On a certain Monday morning, about a month later, Curtis Jadwin descended from his office in the Rookery Building, and turning southward, took his way toward the brokerage and commission office of Gretry, Converse and Co., on the ground floor of the Board of Trade Building, only a few steps away.

It was about nine o’clock; the weather was mild, the sun shone.  La Salle Street swarmed with the multitudinous life that seethed about the doors of the innumerable offices of brokers and commission men of the neighbourhood.  To the right, in the peristyle of the Illinois Trust Building, groups of clerks, of messengers, of brokers, of clients, and of depositors formed and broke incessantly.  To the left, where the façade of the Board of Trade blocked the street, the activity was astonishing, and in and out of the swing doors of its entrance streamed an incessant tide of coming and going.  All the life of the neighbourhood seemed to centre at this point ­the entrance of the Board of Trade.  Two currents that trended swiftly through La Salle and Jackson streets, and that fed, or were fed by, other tributaries that poured in through Fifth Avenue and through Clarke and Dearborn streets, met at this point ­one setting in, the other out.  The nearer the currents the greater their speed.  Men ­mere flotsam in the flood ­as they turned into La Salle Street from Adams or from Monroe, or even from as far as Madison, seemed to accelerate their pace as they approached.  At the Illinois Trust the walk became a stride, at the Rookery the stride was almost a trot.  But at the corner of Jackson Street, the Board of Trade now merely the width of the street away, the trot became a run, and young men and boys, under the pretence of escaping the trucks and wagons of the cobbles, dashed across at a veritable gallop, flung themselves panting into the entrance of the Board, were engulfed in the turmoil of the spot, and disappeared with a sudden fillip into the gloom of the interior.

Often Jadwin had noted the scene, and, unimaginative though he was, had long since conceived the notion of some great, some resistless force within the Board of Trade Building that held the tide of the streets within its grip, alternately drawing it in and throwing it forth.  Within there, a great whirlpool, a pit of roaring waters spun and thundered, sucking in the life tides of the city, sucking them in as into the mouth of some tremendous cloaca, the maw of some colossal sewer; then vomiting them forth again, spewing them up and out, only to catch them in the return eddy and suck them in afresh.

Thus it went, day after day.  Endlessly, ceaselessly the Pit, enormous, thundering, sucked in and spewed out, sending the swirl of its mighty central eddy far out through the city’s channels.  Terrible at the centre, it was, at the circumference, gentle, insidious and persuasive, the send of the flowing so mild, that to embark upon it, yielding to the influence, was a pleasure that seemed all devoid of risk.  But the circumference was not bounded by the city.  All through the Northwest, all through the central world of the Wheat the set and whirl of that innermost Pit made itself felt; and it spread and spread and spread till grain in the elevators of Western Iowa moved and stirred and answered to its centripetal force, and men upon the streets of New York felt the mysterious tugging of its undertow engage their feet, embrace their bodies, overwhelm them, and carry them bewildered and unresisting back and downwards to the Pit itself.

Nor was the Pit’s centrifugal power any less.  Because of some sudden eddy spinning outward from the middle of its turmoil, a dozen bourses of continental Europe clamoured with panic, a dozen Old-World banks, firm as the established hills, trembled and vibrated.  Because of an unexpected caprice in the swirling of the inner current, some far-distant channel suddenly dried, and the pinch of famine made itself felt among the vine dressers of Northern Italy, the coal miners of Western Prussia.  Or another channel filled, and the starved moujik of the steppes, and the hunger-shrunken coolie of the Ganges’ watershed fed suddenly fat and made thank offerings before ikon and idol.

There in the centre of the Nation, midmost of that continent that lay between the oceans of the New World and the Old, in the heart’s heart of the affairs of men, roared and rumbled the Pit.  It was as if the Wheat, Nourisher of the Nations, as it rolled gigantic and majestic in a vast flood from West to East, here, like a Niagara, finding its flow impeded, burst suddenly into the appalling fury of the Maelstrom, into the chaotic spasm of a world-force, a primeval energy, blood-brother of the earthquake and the glacier, raging and wrathful that its power should be braved by some pinch of human spawn that dared raise barriers across its courses.

Small wonder that Cressler laughed at the thought of cornering wheat, and even now as Jadwin crossed Jackson Street, on his way to his broker’s office on the lower floor of the Board of Trade Building, he noted the ebb and flow that issued from its doors, and remembered the huge river of wheat that rolled through this place from the farms of Iowa and ranches of Dakota to the mills and bakeshops of Europe.

“There’s something, perhaps, in what Charlie says,” he said to himself.  “Corner this stuff ­my God!”

