sprang at one another, but only for blood, not flesh, bone, heart, and soul; just blood.  The first price on Sugar was 211 for 3,000 shares.  Someone sold it in a block.  Barry Conant bought it.  It did not require three eyes to see that the seller was one of his lieutenants.  This meant what is known as a “wash” sale, a fictitious one arranged in advance between two brokers to establish the basis for the trades that are to follow—­one of those minor frauds of stock-gambling by which the public is deceived and the traders and plungers are handicapped with loaded dice.  In principle, it is a device older than stock exchanges themselves, and is put to use elsewhere than on the floor.  For instance, four genuine buyers want a particular animal worth $200 at a horse auction.  Its owner’s pal starts the bidding at $400, and the four, not being up in horse values, are thereby induced to reach for it at between $400 to $500.  But human nature, whether at horse sales or at stock-gambling, loves to be “hinky-dinked” as much as the moth loves to play tag with the candle flame.  In five minutes Sugar was selling at 221, and the frantic shorts were grabbing for it as though there never was to be another share put on sale, while Barry Conant and his lieutenants were most industriously pushing it just beyond their reaching finger-tips, either by buying it as fast as it was offered by genuine sellers or by taking what their own pals threw in the air.

I was not surprised to see Bob’s tall form wedged in the crowd about two-thirds of the way from the centre.  Every other active floor member was there too.  Even Ike Bloomstein and Joe Barnes, who seldom went into the big crowds, were on hand, perhaps to catch a flier for their Thanksgiving turkey money, perhaps to get as near the killing as possible.  Bob was not trading, although, as on the day before, he never took his eye off Barry Conant.  I said to myself, “He is trying to fathom Barry Conant’s movements,” but for what purpose puzzled me.  The hands of the big clock on the wall showed that trading had been thirty minutes under way and still Barry Conant was pushing up the price.  His voice had just rung out “25 for any part of 5,000” when, like an echo, sounded through the hall, “Sold.”  It was Bob.  He had worked his way to the centre of the crowd and stood in front of Barry Conant.  He was not the Bob who had taken Barry Conant’s gaff that afternoon a few weeks before.  I never saw him cooler, calmer, more self-possessed.  He was the incarnation of confident power.  A cold, cynical smile played around the corners of his mouth as he looked down upon his opponent.