incident, I'll bet," observed Rusbridge, his eyes snapping.
"I heard something about that this morning," returned Landry."But only that it was----""There! What did I tell you?" interrupted Rusbridge.
"I said it was everywhere.There's no smoke without some fire.And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we get cables before noon that the British War Office had sent an ultimatum."And very naturally a few minutes later Winston, at that time standing on the steps of the corn pit, heard from a certain broker, who had it from a friend who had just received a despatch from some one "in the know," that the British Secretary of State for War had forwarded an ultimatum to the Porte, and that diplomatic relations between Turkey and England were about to be suspended.
All in a moment the entire Floor seemed to be talking of nothing else, and on the outskirts of every group one could overhear the words: "Seizure of custom house," "ultimatum," "Eastern question," " Higgins-pasha incident." It was the rumour of the day, and before very long the pit traders began to receive a multitude of despatches countermanding selling orders, and directing them not to close out trades under certain very advanced quotations.The brokers began wiring their principals that the market promised to open strong and bullish.
But by now it was near to half-past nine.From the Western Union desks the clicking of the throng of instruments rose into the air in an incessant staccato stridulation.The messenger boys ran back and forth at top speed, dodging in and out among the knots of clerks and traders, colliding with one another, and without interruption intoning the names of those for whom they had despatches.The throng of traders concentrated upon the pits, and at every moment the deep-toned hum of the murmur of many voices swelled like the rising of a tide.
And at this moment, as Landry stood on the rim of the wheat pit, looking towards the telephone booth under the visitors' gallery, he saw the osseous, stoop-shouldered figure of Mr.Cressler--who, though he never speculated, appeared regularly upon the Board every morning--making his way towards one of the windows in the front of the building.His pocket was full of wheat, taken from a bag on one of the sample tables.
Opening the window, he scattered the grain upon the sill, and stood for a long moment absorbed and interested in the dazzling flutter of the wings of innumerable pigeons who came to settle upon the ledge, pecking the grain with little, nervous, fastidious taps of their yellow beaks.
Landry cast a glance at the clock beneath the dial on the wall behind him.It was twenty-five minutes after nine.He stood in his accustomed place on the north side of the Wheat Pit, upon the topmost stair.The Pit was full.Below him and on either side of him were the brokers, scalpers, and traders--Hirsch, Semple, Kelly, Winston, and Rusbridge.The redoubtable Leaycraft, who, bidding for himself, was supposed to hold the longest line of May wheat of any one man in the Pit, the insignificant Grossmann, a Jew who wore a flannel shirt, and to whose outcries no one ever paid the least attention.Fairchild, Paterson, and Goodlock, the inseparable trio who represented the Porteous gang, silent men, middle-aged, who had but to speak in order to buy or sell a million bushels on the spot.And others, and still others, veterans of sixty-five, recruits just out of their teens, men who--some of them--in the past had for a moment dominated the entire Pit, but who now were content to play the part of "eighth-chasers," buying and selling on the same day, content with a profit of ten dollars.Others who might at that very moment be nursing plans which in a week's time would make them millionaires; still others who, under a mask of nonchalance, strove to hide the chagrin of yesterday's defeat.And they were there, ready, inordinately alert, ears turned to the faintest sound, eyes searching for the vaguest trace of meaning in those of their rivals, nervous, keyed to the highest tension, ready to thrust deep into the slightest opening, to spring, mercilessly, upon the smallest undefended spot.Grossmann, the little Jew of the grimy flannel shirt, perspired in the stress of the suspense, all but powerless to maintain silence till the signal should be given, drawing trembling fingers across his mouth.Winston, brawny, solid, unperturbed, his hands behind his back, waited immovably planted on his feet with all the gravity of a statue, his eyes preternaturally watchful, keeping Kelly--whom he had divined had some "funny business" on hand--perpetually in sight.The Porteous trio--Fairchild, Paterson, and Goodlock--as if unalarmed, unassailable, all but turned their backs to the Pit, laughing among themselves.