Gretry, Converse & Co. was the name of the brokerage firm that always handled Jadwin’s rare speculative ventures.  Converse was dead long since, but the firm still retained its original name.  The house was as old and as well established as any on the Board of Trade.  It had a reputation for conservatism, and was known more as a Bear than a Bull concern.  It was immensely wealthy and immensely important.  It discouraged the growth of a clientele of country customers, of small adventurers, knowing well that these were the first to go in a crash, unable to meet margin calls, and leaving to their brokers the responsibility of their disastrous trades.  The large, powerful Bears were its friends, the Bears strong of grip, tenacious of jaw, capable of pulling down the strongest Bull.  Thus the firm had no consideration for the “outsiders,” the “public” ­the Lambs.  The Lambs!  Such a herd, timid, innocent, feeble, as much out of place in La Salle Street as a puppy in a cage of panthers; the Lambs, whom Bull and Bear did not so much as condescend to notice, but who, in their mutual struggle of horn and claw, they crushed to death by the mere rolling of their bodies.

Jadwin did not go directly into Gretry’s main office, but instead made his way in at the entrance of the Board of Trade Building, and going on past the stairways that on either hand led up to the “Floor” on the second story, entered the corridor beyond, and thence gained the customers’ room of Gretry, Converse & Co.  All the more important brokerage firms had offices on the ground floor of the building, offices that had two entrances, one giving upon the street, and one upon the corridor of the Board.  Generally the corridor entrance admitted directly to the firm’s customers’ room.  This was the case with the Gretry-Converse house.

Once in the customers’ room, Jadwin paused, looking about him.

He could not tell why Gretry had so earnestly desired him to come to his office that morning, but he wanted to know how wheat was selling before talking to the broker.  The room was large, and but for the lighted gas, burning crudely without globes, would have been dark.  All one wall opposite the door was taken up by a great blackboard covered with chalked figures in columns, and illuminated by a row of overhead gas jets burning under a tin reflector.  Before this board files of chairs were placed, and these were occupied by groups of nondescripts, shabbily dressed men, young and old, with tired eyes and unhealthy complexions, who smoked and expectorated, or engaged in interminable conversations.

In front of the blackboard, upon a platform, a young man in shirt-sleeves, his cuffs caught up by metal clamps, walked up and down.  Screwed to the blackboard itself was a telegraph instrument, and from time to time, as this buzzed and ticked, the young man chalked up cabalistic, and almost illegible figures under columns headed by initials of certain stocks and bonds, or by the words “Pork,” “Oats,” or, larger than all the others, “May Wheat.”  The air of the room was stale, close, and heavy with tobacco fumes.  The only noises were the low hum of conversations, the unsteady click of the telegraph key, and the tapping of the chalk in the marker’s fingers.

But no one in the room seemed to pay the least attention to the blackboard.  One quotation replaced another, and the key and the chalk clicked and tapped incessantly.  The occupants of the room, sunk in their chairs, seemed to give no heed; some even turned their backs; one, his handkerchief over his knee, adjusted his spectacles, and opening a newspaper two days old, began to read with peering deliberation, his lips forming each word.  These nondescripts gathered there, they knew not why.  Every day found them in the same place, always with the same fetid, unlighted cigars, always with the same frayed newspapers two days old.  There they sat, inert, stupid, their decaying senses hypnotised and soothed by the sound of the distant rumble of the Pit, that came through the ceiling from the floor of the Board overhead.

One of these figures, that of a very old man, blear-eyed, decrepit, dirty, in a battered top hat and faded frock coat, discoloured and weather-stained at the shoulders, seemed familiar to Jadwin.  It recalled some ancient association, he could not say what.  But he was unable to see the old man’s face distinctly; the light was bad, and he sat with his face turned from him, eating a sandwich, which he held in a trembling hand.

Jadwin, having noted that wheat was selling at 94, went away, glad to be out of the depressing atmosphere of the room.

Gretry was in his office, and Jadwin was admitted at once.  He sat down in a chair by the broker’s desk, and for the moment the two talked of trivialities.  Gretry was a large, placid, smooth-faced man, stolid as an ox; inevitably dressed in blue serge, a quill tooth-pick behind his ear, a Grand Army button in his lapel.  He and Jadwin were intimates.  The two had come to Chicago almost simultaneously, and had risen together to become the wealthy men they were at the moment.  They belonged to the same club, lunched together every day at Kinsley’s, and took each other driving behind their respective trotters on alternate Saturday afternoons.  In the middle of summer each stole a fortnight from his business, and went fishing at Geneva Lake in Wisconsin.

“I say,” Jadwin observed, “I saw an old fellow outside in your customers’ room just now that put me in mind of Hargus.  You remember that deal of his, the one he tried to swing before he died.  Oh ­how long ago was that?  Bless my soul, that must have been fifteen, yes twenty years ago.”

The deal of which Jadwin spoke was the legendary operation of the Board of Trade ­a mammoth corner in September wheat, manipulated by this same Hargus, a millionaire, who had tripled his fortune by the corner, and had lost it by some chicanery on the part of his associate before another year.  He had run wheat up to nearly two dollars, had been in his day a king all-powerful.  Since then all deals had been spoken of in terms of the Hargus affair.  Speculators said, “It was almost as bad as the Hargus deal.”  “It was like the Hargus smash.”  “It was as big a thing as the Hargus corner.”  Hargus had become a sort of creature of legends, mythical, heroic, transfigured in the glory of his millions.

