But what gave an undercurrent of terrific force to the battle of these three men was the thing which every broker present understood—­that one of them was the floor spokesman of Malone and Harrison and the old invincible order of Consolidated—­and that two voiced the message of the new power and in the name of Hamilton Burton were declaring a war to the death.

“160 for any part of 20,000”—­“SOLD!”

Generals had broken fifteen points in ten minutes and were slumping as though their foundations floated in thin air.  A yell went up over the floor through which sounded demoniac notes of panic and rage.  Men surged around the Generals post, struggling as cowards might struggle to leave a burning theater, collars tore loose and eyes glittered like those of a wolf-pack.  The blackboards at north and south burst into a hysterical flashing of white numbers, and a word went out which set the cylinders of printing presses whirling.  A Burton bear raid was on, and the Street was in panic-making excitement!

But close around the post three figures still dominated the picture.  Staples with his tigerish teeth to the crowd fought the two men who carried Burton’s orders and who with implacable monosyllables still hammered the market with sledges of mighty resource.  What had been the orderly floor of an artistically designed mart of trade was now a hell of pandemonium.  With the sweat pouring down his face, his hands clenched above his head, and his deep voice strained into a hoarse bellow, Jack Staples of Consolidated fought as a man fights death, to breast and stem and turn the tidal wave of disaster.

Other stocks followed suit, and while Haswell, forgetting in his excitement that he had been officially superseded, crouched face to face, battering his opponent, Hardinge fought his way like a madman out of the maelstrom and declared war on Coal and Ore.  Voices blended into a frenzied Walpurgian uproar.  Frantic telephone calls made the blackboard one flickering, wavering, confusing area of black and white where no spot was white for any consecutive minute and no spot black.

For an hour it raged so, down!—­down!—­down!—­with no moment of recovery and no instant of changing tide.  When now and again the din subsided for a few moments of recovered breath, while traders “verified,” faces streaming sweat looked as haggard as though it was blood that was pouring from them.  Voices cracked with hoarseness as men stood panting like dogs torn from the embrace of battle and waiting only for the leash to loosen and free them again for renewed battle.  Underfoot they trod the confetti-like scraps of torn papers.  Among them went the men with green watering-pots.  Outside newsboys called yet new extras.  The market had been open an hour and the Street was seeing the most delirious day of mania in its history.  Then in one of the lulls came that sound which between the hours of ten and three is never heard save as the clarion of disaster.  The great gong in the president’s gallery sent out its strident and metallic voice, and in the dead silence that followed its command an announcement was made.