Then from the marble balcony, where is placed the president’s chair, sounded the clang of the opening gong.  The session had begun.

Hamilton Burton’s lieutenants meant to waste no moment of the five-hour session.  Another day meant the drawing of new lines, and time for tallying and rallying, but what was done today was immutably done.  Hardinge and Haswell stood near the post at whose head hung the sign, “Railway Generals.”  About them lounged a handful of dilatory brokers.  Railway Generals had closed yesterday strong at 175, but quotations from London, where by reason of difference in time there had already been several hours of trading, reflected an unaccountable nervousness over-seas.  So the stock opened five points off.

Every game has its traditional rules.  It is a cardinal by-law of the Exchange that until the gong peals every man on the floor must maintain an unruffled and blase composure, though when the clamor of the big bell unleashes their restraint whosoever chooses may leap into the frenzy of a madhouse.

A voice at the Railway-Generals post drawled out “170 for any part of 5,000 Generals,” and on the instant Hardinge’s deep basso boomed a challenge and a battle cry as he yelled back, “Sold!”

The bidder was Jack Staples, and he bore the credentials of J.J.  Malone.  For just an instant he eyed his vis-a-vis and his prominent lower jaw seemed to protrude more aggressively, as his indolent manner dropped from him and his eyes kindled.  He brushed back the white lock on his forehead and defiantly shouted, “168 for any part of 10,000,” but before the words had come to conclusion on his lips, the rifle-like retort had met him from the throat of Hardinge, “Sold!”

“165 for any part of 10,000!”—­“Sold!” This time the deep-lunged monosyllable burst volcanically from the lips of Len Haswell, and it rang across the floor and echoed between the walls like a thunderclap between the cliffs of a mountain gorge.

Instantly crowds surged forward and elbowed their ways to the Generals post.  Where five minutes back there had been scant dozens there were now full hundreds who shouldered and shoved and fought, struck by a sudden wild realization that a fight was on.  At the center of the vortex they could see the sandy head of Len Haswell high above the crowns of other men and in his face they read the gage of battle.  No longer was this the heartsick face which of late had avoided the gaze of his fellows.  It was the fighting face of one who hurls himself into the thick of a struggle, seeking forgetfulness in the ferocity of combat.

“163 for any part of 10,000”—­“SOLD!”

With each repetition the unchanged formula took on an added ferocity—­a deeper meaning.  It was a three-cornered duel.  Jack Staples leaned eagerly forward, his eyes burning and keen with aggressive alertness like a boxer facing opponents in a battle royal.  Len Haswell seemed bending to meet him, his long arm raised and his face afire, while Hardinge, whose place had been for the moment preempted, mopped his brow, already perspiring, and smiled grimly like a relay racer waiting his turn.