“Easily twenty years ago,” continued Jadwin.  “If Hargus could come to life now, he’d be surprised at the difference in the way we do business these days.  Twenty years.  Yes, it’s all of that.  I declare, Sam, we’re getting old, aren’t we?”

“I guess that was Hargus you saw out there,” answered the broker.  “He’s not dead.  Old fellow in a stove-pipe and greasy frock coat?  Yes, that’s Hargus.”

“What!” exclaimed Jadwin. “That Hargus?”

“Of course it was.  He comes ’round every day.  The clerks give him a dollar every now and then.”

“And he’s not dead?  And that was Hargus, that wretched, broken ­whew!  I don’t want to think of it, Sam!” And Jadwin, taken all aback, sat for a moment speechless.

“Yes, sir,” muttered the broker grimly, “that was Hargus.”

There was a long silence.  Then at last Gretry exclaimed briskly: 

“Well, here’s what I want to see you about.”

He lowered his voice:  “You know I’ve got a correspondent or two at Paris ­all the brokers have ­and we make no secret as to who they are.  But I’ve had an extra man at work over there for the last six months, very much on the quiet.  I don’t mind telling you this much ­that he’s not the least important member of the United States Legation.  Well, now and then he is supposed to send me what the reporters call “exclusive news” ­that’s what I feed him for, and I could run a private steam yacht on what it costs me.  But news I get from him is a day or so in advance of everybody else.  He hasn’t sent me anything very important till this morning.  This here just came in.”

He picked up a despatch from his desk and read: 

“’Utica ­headquarters ­modification ­organic ­concomitant ­within one month,’ which means,” he added, “this.  I’ve just deciphered it,” and he handed Jadwin a slip of paper on which was written: 

“Bill providing for heavy import duties on foreign grains certain to be introduced in French Chamber of Deputies within one month.”

“Have you got it?” he demanded of Jadwin, as he took the slip back.  “Won’t forget it?” He twisted the paper into a roll and burned it carefully in the office cuspidor.

“Now,” he remarked, “do you come in?  It’s just the two of us, J., and I think we can make that Porteous clique look very sick.”

“Hum!” murmured Jadwin surprised.  “That does give you a twist on the situation.  But to tell the truth, Sam, I had sort of made up my mind to keep out of speculation since my last little deal.  A man gets into this game, and into it, and into it, and before you know he can’t pull out ­and he don’t want to.  Next he gets his nose scratched, and he hits back to make up for it, and just hits into the air and loses his balance ­and down he goes.  I don’t want to make any more money, Sam.  I’ve got my little pile, and before I get too old I want to have some fun out of it.”

“But lord love you, J.,” objected the other, “this ain’t speculation.  You can see for yourself how sure it is.  I’m not a baby at this business, am I?  You’ll let me know something of this game, won’t you?  And I tell you, J., it’s found money.  The man that sells wheat short on the strength of this has as good as got the money in his vest pocket already.  Oh, nonsense, of course you’ll come in.  I’ve been laying for that Bull gang since long before the Helmick failure, and now I’ve got it right where I want it.  Look here, J., you aren’t the man to throw money away.  You’d buy a business block if you knew you could sell it over again at a profit.  Now here’s the chance to make really a fine Bear deal.  Why, as soon as this news gets on the floor there, the price will bust right down, and down, and down.  Porteous and his crowd couldn’t keep it up to save ’em from the receiver’s hand one single minute.”

“I know, Sam,” answered Jadwin, “and the trouble is, not that I don’t want to speculate, but that I do ­too much.  That’s why I said I’d keep out of it.  It isn’t so much the money as the fun of playing the game.  With half a show, I would get in a little more and a little more, till by and by I’d try to throw a big thing, and instead, the big thing would throw me.  Why, Sam, when you told me that that wreck out there mumbling a sandwich was Hargus, it made me turn cold.”

“Yes, in your feet,” retorted Gretry.  “I’m not asking you to risk all your money, am I, or a fifth of it, or a twentieth of it?  Don’t be an ass, J. Are we a conservative house, or aren’t we?  Do I talk like this when I’m not sure?  Look here.  Let me sell a million bushels for you.  Yes, I know it’s a bigger order than I’ve handled for you before.  But this time I want to go right into it, head down and heels up, and get a twist on those Porteous buckoes, and raise ’em right out of their boots.  We get a crop report this morning, and if the visible supply is as large as I think it is, the price will go off and unsettle the whole market.  I’ll sell short for you at the best figures we can get, and you can cover on the slump any time between now and the end of May.”

Jadwin hesitated.  In spite of himself he felt a Chance had come.  Again that strange sixth sense of his, the inexplicable instinct, that only the born speculator knows, warned him.  Every now and then during the course of his business career, this intuition came to him, this flair, this intangible, vague premonition, this presentiment that he must seize Opportunity or else Fortune, that so long had stayed at his elbow, would desert him.  In the air about him he seemed to feel an influence, a sudden new element, the presence of a new force.  It was Luck, the great power, the great goddess, and all at once it had stooped from out the invisible, and just over his head passed swiftly in a rush of glittering wings.

