“Yes,” Henderson resumed, walking his horses in sight of the obelisk, which suggested the long continuance of the human race, “it is the same old game, and it is very interesting to those who are in it.  Outsiders think it is all greed.  In the Chamber it is a good deal the love of the game, to watch each other, to find out a man’s plans, to circumvent him, to thwart him, to start a scheme and manipulate it, to catch somebody, to escape somebody; it is a perpetual excitement.”

“The machine in the Chamber appears to run very smoothly,” I said.  “Oh, that is a public register and indicator.  The system back of it is comprehensive, and appears to be complicated, but it is really very simple.  Spend an hour some day in the office of Flamm and Slamm, and you will see a part of the system.  There are, always a number of men watching the blackboard, figures on which are changed every minute by the attendants.  Telegrams are constantly arriving from every part of the Union, from all over the continent, from all the centres in Europe, which are read by some one connected with the firm, and then displayed for the guidance of the watchers of the blackboard.  Upon this news one or another says, ‘I think I’ll buy,’ or ‘I think I’ll sell,’ so and so.  His order is transmitted instantly to the Chamber.  In two minutes the result comes back and appears upon the blackboard.”

“But where does the news come from?”

“From the men whose special business it is to pick it up or make it.  They are inside of politics, of the railways, of the weather bureau, everywhere.  The other day in Chicago I sat some time in a broker’s office with others watching the market, and dropped into conversation with a bright young fellow, at whose right hand, across the rail, was a telegraph operator at the end of a private wire.  Soon a man came in quietly, and whispered in the ear of my neighbor and went out.  The young fellow instantly wrote a despatch and handed it to the operator, and turning to me, said, ‘Now watch the blackboard.’

“In an incredibly short space of time a fall in a leading railway showed on the blackboard.  ‘What was it?’ I asked.  ’Why, that man was the general freight manager of the A. B. road.  He told me that they were to cut rates.  I sent it to New York by a private wire.’  I learned by further conversation that my young gentleman was a Manufacturer of News, and that such was his address and intelligence that though he was not a member of the broker’s firm, he made ten thousand a year in the business.  Soon another man came in, whispered his news, and went away.  Another despatch—­another responsive change in the figures.  ‘That,’ explained my companion, ’was a man connected with the weather bureau.  He told me that there would be a heavy frost tonight in the Northwest.’”

“Do they sell the weather?” I asked, very much amused.

“Yes, twice; once over a private wire, and then to the public, after the value of it has been squeezed out, in the shape of predictions.  Oh, the weather bureau is worth all the money it costs, for business purposes.  It is a great auxiliary.”