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.