“The thing would have to be handled like glass,” observed the broker thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing “A tip like this is public property in twenty-four hours, and it don’t give us any too much time.  I don’t want to break the price by unloading a million or more bushels on ’em all of a sudden.  I’ll scatter the orders pretty evenly.  You see,” he added, “here’s a big point in our favor.  We’ll be able to sell on a strong market.  The Pit traders have got some crazy war rumour going, and they’re as flighty over it as a young ladies’ seminary over a great big rat.  And even without that, the market is top-heavy.  Porteous makes me weary.  He and his gang have been bucking it up till we’ve got an abnormal price.  Ninety-four for May wheat!  Why, it’s ridiculous.  Ought to be selling way down in the eighties.  The least little jolt would tip her over.  Well,” he said abruptly, squaring himself at Jadwin, “do we come in?  If that same luck of yours is still in working order, here’s your chance, J., to make a killing.  There’s just that gilt-edged, full-morocco chance that a report of big ‘visible’ would give us.”

Jadwin laughed.  “Sam,” he said, “I’ll flip a coin for it.”

“Oh, get out,” protested the broker; then suddenly ­the gambling instinct that a lifetime passed in that place had cultivated in him ­exclaimed: 

“All right.  Flip a coin.  But give me your word you’ll stay by it.  Heads you come in; tails you don’t.  Will you give me your word?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” replied Jadwin, amused at the foolishness of the whole proceeding.  But as he balanced the half-dollar on his thumb-nail, he was all at once absolutely assured that it would fall heads.  He flipped it in the air, and even as he watched it spin, said to himself, “It will come heads.  It could not possibly be anything else.  I know it will be heads.”

And as a matter of course the coin fell heads.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll come in.”

“For a million bushels?”

“Yes ­for a million.  How much in margins will you want?”

Gretry figured a moment on the back of an envelope.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” he announced at length.

Jadwin wrote the check on a corner of the broker’s desk, and held it a moment before him.

“Good-bye,” he said, apostrophising the bit of paper.  “Good-bye.  I ne’er shall look upon your like again.”

Gretry did not laugh.

“Huh!” he grunted.  “You’ll look upon a hatful of them before the month is out.”

That same morning Landry Court found himself in the corridor on the ground floor of the Board of Trade about nine o’clock.  He had just come out of the office of Gretry, Converse & Co., where he and the other Pit traders for the house had been receiving their orders for the day.

As he was buying a couple of apples at the news stand at the end of the corridor, Semple and a young Jew named Hirsch, Pit traders for small firms in La Salle Street, joined him.

“Hello, Court, what do you know?”

“Hello, Barry Semple!  Hello, Hirsch!” Landry offered the halves of his second apple, and the three stood there a moment, near the foot of the stairs, talking and eating their apples from the points of their penknives.

“I feel sort of seedy this morning,” Semple observed between mouthfuls.  “Was up late last night at a stag.  A friend of mine just got back from Europe, and some of the boys were giving him a little dinner.  He was all over the shop, this friend of mine; spent most of his time in Constantinople; had some kind of newspaper business there.  It seems that it’s a pretty crazy proposition, Turkey and the Sultan and all that.  He said that there was nearly a row over the ‘Higgins-Pasha’ incident, and that the British agent put it pretty straight to the Sultan’s secretary.  My friend said Constantinople put him in mind of a lot of opera bouffe scenery that had got spilled out in the mud.  Say, Court, he said the streets were dirtier than the Chicago streets.”

“Oh, come now,” said Hirsch.

“Fact!  And the dogs!  He told us he knows now where all the yellow dogs go to when they die.”

“But say,” remarked Hirsch, “what is that about the Higgins-Pasha business?  I thought that was over long ago.”

“Oh, it is,” answered Semple easily.  He looked at his watch.  “I guess it’s about time to go up, pretty near half-past nine.”

The three mounted the stairs, mingling with the groups of floor traders who, in steadily increasing numbers, had begun to move in the same direction.  But on the way Hirsch was stopped by his brother.

“Hey, I got that box of cigars for you.”

Hirsch paused.  “Oh!  All right,” he said, then he added:  “Say, how about that Higgins-Pasha affair?  You remember that row between England and Turkey.  They tell me the British agent in Constantinople put it pretty straight to the Sultan the other day.”

The other was interested.  “He did, hey?” he said.  “The market hasn’t felt it, though.  Guess there’s nothing to it.  But there’s Kelly yonder.  He’d know.  He’s pretty thick with Porteous’ men.  Might ask him.”

“You ask him and let me know.  I got to go on the floor.  It’s nearly time for the gong.”

Hirsch’s brother found Kelly in the centre of a group of settlement clerks.

“Say, boy,” he began, “you ought to know.  They tell me there may be trouble between England and Turkey over the Higgins-Pasha incident, and that the British Foreign Office has threatened the Sultan with an ultimatum.  I can see the market if that’s so.”

