evidently received reinforcements in the form of renewed orders from his principals.  Many of the faces that fringed the inner circle of that crowd were frightful to look upon, some white as though just lifted from hospital pillows, others red to the verge of apoplexy—­all strained as though awaiting the coming of the jury with a life or death verdict.  They all knew that Bob had sold more than a hundred thousand shares of Sugar upon which the profits must be more than four million dollars.  Would he resume selling or was he through?  Was it short stock, which must be bought back, or long stock; and if long, whose stock?  Were the insiders selling out on one another, or were they all selling together, and under cover of Barry Conant’s movements were Camemeyer and “Standard Oil” emptying their bag preparatory to the slaughter of the Washington contingent?  All these questions were rushing through the heads of that crowd of brokers like steam through a boiler, now hot, now cold, but always at high pressure, for upon the correctness of the answers depended the fortune of many who breathlessly awaited the renewal or the suspension of the contest.  Even Barry Conant’s usually impassive face wore a tinge of anxiety.

Indeed, Bob’s was the only one in the centre of that throng that showed no sign of what was going on behind it.  The same cynical smile that had been there since the opening still played around the corners of his mouth as he squared himself in front of his opponent.  All knew now that he was not through.  Barry Conant had evidently decided to force the fighting, although more cautiously than before. “67 for a thousand.”  One of his lieutenants bid 67 for 500, another 67 for 300, and as Bob had not yet shown his intention of meeting their bids, 67 for different amounts was heard all over the crowd.  Bob might have been tossing a mental coin to decide the advisability of buying back what he had sold; he might have been adding up the bids as they were made.  He said nothing for a fraction of a minute, which to those tortured men must have seemed like an age.  Then with a wave of his hand, as though delivering a benediction, he swept the circle with a cold-blooded, “Sold the lots. 5,600 in all.”

“Sixty-seven for a thousand”—­again Barry Conant’s bid.  “Sold.” “67 for 5,000.”  “Sold.” “66 for a thousand.”  “Sold.”  The drop from five thousand to one thousand and a dollar a share in Barry Conant’s bids was the mortally wounded but still game general’s “Sound the retreat.”  Bob heard it.  “Any part of 10,000 at 65, 64, 62, 60.”  The din was now as fierce as before.  The entire crowd, all but Barry Conant and his lieutenants, seemed to have concluded that Bob’s renewal of attack meant that his was the winning side, and those who had been hanging on to their stock, hoping against hope, and those who were short and had been undecided whether to cover or to hold on and sell more for greater profits, vied with one another in a frantic effort to sell.