For from the direction of the Wheat Pit had come a sudden and vehement renewal of tumult.The traders as one man were roaring in chorus.There were cheers;hats went up into the air.On the floor by the lowest step two brokers, their hands trumpet-wise to their mouths, shouted at top voice to certain friends at a distance, while above them, on the topmost step of the Pit, a half-dozen others, their arms at fullest stretch, threw the hand signals that interpreted the fluctuations in the price, to their associates in the various parts of the building.Again and again the cheers rose, violent hip-hip-hurrahs and tigers, while from all corners and parts of the floor men and boys came scurrying up.Visitors in the gallery leaned eagerly upon the railing.Over in the provision pit, trading ceased for the moment, and all heads were turned towards the commotion of the wheat traders.
"Ah," commented Crookes, "they did get it there at last."For the hand on the dial had suddenly jumped another degree, and not a messenger boy, not a porter not a janitor, none whose work or life brought him in touch with the Board of Trade, that did not feel the thrill.
The news flashed out to the world on a hundred telegraph wires; it was called to a hundred offices across the telephone lines.From every doorway, even, as it seemed, from every window of the building, spreading thence all over the city, the State, the Northwest, the entire nation, sped the magic words, "Dollar wheat."Crookes turned to Cressler.
"Can you lunch with me to-day--at Kinsley's? I'd like to have a talk with you."And as soon as Cressler had accepted the invitation, Crookes, with a succinct nod, turned upon his heel and walked away.
At Kinsley's that day, in a private room on the second floor, Cressler met not only Crookes, but his associate Sweeny, and another gentleman by the name of Freye, the latter one of his oldest and best-liked friends.
Sweeny was an Irishman, florid, flamboyant, talkative, who spoke with a faint brogue, and who tagged every observation, argument, or remark with the phrase, "Do you understand me, gen'lemen?" Freye, a German-American, was a quiet fellow, very handsome, with black side whiskers and a humourous, twinkling eye.The three were members of the Board of Trade, and were always associated with the Bear forces.Indeed, they could be said to be its leaders.Between them, as Cressler afterwards was accustomed to say, "They could have bought pretty much all of the West Side."And during the course of the luncheon these three, with a simplicity and a directness that for the moment left Cressler breathless, announced that they were preparing to drive the Unknown Bull out of the Pit, and asked him to become one of the clique.
Crookes, whom Cressler intuitively singled out as the leader, did not so much as open his mouth till Sweeny ad talked himself breathless, and all the preliminaries were out of the way.Then he remarked, his eye as lifeless as the eye of a fish, his voice as expressionless as the voice of Fate itself:
"I don't know who the big Bull is, and I don't care a curse.But he don't suit my book.I want him out of the market.We've let him have his way now for three or four months.We figured we'd let him run to the dollar mark.The May option closed this morning at a dollar and an eighth....Now we take hold.
"But," Cressler hastened to object, "you forget--I'm not a speculator."Freye smiled, and tapped his friend on the arm.
"I guess, Charlie," he said, "that there won't be much speculating about this.""Why, gen'lemen," cried Sweeny, brandishing a fork, we're going to sell him right out o' the market, so we are.Simply flood out the son-of-a-gun--you understand me, gen'lemen?"Cressler shook his head.
"No," he answered."No, you must count me out.I quit speculating years ago.And, besides.to sell short on this kind of market--I don't need to tell you what you risk.""Risk hell!" muttered Crookes.
"Well, now, I'll explain to you, Charlie," began Freye.
The other two withdrew a little from the conversation.
Crookes, as ever monosyllabic, took himself on in a little while, and Sweeny, his chair tipped back against the wall, his hands clasped behind his head, listened to Freye explaining to Cressler the plans of the proposed clique and the lines of their attack.
He talked for nearly an hour and a half, at the end of which time the lunch table was one litter of papers--letters, contracts, warehouse receipts, tabulated statistics, and the like.
"Well," said Freye, at length, "well, Charlie, do you see the game? What do you think of it?""It's about as ingenious a scheme as I ever heard of, Billy," answered Cressler."You can't lose, with Crookes back of it.""Well, then, we can count you in, hey?"
"Count nothing," declared Cressler, stoutly."I don't speculate.""But have you thought of this?" urged Freye, and went over the entire proposition, from a fresh point of view, winding up with the exclamation: "Why, Charlie, we're going to make our everlasting fortunes.""I don't want any everlasting fortune, Billy Freye,"protested Cressler."Look here, Billy.You must remember I'm a pretty old cock.You boys are all youngsters.I've got a little money left and a little business, and I want to grow old quiet-like.I had my fling, you know, when you boys were in knickerbockers.
Now you let me keep out of all this.You get some one else.""No, we'll be jiggered if we do," exclaimed Sweeny.
"Say, are ye scared we can't buy that trade journal?