“Nothing in it,” retorted Kelly.  “But I’ll find out ­to make sure, by jingo.”

Meanwhile Landry had gained the top of the stairs, and turning to the right, passed through a great doorway, and came out upon the floor of the Board of Trade.

It was a vast enclosure, lighted on either side by great windows of coloured glass, the roof supported by thin iron pillars elaborately decorated.  To the left were the bulletin blackboards, and beyond these, in the northwest angle of the floor, a great railed-in space where the Western Union Telegraph was installed.  To the right, on the other side of the room, a row of tables, laden with neatly arranged paper bags half full of samples of grains, stretched along the east wall from the doorway of the public room at one end to the telephone room at the other.

The centre of the floor was occupied by the pits.  To the left and to the front of Landry the provision pit, to the right the corn pit, while further on at the north extremity of the floor, and nearly under the visitors’ gallery, much larger than the other two, and flanked by the wicket of the official recorder, was the wheat pit itself.

Directly opposite the visitors’ gallery, high upon the south wall a great dial was affixed, and on the dial a marking hand that indicated the current price of wheat, fluctuating with the changes made in the Pit.  Just now it stood at ninety-three and three-eighths, the closing quotation of the preceding day.

As yet all the pits were empty.  It was some fifteen minutes after nine.  Landry checked his hat and coat at the coat room near the north entrance, and slipped into an old tennis jacket of striped blue flannel.  Then, hatless, his hands in his pockets, he leisurely crossed the floor, and sat down in one of the chairs that were ranged in files upon the floor in front of the telegraph enclosure.  He scrutinised again the despatches and orders that he held in his hands; then, having fixed them in his memory, tore them into very small bits, looking vaguely about the room, developing his plan of campaign for the morning.

In a sense Landry Court had a double personality.  Away from the neighbourhood and influence of La Salle Street, he was “rattle-brained,” absent-minded, impractical, and easily excited, the last fellow in the world to be trusted with any business responsibility.  But the thunder of the streets around the Board of Trade, and, above all, the movement and atmosphere of the floor itself awoke within him a very different Landry Court; a whole new set of nerves came into being with the tap of the nine-thirty gong, a whole new system of brain machinery began to move with the first figure called in the Pit.  And from that instant until the close of the session, no floor trader, no broker’s clerk nor scalper was more alert, more shrewd, or kept his head more surely than the same young fellow who confused his social engagements for the evening of the same day.  The Landry Court the Dearborn girls knew was a far different young man from him who now leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair upon the floor of the Board, and, his eyes narrowing, his lips tightening, began to speculate upon what was to be the temper of the Pit that morning.

Meanwhile the floor was beginning to fill up.  Over in the railed-in space, where the hundreds of telegraph instruments were in place, the operators were arriving in twos and threes.  They hung their hats and ulsters upon the pegs in the wall back of them, and in linen coats, or in their shirt-sleeves, went to their seats, or, sitting upon their tables, called back and forth to each other, joshing, cracking jokes.  Some few addressed themselves directly to work, and here and there the intermittent clicking of a key began, like a diligent cricket busking himself in advance of its mates.

From the corridors on the ground floor up through the south doors came the pit traders in increasing groups.  The noise of footsteps began to echo from the high vaulting of the roof.  A messenger boy crossed the floor chanting an unintelligible name.

The groups of traders gradually converged upon the corn and wheat pits, and on the steps of the latter, their arms crossed upon their knees, two men, one wearing a silk skull cap all awry, conversed earnestly in low tones.

Winston, a great, broad-shouldered bass-voiced fellow of some thirty-five years, who was associated with Landry in executing the orders of the Gretry-Converse house, came up to him, and, omitting any salutation, remarked, deliberately, slowly: 

“What’s all this about this trouble between Turkey and England?”

But before Landry could reply a third trader for the Gretry Company joined the two.  This was a young fellow named Rusbridge, lean, black-haired, a constant excitement glinting in his deep-set eyes.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “there’s something in that, there’s something in that!”

“Where did you hear it?” demanded Landry.

“Oh ­everywhere.”  Rusbridge made a vague gesture with one arm.  “Hirsch seemed to know all about it.  It appears that there’s talk of mobilising the Mediterranean squadron.  Darned if I know.”

“Might ask that ‘Inter-Ocean’ reporter.  He’d be likely to know.  I’ve seen him ’round here this morning, or you might telephone the Associated Press,” suggested Landry.  “The office never said a word to me.”

“Oh, the ‘Associated.’  They know a lot always, don’t they?” jeered Winston.  “Yes, I rung ’em up.  They ‘couldn’t confirm the rumour.’  That’s always the way.  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.

The official reporter climbed to his perch in the little cage on the edge of the Pit, shutting the door after him.  By now the chanting of the messenger boys was an uninterrupted chorus.  From all sides of the building, and in every direction they crossed and recrossed each other, always running, their hands full of yellow envelopes.  From the telephone alcoves came the prolonged, musical rasp of the call bells.  In the Western Union booths the keys of the multitude of instruments raged incessantly.  Bare-headed young men hurried up to one another, conferred an instant comparing despatches, then separated, darting away at top speed.  Men called to each other half-way across the building.  Over by the bulletin boards clerks and agents made careful memoranda of primary receipts, and noted down the amount of wheat on passage, the exports and the imports.

And all these sounds, the chatter of the telegraph, the intoning of the messenger boys, the shouts and cries of clerks and traders, the shuffle and trampling of hundreds of feet, the whirring of telephone signals rose into the troubled air, and mingled overhead to form a vast note, prolonged, sustained, that reverberated from vault to vault of the airy roof, and issued from every doorway, every opened window in one long roll of uninterrupted thunder.  In the Wheat Pit the bids, no longer obedient of restraint, began one by one to burst out, like the first isolated shots of a skirmish line.  Grossmann had flung out an arm crying: 

“’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and an eighth,” while Kelly and Semple had almost simultaneously shouted, “’Give seven-eighths for May!”

The official reporter had been leaning far over to catch the first quotations, one eye upon the clock at the end of the room.  The hour and minute hands were at right angles.

Then suddenly, cutting squarely athwart the vague crescendo of the floor came the single incisive stroke of a great gong.  Instantly a tumult was unchained.  Arms were flung upward in strenuous gestures, and from above the crowding heads in the Wheat Pit a multitude of hands, eager, the fingers extended, leaped into the air.  All articulate expression was lost in the single explosion of sound as the traders surged downwards to the centre of the Pit, grabbing each other, struggling towards each other, tramping, stamping, charging through with might and main.  Promptly the hand on the great dial above the clock stirred and trembled, and as though driven by the tempest breath of the Pit moved upward through the degrees of its circle.  It paused, wavered, stopped at length, and on the instant the hundreds of telegraph keys scattered throughout the building began clicking off the news to the whole country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from Mackinac to Mexico, that the Chicago market had made a slight advance and that May wheat, which had closed the day before at ninety-three and three-eighths, had opened that morning at ninety-four and a half.

But the advance brought out no profit-taking sales.  The redoubtable Leaycraft and the Porteous trio, Fairchild, Paterson, and Goodlock, shook their heads when the Pit offered ninety-four for parts of their holdings.  The price held firm.  Goodlock even began to offer ninety-four.  At every suspicion of a flurry Grossmann, always with the same gesture as though hurling a javelin, always with the same lamentable wail of distress, cried out: 

“’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and a fourth.”

He held his five fingers spread to indicate the number of “contracts,” or lots of five thousand bushels, which he wished to sell, each finger representing one “contract.”

And it was at this moment that selling orders began suddenly to pour in upon the Gretry-Converse traders.  Even other houses ­Teller and West, Burbank & Co., Mattieson and Knight ­received their share.  The movement was inexplicable, puzzling.  With a powerful Bull clique dominating the trading and every prospect of a strong market, who was it who ventured to sell short?

Landry among others found himself commissioned to sell.  His orders were to unload three hundred thousand bushels on any advance over and above ninety-four.  He kept his eye on Leaycraft, certain that he would force up the figure.  But, as it happened, it was not Leaycraft but the Porteous trio who made the advance.  Standing in the centre of the Pit, Patterson suddenly flung up his hand and drew it towards him, clutching the air ­the conventional gesture of the buyer.

“’Give an eighth for May.”

Landry was at him in a second.  Twenty voices shouted “sold,” and as many traders sprang towards him with outstretched arms.  Landry, however, was before them, and his rush carried Paterson half way across the middle space of the Pit.

“Sold, sold.”

Paterson nodded, and as Landry noted down the transaction the hand on the dial advanced again, and again held firm.

But after this the activity of the Pit fell away.  The trading languished.  By degrees the tension of the opening was relaxed.  Landry, however, had refrained from selling more than ten “contracts” to Paterson.  He had a feeling that another advance would come later on.  Rapidly he made his plans.  He would sell another fifty thousand bushels if the price went to ninety-four and a half, and would then “feel” the market, letting go small lots here and there, to test its strength, then, the instant he felt the market strong enough, throw a full hundred thousand upon it with a rush before it had time to break.  He could feel ­almost at his very finger tips ­how this market moved, how it strengthened, how it weakened.  He knew just when to nurse it, to humor it, to let it settle, and when to crowd it, when to hustle it, when it would stand rough handling.

Grossmann still uttered his plaint from time to time, but no one so much as pretended to listen.  The Porteous trio and Leaycraft kept the price steady at ninety-four and an eighth, but showed no inclination to force it higher.  For a full five minutes not a trade was recorded.  The Pit waited for the Report on the Visible Supply.

And it was during this lull in the morning’s business that the idiocy of the English ultimatum to the Porte melted away.  As inexplicably and as suddenly as the rumour had started, it now disappeared.  Everyone, simultaneously, seemed to ridicule it.  England declare war on Turkey!  Where was the joke?  Who was the damn fool to have started that old, worn-out war scare?  But, for all that, there was no reaction from the advance.  It seemed to be understood that either Leaycraft or the Porteous crowd stood ready to support the market; and in place of the ultimatum story a feeling began to gain ground that the expected report would indicate a falling off in the “visible,” and that it was quite on the cards that the market might even advance another point.

As the interest in the immediate situation declined, the crowd in the Pit grew less dense.  Portions of it were deserted; even Grossmann, discouraged, retired to a bench under the visitors’ gallery.  And a spirit of horse-play, sheer foolishness, strangely inconsistent with the hot-eyed excitement of the few moments after the opening invaded the remaining groups.  Leaycraft, the formidable, as well as Paterson of the Porteous gang, and even the solemn Winston, found an apparently inexhaustible diversion in folding their telegrams into pointed javelins and sending them sailing across the room, watching the course of the missiles with profound gravity.  A visitor in the gallery ­no doubt a Western farmer on a holiday ­having put his feet upon the rail, the entire Pit began to groan “boots, boots, boots.”

A little later a certain broker came scurrying across the floor from the direction of the telephone room.  Panting, he flung himself up the steps of the Pit, forced his way among the traders with vigorous workings of his elbows, and shouted a bid.

“He’s sick,” shouted Hirsch.  “Look out, he’s sick.  He’s going to have a fit.”  He grabbed the broker by both arms and hustled him into the centre of the Pit.  The others caught up the cry, a score of hands pushed the newcomer from man to man.  The Pit traders clutched him, pulled his necktie loose, knocked off his hat, vociferating all the while at top voice, “He’s sick!  He’s sick!”

Other brokers and traders came up, and Grossmann, mistaking the commotion for a flurry, ran into the Pit, his eyes wide, waving his arm and wailing: 

“’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and a quarter.”

But the victim, good-natured, readjusted his battered hat, and again repeated his bid.

“Ah, go to bed,” protested Hirsch.

“He’s the man who struck Billy Paterson.”

“Say, a horse bit him.  Look out for him, he’s going to have a duck-fit.”

The incident appeared to be the inspiration for a new “josh” that had a great success, and a group of traders organized themselves into an “anti-cravat committee,” and made the rounds of the Pit, twitching the carefully tied scarfs of the unwary out of place.  Grossman, indignant at “t’ose monkey-doodle pizeness,” withdrew from the centre of the Pit.  But while he stood in front of Leaycraft, his back turned, muttering his disgust, the latter, while carrying on a grave conversation with his neighbour, carefully stuck a file of paper javelins all around the Jew’s hat band, and then ­still without mirth and still continuing to talk ­set them on fire.

Landry imagined by now that ninety-four and an eighth was as high a figure as he could reasonably expect that morning, and so began to “work off” his selling orders.  Little by little he sold the wheat “short,” till all but one large lot was gone.

Then all at once, and for no discoverable immediate reason, wheat, amid an explosion of shouts and vociférations, jumped to ninety-four and a quarter, and before the Pit could take breath, had advanced another eighth, broken to one-quarter, then jumped to the five-eighths mark.

It was the Report on the Visible Supply beyond question, and though it had not yet been posted, this sudden flurry was a sign that it was not only near at hand, but would be bullish.

A few moments later it was bulletined in the gallery beneath the dial, and proved a tremendous surprise to nearly every man upon the floor.  No one had imagined the supply was so ample, so all-sufficient to meet the demand.  Promptly the Pit responded.  Wheat began to pour in heavily.  Hirsch, Kelly, Grossmann, Leaycraft, the stolid Winston, and the excitable Rusbridge were hard at it.  The price began to give.  Suddenly it broke sharply.  The hand on the great dial dropped to ninety-three and seven-eighths.

Landry was beside himself.  He had not foreseen this break.  There was no reckoning on that cursed “visible,” and he still had 50,000 bushels to dispose of.  There was no telling now how low the price might sink.  He must act quickly, radically.  He fought his way towards the Porteous crowd, reached over the shoulder of the little Jew Grossmann, who stood in his way, and thrust his hand almost into Paterson’s face, shouting: 

“’Sell fifty May at seven-eighths.”

It was the last one of his unaccountable selling orders of the early morning.

The other shook his head.

“’Sell fifty May at three-quarters.”

Suddenly some instinct warned Landry that another break was coming.  It was in the very air around him.  He could almost physically feel the pressure of renewed avalanches of wheat crowding down the price.  Desperate, he grabbed Paterson by the shoulder.

“’Sell fifty May at five-eighths.”

“Take it,” vociferated the other, as though answering a challenge.

And in the heart of this confusion, in this downward rush of the price, Luck, the golden goddess, passed with the flirt and flash of glittering wings, and hardly before the ticker in Gretry’s office had signalled the decline, the memorandum of the trade was down upon Landry’s card and Curtis Jadwin stood pledged to deliver, before noon on the last day of May, one million bushels of wheat into the hands of the representatives of the great Bulls of the Board of Trade.

But by now the real business of the morning was over.  The Pit knew it.  Grossmann, obstinate, hypnotized as it were by one idea, still stood in his accustomed place on the upper edge of the Pit, and from time to time, with the same despairing gesture, emitted his doleful outcry of “’Sell twenty-five May at ninety-five and three-quarters.”

Nobody listened.  The traders stood around in expectant attitudes, looking into one another’s faces, waiting for what they could not exactly say; loath to leave the Pit lest something should “turn up” the moment their backs were turned.

By degrees the clamour died away, ceased, began again irregularly, then abruptly stilled.  Here and there a bid was called, an offer made, like the intermittent crack of small arms after the stopping of the cannonade.

“’Sell five May at one-eighth.”

“’Sell twenty at one-quarter.”

“’Give one-eighth for May.”

For an instant the shoutings were renewed.  Then suddenly the gong struck.  The traders began slowly to leave the Pit.  One of the floor officers, an old fellow in uniform and vizored cap, appeared, gently shouldering towards the door the groups wherein the bidding and offering were still languidly going on.  His voice full of remonstration, he repeated continually: 

“Time’s up, gentlemen.  Go on now and get your lunch.  Lunch time now.  Go on now, or I’ll have to report you.  Time’s up.”

The tide set toward the doorways.  In the gallery the few visitors rose, putting on coats and wraps.  Over by the check counter, to the right of the south entrance to the floor, a throng of brokers and traders jostled each other, reaching over one another’s shoulders for hats and ulsters.  In steadily increasing numbers they poured out of the north and south entrances, on their way to turn in their trading cards to the offices.

Little by little the floor emptied.  The provision and grain pits were deserted, and as the clamour of the place lapsed away the telegraph instruments began to make themselves heard once more, together with the chanting of the messenger boys.

Swept clean in the morning, the floor itself, seen now through the thinning groups, was littered from end to end with scattered grain ­oats, wheat, corn, and barley, with wisps of hay, peanut shells, apple parings, and orange peel, with torn newspapers, odds and ends of memoranda, crushed paper darts, and above all with a countless multitude of yellow telegraph forms, thousands upon thousands, crumpled and muddied under the trampling of innumerable feet.  It was the debris of the battle-field, the abandoned impedimenta and broken weapons of contending armies, the detritus of conflict, torn, broken, and rent, that at the end of each day’s combat encumbered the field.

At last even the click of the last of telegraph keys died down.  Shouldering themselves into their overcoats, the operators departed, calling back and forth to one another, making “dates,” and cracking jokes.  Washerwomen appeared with steaming pails, porters pushing great brooms before them began gathering the refuse of the floor into heaps.

Between the wheat and corn pits a band of young fellows, some of them absolute boys, appeared.  These were the settlement clerks.  They carried long account books.  It was their duty to get the trades of the day into a “ring” ­to trace the course of a lot of wheat which had changed hands perhaps a score of times during the trading ­and their calls of “Wheat sold to Teller and West,” “May wheat sold to Burbank & Co.,” “May oats sold to Matthewson and Knight,” “Wheat sold to Gretry, Converse & Co.,” began to echo from wall to wall of the almost deserted room.

A cat, grey and striped, and wearing a dog collar of nickel and red leather, issued from the coat-room and picked her way across the floor.  Evidently she was in a mood of the most ingratiating friendliness, and as one after another of the departing traders spoke to her, raised her tail in the air and arched her back against the legs of the empty chairs.  The janitor put in an appearance, lowering the tall colored windows with a long rod.  A noise of hammering and the scrape of saws began to issue from a corner where a couple of carpenters tinkered about one of the sample tables.

Then at last even the settlement clerks took themselves off.  At once there was a great silence, broken only by the harsh rasp of the carpenters’ saws and the voice of the janitor exchanging jokes with the washerwomen.  The sound of footsteps in distant quarters re-echoed as if in a church.

The washerwomen invaded the floor, spreading soapy and steaming water before them.  Over by the sample tables a negro porter in shirt-sleeves swept entire bushels of spilled wheat, crushed, broken, and sodden, into his dust pans.

The day’s campaign was over.  It was past two o’clock.  On the great dial against the eastern wall the indicator stood ­sentinel fashion ­at ninety-three.  Not till the following morning would the whirlpool, the great central force that spun the Niagara of wheat in its grip, thunder and bellow again.

Later on even the washerwomen, even the porter and janitor, departed.  An unbroken silence, the peacefulness of an untroubled calm, settled over the place.  The rays of the afternoon sun flooded through the west windows in long parallel shafts full of floating golden motes.  There was no sound; nothing stirred.  The floor of the Board of Trade was deserted.  Alone, on the edge of the abandoned Wheat Pit, in a spot where the sunlight fell warmest ­an atom of life, lost in the immensity of the empty floor ­the grey cat made her toilet, diligently licking the fur on the inside of her thigh, one leg, as if dislocated, thrust into the air above her head.